


The Impossibilities Chronicles-Book Two

by hallowgirl



Series: The Impossibilities Chronicles [2]
Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Cross-Party Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, First Meeting, Fluff and Angst, Hate to Love, M/M, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:42:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 603,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23097169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowgirl/pseuds/hallowgirl
Summary: It's then that it occurs to David that he's just thought of Ed ashisMiliband.And that he's thought of Ed Miliband, in any way, ashis.
Relationships: David Cameron/Ed Miliband
Series: The Impossibilities Chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657903
Comments: 21
Kudos: 10





	1. Commencement Of Campaigns, A Media Menagerie And A Friendship Of Fair Fallaciousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which one should not talk to Richard Desmond in parks and Nick has no idea who he's fighting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said before, this started off as one really long piece of fic, which loads of you were commenting on and reading, but I realised it was going to get to a ridiculous length so would work much better as a series.  
First: yes, this is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
Second: yes, I include a lot of references at the end of each chapter. This is because people were asking for real-life references for the real-life events acting as aforementioned backdrop. It is also partly because I want to make it clear that all information used for this fic is public and that no private information whatsoever is being used. Also, I quite like it. You don't have to read them to enjoy the story, but they provide a bit of background colour and info about some of the references made. If you can't read any of the articles for whatever reason, just send me a message on Tumblr and I'll find a way for you to. :)  
Third: yes, I also include a lot of quote references from politics books (at the start of each chapter, before the epigraphs). This is for much the same reason as the factual references at the end. Again, feel free to skip them and go straight to the main story, though they're there to add a bit of background info and colour if you find them interesting. I'll put a little comment in the notes at the start, letting you know what's in the quotes, so you can skip if you want. One of the main reasons for the amount is to try to highlight different points of view so I don't get accused of just obviously only using books favourable to one side.  
Fourth: I'll try to add Trigger Warnings (TW) if there's anything I consider to be triggering in the chapter or references. If I miss anything, apologies, and let me know if you think something needs a TW.  
Fifth: do not get into arguments about politics here. This is fanfic. It's not intended to be a genuine depiction of or a moral treatise on politics or which side you should take. When I started this fic years ago, it was because I idly noticed that politics seemed to be getting pretty bitter and divided and thought it would kind of be interesting to see if those divides could be crossed. Years later, that opinion of politics being pretty bitter and divided hasn't exactly been disproved. This is not intended to be any kind of political sermon. I like to think that nobody is perfect and very few people are genuinely completely evil. Everyone is the hero of their own story, which is the approach I take writing this. And at the time of this being posted-in the middle of the Covid-19 outbreak, for those of you in the future-it's a time when most people are just doing their best and trying to get through life.  
Sixth: if you want to ask me anything about this fic, let me know what you like about it, or just chat, you can find me on my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask%22) .  
Seventh: thank you to everyone who commented, kudosed, sent asks, etc. about the original fic,, especially those who chat with me on Tumblr about it. I hope you'll all keep following it now it's in series format, even though you'll have already read these chapters if you're a longtime reader, and feel free to leave comments, kudos, etc., here too (I'm not going to take down the original fic bc I want to keep all comments & kudos.)  
Eighth: Leave a comment if you like it. Enjoy reading it. Remember it's all fiction. Stay well (in case you're reading this in the future, this was posted in the middle of the COVID-19 epidemic and worldwide lockdowns.) And have fun reading. :) There is much more we have in common than what divides us :)  
There are a LOT of quotes in this first chapter :) They mainly deal with Ed's "weaponizing" comments, the workings of the Tory election campaign, David's and George's team and friends, their fallout with Steve, George walking round in a hard hat, the "sorry there is no money note", Nick's leadership crises, Ed's fallout with his brother, George getting his first job, George's enmity with Theresa, George celebrating when Ed won the leadership, and Dave and Ed having climate change in common.

_Confused, he continues looking away from her, but in the corner of his eye he still sees her watching. When he talks to Marianne he has a sense of total privacy between them. He could tell her anything about himself, even weird things, and she would never repeat them, he knows that. Being alone with her is like opening a door away from normal life and then closing it behind him. He's not frightened of her, actually she's a pretty relaxed person, but he fears being around her, because of the confusing way he finds himself behaving, the things he says that he would never ordinarily say...With his friends he acts normal. He and Marianne have their own private life in his room where no one can bother them, so there's no reason to mix up the separate worlds...For a moment it seems possible to keep both worlds, both versions of his life, and to move in between them just like moving through a door.-Normal People, Sally Rooney_

* * *

_George Osborne: **Oh yeah. Fucking distraught, yeah. I was just checking Twitter every five seconds..and yeah. Anyway. Such a shame. But I think British politics will cope...**_

_Forde: **She said you needed to go away and get to know the Conservative Party better.**_

_George Osborne: **I've been on that mission. And I can report back-they don't like her.**_

[ _-George Osborne, speaking on Matt Forde's Political Party Podcast about Theresa May's resignation in_ _ 2019_ ](https://player.fm/series/the-political-party/show-95-george-osborne-live)

_**Indeed, I think if you think about early Cameron, people were saying the same things about early Cameron-"You know, look at what he's saying, about hug a hoodie"-and I know people sort of now take the mickey out of him for hugging a hoodie, but actually he was trying to make a serious point about criminal justice and why people committed crime-his stuff on the environment..and I remember having arguments with people, including Gordon Brown, because, I must say, I thought Cameron was more serious about it...and it may be that the financial crisis was the thing that knocked him off, knocked him off that.** -[Ed Miliband, speaking about David Cameron in October 2016](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5bV0HFHYzg) _

_Ed: **I think one of the most important things about tackling climate change is that it remains cross-party...and I think sort of Claire's brief and the way she's gone about it is sort of really important, because, if I can put it slightly cheaply, you need to be a pain in the arse with all of your fellow colleagues in government!...And I think both with her determination and her willingness to be a pain in the arse with her colleagues, I think Claire is obviously serious about doing this...One of the reasons we've punched above our weight is partly leadership domestically, so we've got some moral authority..**_

_Claire: **And we actually enjoy a rather remarkable cross-party consensus-I mean, we do needle each other about different things...And I do have to pay tribute to Ed, I mean, one thing I will say is that I think it was one young Dave-D Cameron who really lit the fire underneath this-**_

_(Ed grins)_

_Claire:-**Ed got-Ed got on board-**_

_Ed(laughing): **D Miliband, I thought you were gonna say! I wasn't going to-but he (Cameron)-he started it, he started it, actually.**_

_Claire:** Which-whichever D it was**-_

_Ed (laughing):**....Yeah-**_

_Claire:-**it was actually this guy (Ed), this gentleman, who then persuaded his leader and Chancellor that this is really worth doing. It was a really tortured debate and it was a really remarkable (Climate Change) Act.**_

[ _ -Ed Miliband, speaking about David Cameron and his (David's) minister Claire Perry in June 2018_](https://policyexchange.org.uk/pxevents/ten-years-on-from-the-climate-change-act-successes-and-shortfalls/)

* * *

_Labour, he (Ed Miliband) says, will be turning up the heat on the NHS, warning the electorate of the twin Tory threats posed by cuts and privatization. Warming to his theme, he declares that he intends to "**weaponize"** the health service-in other words, to turn it into lethal political ammunition. I glance round the room to see who else has clocked the phrase...Nick wants David and George to commit to increasing spending on the NHS next year. He thinks that an old-fashioned crisis in the health service is the only thing that can save Ed. Ed clearly agrees. Having checked around, I've learned that others have also heard him speak of "weaponizing" the NHS...-"Tuesday 11th November 2014-Sunday 17th November 2014", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Ed’s shake-up of his communications team has been a significant factor in the improvement of the party’s messaging and narrative. In mid-December 2010, nearly three months after winning the leadership, Ed unveiled his new directors of strategy and communications. They were, respectively, Tom Baldwin, chief reporter at The Times, and Bob Roberts, political editor of the Daily Mirror. The combative Baldwin, a close ally of Alastair Campbell, was hired on Campbell’s advice to cause problems for the Conservatives while the very straight and affable Roberts’s role was to appease and charm his former colleagues in the lobby. In the words of a headline in PR Week magazine: “**Labour adopting “good cop, bad cop” PR strategy with hires of Tom Baldwin and Bob Roberts.””**_

_Even a long-standing critic of the former Times journalist concedes: **“Since they’ve got Baldwin, they’ve got sharper. He is ruthless.”** Meanwhile, one former adviser to Blair described it as a **“pretty imaginative appointment”**, adding: **“What Ed needed more than anything else was someone to shake things up and be quite aggressive and therefore Tom is a good choice.”** An admiring member of Team Ed now refers to Baldwin and Roberts as the **“yin”** and **“yang”** of the inner circle, a combination of energy, enthusiasm and eccentricity (Baldwin) and calm, composure and charm (Roberts). When he was tapped up by Stewart Wood for the role of director of strategy, Baldwin went to discuss the role with Ed in his office in Norman Shaw South. Ed’s opening remark to The Times journalist at that meeting is worth quoting: **“I spent fifteen years trying to avoid having lunch with you.” “That natural caution of yours got you where you are today”** replied Baldwin._

_But did Ed take a risk in bringing Baldwin on board? While the latter is widely regarded even by his many critics as an effective attack dog against the Tories, he is a deeply divisive figure among his former journalistic colleagues. This is partly because of his controversial role in reporting briefings from Alastair Campbell over Iraq and the late weapons scientist Dr David Kelly, as exposed by the Hutton Inquiry in which Baldwin was a bit part-player. But it is also because despite his title-**“director of strategy”**-some would argue that strategy is not his strong suit. Then there are the darker allegations about Baldwin. The former Tory deputy chairman and billionaire donor Lord Michael Ashcroft, in his 2005 book, Dirty Politics, Dirty Times, had made a series of controversial claims about Baldwin’s private life.** “Meet the champagne (and coke snorting) socialist who is Labour’s new Alastair Campbell” **proclaimed the provocative headline in the Daily Mail just days after his appointment to Ed’s inner circle. In fact, since the resignation of Andy Coulson as Cameron’s director of communications over the News of the World phone-hacking affair, there have been rumours in the Westminster village that Tory sympathisers have hired private detectives to dig up dirt on Baldwin. Meanwhile, some of Ed’s supporters have been disturbed by the idea that a former employee of the Murdoch media empire should be advising Ed on press strategy in the wake of one of the most damaging scandals in the history of the Murdoch-owned News International. In an email forward to Labour frontbenchers on behalf of Baldwin, and leaked to the New Statesman website, shadow Cabinet ministers and party officials were instructed to avoid linking Murdoch’s proposed takeover of BSkyB to the phone-hacking controversy surrounding the Murdoch-owned News of the World: “**These issues should not be linked.”** Despite Labour having publicly raised questions about the Culture Secretary Jeremy Hunt’s claim to be neutral and impartial on Murdoch-related issues, and emerging evidence of contacts between the Prime Minister and various senior members of Murdoch’s News Corp, the memo continued: **“Downing Street says that Cameron’s dinners with Murdoch will not affect Hunt’s judgement. We have to take them at their word.” **The email continued with the warning,** “We must guard against anything which appears to be attacking a particular newspaper group out of spite.”**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_In mid-December, Ed announced the appointment of Tim Livesey, a former diplomat and senior civil servant, as his new and permanent chief of staff. By all accounts, Livesey’s appointment contributed to the Labour leader’s turnaround. His job was two-fold: to unpick the tangled web that was Ed’s office, with competing egos and aides, both senior and junior, who needed constant reassurance-a relic perhaps of the leadership campaign team that had yet to be properly reformed and reshuffled-and to give Ed the space to be Ed. The former task Livesey has managed to pull off because, as Ed himself has said to friends, he is a **“grown-up”, **a generation older than most in Ed’s inner-circle and more like Jonathan Powell, Tony Blair’s former chief of staff, than Lucy Powell. **“There is now much more of a filter between Ed and the people that want to tell him what he should have done differently” **says a friend, **“which I think is a good thing. Tim has brought a sense of order and calmness (to the office).”** The latter task-helping Ed to be himself, to be authentic-was something for which Livesey was well practised from his previous job, as head of public affairs and effectively chief adviser to Rowan Williams, the outspoken Archbishop of Canterbury. Livesey first heard about the vacant chief of staff role some eight months before he was appointed. He was recommended to Ed, a politician whose social-democratic politics Livesey shares instinctively, by several people, including Jon Cruddas and David Lammy, and held three one-to-one meetings with the Labour leader before eventually taking on the role. Now he is ensconced in the office next to Ed’s and established as one of the leader’s most reliable and senior aides. A devout Roman Catholic, Livesey is known affectionately as **“the vicar”** by members of Team Ed.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan _

_He (Ed) also became good friends with Spencer Livermore, who moved over to the Treasury from the Labour Party’s Economic Secretariat. Aged twenty-three, Livermore saw Ed almost as a mentor and has maintained a close friendship with him over the years…Despite being 3,000 miles away from the UK, Ed never succeeded in cutting himself off totally from the British political scene-nor, perhaps, did he want to. Members of the Brown gang-including his friends Douglas Alexander, Stewart Wood and Spencer Livermore-came out to visit him in Cambridge.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan _

_Around the same time, in the spring and summer of 2013, (Lynton) Crosby persuaded two dynamic young digital specialists to join his operation. Craig Elder and Tom Edmonds had worked for the party during the 2010 election campaign and left to find jobs in the private sector-one in an advertising firm; the other in a media consultancy. But, on Lord Feldman's advice, Crosby invited them back. Helpfully, the pair had become good friends (since the 2015 election, they have set up their own consultancy, Edmonds Elder, and work together all the time.) "**It was fun" **Elder says. "**You've got to be willing to put the job first for a good few months of your life and certainly for the six-week period at the end. There have got to be people you can have a laugh with. There is a dark sense of humour that everyone shares because, as the saying goes, you're "all in it together.""**-Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_There was Ed Llewellyn and his deputy, Kate Fall, who had worked with me at the party in our twenties and joined me when I was an MP campaigning for the leadership. I valued her emotional intelligence and judgement more than anyone else's...There were Liz Sugg and Gabby Bertin who had got me from A-B, fended off the press and made everything happen over the past five years...Andrew Feldman was the natural treasurer and he set about raising the necessary funds...Ed Llewellyn, who was working in Sarajevo at the time, took unpaid leave to come and lead my team. Kate Fall, who had worked for Michael Howard, came to work as his deputy. They teamed up with my press officer Gabby Bertin and an events team led by Liz Sugg. All would still be with me when I left Downing Street eleven years later...-For The Record, David Cameron_

_In his second year (at Oxford), he joined the Ball Committee, tasked with organising the college's May Ball.The committee's chairman was Andrew Feldman, with whom he became friends. Cameron won a certain credit by persuading Dr Feelgood to play, despite the college's scant resources (to save money, Feldman arranged for Brasenose to use the flagging flowers from Worcester College's ball the night before.)-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_He did join a committee to organise his college May Ball. This marked the beginning of an important friendship-the chairman was Andrew Feldman, who has been described as Cameron's **"oldest political friend."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Osborne sought to accelerate any momentum eked out of the Carney coup by shaking up his team of advisers. Neil O'Brien arrived from Policy Exchange to offer roving policy counsel and a steering hand on the election manifesto. (Poppy) Mitchell-Rose made way for Thea Rogers of the BBC, who set about sprucing up Osborne's image with a half-mod, half-Caesar haircut. This involved some subterfuge: the Chancellor had no idea how much hair was being lopped off his head as he sat for the stylist, with whom Rogers had secretly conferred earlier. She also advised Osborne to be seen outside of Westminster more often, an idea that would transform his diary. He had always taken the Millwall line on his image: **no one likes me, I don't care.** He could now see that, for an elected politician, this was a dereliction of duty. His curiosity was also piqued by a conversation with an old hand from the Reagan White House, who said that mastery of visual communication lay in choosing an image to convey and sticking to it. Reagan's asset was his toughness on defence and his liability was his age, so his team arranged photo opportunities with uniformed generals or with beaming youngsters. Most other requests were given short shrift. Working on this logic, Osborne started scheduling visits to business and construction sites, and almost nowhere else. The image to promote was one of dogged purpose. When he started being teased for the hard hats and the fluorescent coats and the pointing at things, his team knew it was, in Westminster's parallel language, **"cutting through."** He now goes on these excursions twice a week, sometimes more.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Yet Cameron and Osborne's relationship was cemented during those difficult weeks. A close team had begun coalescing around Osborne, consisting first and foremost of Rupert Harrison. Harrison began working for the shadow chancellor in 2006, recruited from the respected independent think-thank the Institute for Fiscal Studies. He is an intriguing character. Eight years younger than the chancellor, he is the possessor of a powerful and capacious mind. After having been head boy at Eton, at Oxford he switched from Physics to PPE, excelling at both. He went on to complete a PhD in economics at University College London. Harrison's influence on policy grew steadily in Opposition and his role would be pivotal when he became Osborne's chief of staff in 2010. He dislikes the comparison, but his relationship with Osborne is uncannily similar to Ed Balls's with Brown. Balls and Harrison have the much profounder technical understanding of economics and both are more intellectually assured than their masters. They are trained economists and highly effective operators in the Treasury and Whitehall at large. Both spend much time talking to Treasury officials before and after their chancellor has expressed an opinion, and both are skilled drafters of their speeches. They liberate and empower their bosses. There are differences. Harrison is a silky courtroom barrister where Balls is a backstreet fighter. Balls dominated the Treasury because of Brown's dysfunctionality; under Brown, it was a cliquey and conspiratorial place. The Treasury under Osborne is more open, collegiate and empirical. Osborne, unlike Brown, is happy to be challenged in front of officials, and Harrison for one does so regularly. Osborne, like Brown, is an historian, but unlike him, never claims to be an economist. Balls and Harrison are the principal eminence grises of the Labour and coalition governments respectively. Brown had tried hard to make Balls chancellor in June 2009, while Osborne would come to rely equally heavily on Harrison at the Treasury.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon,_

_Then, in the summer, came Rupert Harrison from the unimpeachably pukka Institute For Fiscal Studies. Having shone at Oxford, the 26-year-old was approaching the end of a PhD at UCL examining the impact of new technologies on wages and skills in emerging economies. He was among the outstanding micro-economists of his generation. He had campaigned against the euro at university, but avoided party politics..The Osborne team would swell with other recruits over time..but the trio of (Matt) Hancock, Harrison and (Rohan) Silva were its' unchanging core...By now Osborne was less puckish than usual. He had to cauterise the Tories' self-inflicted wounds while arranging his private office. During Cameron's visit to Davos, Hancock was selected as the Conservative candidate for the safe seat in Suffolk East. Harrison, who had combined the trip to Switzerland with a skiing holiday, heard the news while on a slope with his wife. He was immediately appointed as Hancock's replacement. This arcane reshuffle of unheard-of back-room boys was actually rather significant. Senior politicians depend much more on their advisers than is usually understood. This is especially true of shadow (or actual) Chancellors, most of whom are not trained economists. Subtle differences in temperament and ideology between one chief of staff and another can have tangible consequences for Treasury policy. Hancock and Harrison have similarly powerful minds but quite distinct personalities. In many ways, Hancock resembles Osborne at the same age. He has a pitiless focus on the political bottom line and a pugnacious approach to his Labour opponents. His Threadneedle erudition vies with a more martial spirit, and does not always win. Harrison, for all that he has been politicised by years of Osborne's tutelage, remains an economist who does politics rather than a political operator who also knows economics. His ambition is cloaked by a magisterial powerful style. Both men have capacious hinterlands: Harrison's friends are drawn from the arts as well as politics, and Hancock is a sportsman who played a game of cricket at the North Pole and won a charity horse race at Newmarket. Hancock is bolder ideologically-though neither is, even compared to Osborne, very doctrinaire-while Harrison is more forensic. As consigliere to the Chancellor, Hancock might have buttressed Osborne's natural ways. Harrison offsets them..._

_Some vestiges of the Labour years did survive, though. Osborne and Harrison behaved as near-equals in each other's company, as Brown and Balls had done. **"It quickly became clear that Rupert had a very healthy relationship with George, and could actually contradict him directly in meetings and could have mini-rows with him"** says one intimate observer.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_The Liberal Democrat leader spent all Friday (23rd May 2014) on the phone, mostly to those who had lost their seats and in some cases livelihoods. Most people seemed calm and positive, despite the big losses. Tim Farron, the party president, was very supportive, agreeing that Nick should stay on as leader..Nick Clegg, meanwhile, felt shell-shocked. Over the weekend he had planned to stay as leader, but now as he saw all of his former colleagues in the European Parliament losing their seats, he wondered if he should resign._

_He spoke privately to his wife, Miriam. They were staying with their children at Chevening, the country house put at the disposal of William Hague and Nick Clegg, just outside London. He also spoke at length to friends and advisers...On Sunday night, the Liberal Democrat leader slept little. The truth was that Nick was struggling to know what the right thing to do for his party was. Even Paddy Ashdown was sounding a more qualified note: **"Nick, I will support you whatever decision you decide to make."**_

_On Monday Nick Clegg awoke, having made his decision: **"It is the loneliest decision you can ever make"** he told me later. **"But I decided that I just cannot walk away. If I did that, I would regret it for ever-I would be the person who walked out and left his party in the lurch. If I leave now, there will inevitably be a leadership election-it would be a massive and divisive distraction for our party. I'm staying. I think it's the right thing to do."-**Coalition: The Inside Story of the Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government 2010-2015, David Laws_

_The attempted coup against Nick Clegg begins. The Sunday newspapers report a petition for Nick to stand down, being organised by Sandra Gidley, a complete nonentity who is the ex-MP for Romsey. She appears to have been joined by two idiot MPs-that left-wing numbskull John Pugh, who has made some pompous comments to the media that we should look at our leader and have a discussion of **"strategy."** I assume that means that he wants a change of leader but hasn't actually got the support to trigger it. He has been joined by the awful John Hemmings. Then there are two parliamentary candidates who are such nonentities that I can't even remember their names but who are standing in Winchester and Dorset West...An email from Nick Clegg: **"I'm not too downcast but I am pretty angered about the way the petitioners just repeat the personal vilification of me by the Daily Mail et al. I always knew that being leader in the first coalition was going to lead to vile attacks from the outraged left and right-but to see them repeated by fellow Lib Dems is awful. I fear we will be in full-blown leadership crisis territory tomorrow after the Euro results."**_

_As the evening went on, the results came in from the European elections-catastrophic! Just before we were going to bed, the results from the south-east of England came through, and we had the only Lib Dem win of the night-by Catherine Bearder. Even she only sneaked in by a few thousand votes. Norman Lamb texted me: **"Our complacent uncritical pro-EU position has turned so many of our supporters away. This is a very dangerous week now. Suspect the bandwagon could easily gather momentum!" **I said to Norman that I shared his concern and we had certainly tested to destruction the idea that we should promote our pro-European views in European elections..._

_Disaster. We have lost eleven out of our twelve MEPs. Looking on the bright side, at least the meetings of the Lib Dem parliamentary party in Europe are now going to be relatively short. Catherine Bearder will be leader, deputy leader, chair, secretary and minute taker...Nick called at 10.45 am. He sounded tired but not as down as I had feared. He said he had gone through various **"emotional waves"** overnight, and had contemplated resigning. But he said he had always known that it was going to be difficult leading the party through five years of coalition government during a time of austerity, and he didn't think it would be the right thing for the party or the country if he threw in the towel now. He said he didn't relish the idea of spending another year leading the party, with all of the press vilification, but he felt that it was the right thing to do...Nick has also gone on the media, looking a bit sad and knackered but killing the idea that he's going to give up. If we can last out the next few days then I think that this attempted coup is going to fail. Texted Nick to say that I thought his interview was good and struck just the right note. He replied: **"Thanks-it's such a long hard road back!"**-"Sunday 25th May-Monday 26th May 2014" The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Steve Hilton finds the transition to No.10 unsettling. He increasingly chooses to circumvent our meetings, saving his energy for more worthwhile things-such as his one-to-ones with David. In opposition years, he would often visit David in Dean, where they would talk informally over the issues we were grappling with, and discuss an overall strategy. Then, Monday morning, back at the office, the rest of the team would arrive to find the entire strategy had changed. In government, this method doesn't work. The Prime Minister cannot make decisions and then be persuaded out of them by Steve in private. Even if David wanted to change his mind (and occasionally he does), when decisions are made, minutes are taken, and hordes of civil servants begin implementing them. Steve can only put the clock back so many times. And it is this which largely undermines Steve and erodes his spirit in No.10. He despises "**the System"-**and never finds a way to work successfully inside it. Early on, Steve starts to operate a sort of parallel government, taking meetings across Whitehall with those who at first think of him as David's representative on earth...At first we don't really notice Steve's pursuits, as we are so busy with our own work. But when he appears to go completely freelance, avoiding our meetings in favour of his own, or commissioning random work streams, we try to draw him back. This results in a volcanic eruption. Then Steve comes to us with a solution: to give him a formal role as head of the Policy Unit on the third floor. David pushes back: he wants Steve as a special adviser to the Prime Minister, not driving the Policy Unit-and not quite sure where to. It's another nail in the coffin of their relationship. We try to find ways to bring Steve closer. Come to the meetings, we suggest. Share our office. We set up a hot desk for Steve in the private office, which he never uses. Steve's disillusionment grows, haunting the buildings like an unhappy, shoeless ghost, and spills out into the newspapers. Underlying this is a growing sense of alienation from the one person he came into politics for: David._

_In the beginning, Steve saw it very much as a joint project: David and Steve. When they became friends in the CRD in the late Eighties and early Nineties, David was attracted by Steve's compelling intelligence and radical, reforming zeal. Their friendship gave David a political confidence. He could be more than just a boy with a privileged upbringing. Steve encouraged him to think out of the box, and together they came up with ways to move the party forward after its introspective years. For David, Steve represented Dumbo's lucky feather: with it, he can fly. But David finds, as Dumbo did, that he can fly without the feather-and he always could. Dave still admires Steve's blue-sky thinking and creativity-and loves him as a friend-but he wants him to find a way to operate that does not put him at odds with everyone and everything. Yes, Steve has brilliant ideas, but not all of them are either workable or advisable. Moreover, David no longer has time for the **"Are you with me or against me?"** game. The rift grows and saddens me. I wish we could find a way through it, because I value and care about Steve. But we don't. And when Steve goes to California in 2012 to join his wife, who is working for Google in Palo Alto, I think we all underestimate his sense of betrayal, which comes back to haunt us too.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_So many of the team that worked together at the CRD all those years ago ended up, twenty years later, in prominent positions in my government, including Ed Llewellyn, Kate Fall, Steve Hilton, Ed Vaizey and Jonathan Caine. All of us worked for Thatcher and then John Major. The late 1980s and early 1990s shaped us and our thinking. First, we were labelled **"the brat pack"** because of our age. Later, **"the Notting Hill set"**, even though most of us didn't live there. Inasmuch as there was a clique-and I would argue every successful politician needs a team-it was a CRD clique...As in opposition, Steve Hilton's ideas continued to be one part brilliant to several parts bonkers, the latter of which included cutting the civil service by 70 per cent, closing all Jobcentres and-no joke-introducing cloud-bursting technology that would, he claimed, stop it raining over Britain. True blue-sky thinking._

_However, his relationship with people in government wasn't working. He was no longer excused as a free spirit when he was late for meetings-he was seen as someone who had disregard for others. His antagonistic style was no longer helping him advance his cause in Whitehall-it had started to hurt it. And because we were friends, people felt that when he hit an obstacle he would go directly to me, and undermine their legitimate concerns. And the relationship between the two of us became strained, too. Steve is a real idealogue in a way I'm not; I'm ideological and practical. The important difference was exposed now that we were running the country, not just talking about running the country. He thought I was losing my radical zeal and falling for the trappings of prime minister. But I knew that to be a successful radical you have to play the game. And he wasn't interested in playing the game, just tipping it over and throwing the pieces all over the floor. He had told me a while earlier that he needed a break, and now he'd found the ideal moment: his wife, Rachel Whetstone, was working in California for Google, and he thought he would be able to join her there, lecture at nearby Stanford University, and pursue some other business and political interests. He came to tell me his plans one weekend at Dean._

_We sat on the floor in front of the fire and talked it through. I was sad to see him go-he was a creative thinker, and his energy had helped to get a lot of things done. But disruptive forces like Steve have their pluses and minuses-for every initiative he boosted with his zeal, there was an idea that misfired, or a relationship that subsequently needed repairing. He had given me incredible loyalty and service for well over seven years, and was starting to think about his own political future. He was a strong believer in the city mayors we were creating, and he wanted to be one himself. Maybe in his home town of Brighton, or perhaps even, in the future, in London. It was announced on 2 March 2012 that he would be leaving in a couple of months' time to go on a **"sabbatical",** but there was little expectation of a full return._

_On 2 May Steve departed for America. He left me a long note-a** "valedictory telegram",** I called it-detailing his frustration with what he saw as the lack of progress and the limited scale of our ambition. I objected to his implication that we were not pursuing a radical agenda.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_As I was planning my work programme for the weeks ahead, my private secretary then came into my office with an off-white envelope, on which was scrawled in blue ink the words **"Chief Secretary To The Treasury." "Minister, it's from your predecessor as Chief Secretary, Liam Byrne." **_ _**I** tore it open and pulled out the note. It was on "Chief Secretary to the Treasury" notepaper, with a blue embossed crest. Dated 6 April 2010, it read simply: **"Dear Chief Secretary, I'm afraid there is no money. Kind regards-and good luck! Liam."**_

_My first reaction was to laugh. My second was to think it was a slightly insensitive thing to say, as it appeared to be making light of the mess of the public finances. **"Oh well"** I thought, **"I'll keep it. It will make a good diary story. Or maybe I'll use it as a talking point for the Financial Times interview I've agreed to."** I had long forgotten that there was a precedent for outgoing ministers leaving their successors such notes. They were often kept private, but not always so. Famously, in 1964, the outgoing Conservative Chancellor of the Exchequer Reginald Maudling had left his successor, James Callaghan, a note that said: **"Good luck, old cock...sorry to leave it in such a mess."** This had been made public and caused the Conservatives considerable embarrassment. But I was too busy and probably too tired to understand just how politically explosive the note would be. Five years later it would even take centre stage in the next general election campaign. I folded the letter back into an envelope and put it in my desk drawer..._

_Towards the end of the press conference, the Chancellor called upon me to speak, and to lighten the mood a bit I decided to mention the Liam Byrne note that I had received a few days before. I had not mentioned the note to George Osborne, and nor did I have a copy with me. I paraphrased the Byrne note as **"I'm afraid there is no money left",** inadvertently adding the word **"left"** to the end of the sentence. I could tell that a few of the journalists had perked up a bit after my story, but I did not realise what a touchpaper I had lit until I got back to my office upstairs._

_Within minutes, the Chancellor's head of press had dashed into my office.** "Where is this letter?"** he asked. "**The media are going nuts about it. It's going to be a huge story. The Sun want to put it on their front page tomorrow. They all love it."**_

_I showed our press team the note, but refused to hand it over. I was told later that the No.10 head of press Andy Coulson had sent out an "**instruction" t**elling me to hand over the letter. Feeling a little guilty now about what I had done, I refused the request. George Osborne supported my decision. He might have been a little upset that his own announcement was being completely eclipsed. But by now it all hardly mattered-the media were busy mocking up their own letters for the next day's papers.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, 2010-2015, David Laws_

_Politics was not Osborne's favoured career path. Having enjoyed his experience of journalism as a student, he tried to make a living out of it..He liked the idea of "**wearing a white suit and sitting behind a typewriter in a hotel room in Saigon."..**He applied for the graduate scheme at The Times, but failed at the final stage. Characteristically persistent, he asked the newspaper whether he could come in and write the occasional piece for freelance rates. They gave him permission and soon he was covering anti-BNP marches in east London and advising readers on the best toys to buy their children for Christmas. Contrary to rumour, he was never employed by the Telegraph's diary column Peterborough, though he had friends there and pitched the occasional story. Had he persisted with journalism, his break would have come. He had a fluent pen, an instinctive feel for a story, and a gift for cultivating relationships. His friends always suspected, however, that he yearned to be the subject and not the author. It was a chance meeting with another George that diverted him from the journalistic path. George Bridges, one of the Conservative Party's most able and genial operatives in recent years, has been indispensable to Osborne's life and career. In 1996, he would introduce him to his future wife. In 1994, he introduced him to Tory politics. Bridges was leaving his job in the Political Section at Conservative Central Office to start work in John Major's Downing Street. Although he had met his younger namesake before, their first serious conversation took place at the end of 1993 during a pub outing with their mutual friend Philip Delves Broughton. Bridges, immediately impressed by Osborne's political insights and palpable ambition, suggested that he apply for his old role at Central Office. He did and, with Bridges' recommendation, got the job. For the ensuing decade, Osborne's lot was one of personal success in a failing party.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_In early January (2015) Nick Clegg raised the issue of the election debates with David (Cameron). He emphasised that having had the first real, televised debates in the May 2010 general election, it was not now sensible or acceptable for any political leader to try to end them. He asked the Prime Minister to agree a sensible debate format, so that the broadcasters could conclude their plans._

_But the Prime Minister wasn't budging. **"It's clear that he really doesn't want to do the debates, whatever the cost"** Nick Clegg told me later that day.** "He just looked at me and said: "You must be kidding. Have you seen Ed Miliband's poll ratings recently? The guy is like a boxer who is on the floor. Why on earth should I give him a chance to get back up? I have no interest in letting these election debates go ahead."-**Coalition: The Inside Story of the Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, David Laws _

_I declined the chance of a very early-morning train trip to God's own city (Manchester, of course) to watch Ed Miliband spell out the **"choice"** facing the nation. Thank goodness. Once again it turns out the event was grotesquely over-sold and under-delivered. Miliband, I was told, would be addressing a major rally. The pictures would be great. His team, the shadow Cabinet, everyone would be there. Instead we are given a pretty routine speech at a dull venue with a handful of the party's key faces present but scarcely visible. When my colleague Norman Smile asks a perfectly fair question, he is booed and heckled by the party workers in the audience. Ed then places his hand over his eyes and peers into the distance, searching for reporters from ITN or Sky. None are there. Things are not going to plan. A badly organized event without a clear news line. Oh dear._

_ **Millbank Tower** _

_The rival Tory attraction is, by contrast, slick and packed with journalists. Some have come to enjoy what may turn out to be a sneak preview of the hustings for the next leader of the opposition, with George Osborne and Theresa May side by side, if not shoulder to shoulder, and the young pretender, Sajid Javid, the culture secretary, present too. They are here to flog that old election favourite, the opposition costings document. You know the sort of thing: cut and paste a few quotes from your opponent saying that cuts to libraries are bad, or we'd really like to see more cyclists, and then put a price tag on them which poor, unsuspecting voters will be told they have to pay. The Tories and Labour have pulled this stunt in every campaign since John Major knocked out Neil Kinnock in 1992 by costing his policies and claiming they would result in a tax bombshell landing on every household in the land. To give the whole partisan propaganda exercise spurious credibility, the Tories have made their dossier look damned near identical to the official Treasury red book. Civil servants have, they say, calculated the costings, neatly ignoring the fact that it is their political masters who have told them what to cost. Ever so slightly bored by the predictable game, I ask Osborne, May and co. whether their minds aren't really on fighting each other in a few months' time if they lose to Labour. Theresa, who has been nodding rather too often and too vigorously at everything George has been saying, now glares moodily._

_A wittier colleague invites each of them to sum up in a minute why they'd be the best party leader. This is met by general laughter, even from the hand-picked Tory audience, but with a tight-lipped insistence from George Osborne that the Tories, unlike Labour, have a very good leader, thanks so much for asking. This is the way bored hacks keep themselves entertained when spoon-fed party propaganda that insults our intelligence...The row about what Ed Miliband has dubbed the Tories' **"dodgy dossier"** is making news. I am getting increasingly frantic texts and calls from Labour. Why are we falling for the Tories' **"framing of the argument"?** Why are we ignoring Ed's attempt to develop a detailed and thought-out presentation at the start of the campaign? The answer is as unwelcome as it is simple. The costing row is a better story. Every other news organization agrees. What's more, the BBC's competition didn't even go to the Labour event_

_Another text. "**No wonder everyone hates politics...you've ignored a big speech about what the election is about...very unhappy."** Ed Miliband texts too, much more politely, in a more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger tone. Then his spin doctor, Tom Baldwin calls to complain directly. I listen carefully before finally losing it, giving back as good as I've got at top volume and with a lot of choice language thrown in for good measure. Half an hour's shouting match later, I emerge from my office to the grins of colleagues who've heard every word. I feel much, much better.-"Monday 5th January 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_The Cabinet was in despair and leadership speculation was rising to fever pitch. For Ed Miliband, however, it was a time to be loyal to the leader who by all accounts **"adored"** him like a son. Ed agreed to defend Brown on Newsnight as best he could. The following day the party was due to meet at Warwick University for a policy forum. The mood was palpably dire. Previously loyal Cabinet ministers and special advisers were refusing to rule out an impending change to the leadership..Dutifully, Ed gave Brown's awful oration a standing ovation from the back of the hall. His brother, meanwhile, was less intent on propping up Brown. Over the weekend, David and his advisers had decided that he needed to make a significant intervention. To this day, David denies that what followed was a leadership challenge, and technically it is hard to dispute this. But the effect was devastating, first for Brown, then for the brothers, and ultimately for David himself._

_On the evening of Monday 28 July (2008) political editors in the corridors of the Commons' press gallery were contacted by Sarah Schaefer, one of David's two special advisers. She was giving the **"heads up"** on a piece David had written for the following day's Guardian. She told at least one of the journalists, in reference to recurrent criticism that the Foreign Secretary had done nothing to challenge Brown: "**You think David hasn't got balls? See tomorrow's Guardian."..**.Significantly, however, it contained not a single reference to Gordon Brown...It concluded cryptically: **"In government, unless you choose sides, you get found out. New Labour won three elections by offering real change, not just in policy but in the way we do politics. We must do so again. So let's stop feeling sorry for ourselves, enjoy a break, and then find the confidence to make our case afresh."..**_

_Gordon Brown, who was about to take a few days' holiday with Sarah, hit the phones. One of the first people he spoke to was an agonised Ed Miliband, caught between his boss and his brother. Ed had not been warned by his brother about the provocative article. He relayed this to a livid Brown, who bluntly-and perhaps unfairly-asked Ed what was going on. Crucially, Ed also spoke to David, who assured his brother that this was not a leadership challenge and that he was entitled to speak out-surely the whole Cabinet should be coming up with plans and ideas? **"What else could I have done?"** he asked defensively. **"Well, you could have done it differently" r**eplied an exasperated Ed. At this stage Ed could rebuke his brother privately but understandably did not feel he could attack him publicly...But the significance of the episode in terms of the brothers' relationship should not be underestimated. Ed Miliband had a choice to make, between loyalty to his brother and loyalty to Brown. He chose the latter. As he told friends at the time, **"I am not my brother's keeper."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_By the end of 2009, Ed had begun seriously considering running for the leadership, buoyed by his undeniable campaigning success-whatever the failures of Copenhagen-as Climate Change Secretary over the previous year. Was David aware of any of this? Friends of the elder Miliband say they were surprised at how indifferent and relaxed he was about the rise and rise of his younger brother. **"He didn't see him as a threat"** says one.** "Until it was too late."** As with so much to do with the Miliband brothers, there are two opposing accounts of one of the few direct conversations they admit to having had about the leadership, at the start of December 2009. Ed claims that it was about whether David should take the job of EU High Representative for Foreign Affairs. He tells friends that he felt it was right to indicate during this brief chat with his brother that he "**might"** run for the leadership. And he claims that David's reaction was merely: "**Fine, what do you think about the Europe job?"**_

_But the timeline suggests otherwise; after all, David had already publicly declined the job on 11 November and by 19 November, Catherine Ashton had been appointed as the new EU High Rep. Instead, a close friend of David's says he discussed with Ed the idea of moving against Brown, and that it was only after Ed showed resistance to such an idea that David became suspicious his little brother might be considering a leadership bid himself. Perhaps it was naivety, or perhaps it was arrogance, but up until this point, David did not seem to see Ed as a threat to his own leadership ambitions. One of the most explosive claims surrounding Ed's ambitions, however, is that Ed persuaded David not to stand against Brown in the summer of 2009. The charge is that this was not out of loyalty to Brown, but because he was already planning a leadership challenge himself, and needed a full-blown Labour leadership contest in order to have a chance of beating his better-known brother._

_Indeed, it is said that one of the specific reasons today for the resentment felt by David's wife Louise towards Ed is over an incident that apparently occurred in June 2009. After polls closed for the European elections at 10pm on the night of 4 June, James Purnell resigned from the Cabinet as Work and Pensions Secretary. To this day, many of David's supporters deeply regret that the elder Miliband did not follow his close friend Purnell out of government, resigning as Foreign Secretary and almost certainly ending the Brown premiership. According to some claims, Ed rang his brother to urge him not to quit, on the grounds that the leadership was his after Brown. Yet this specific claim has been flatly denied by David as well as Ed. There is no evidence to suggest that Ed's reluctance to back a challenge against the Prime Minister by his brother was motivated by anything other than deep-rooted, if perhaps misplaced, loyalty towards, and admiration for Brown.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_After Brown resigned following the 2010 general election we watched, captivated, as the two Miliband brothers battled it out for leadership of the Labour Party. David was the better known of the two, and we considered him by far the strongest-and potentially a much more problematic adversary. As Ed's campaign took off in 2010, David and George's smiles broadened. George welcomed the news of Ed's triumph in front of the television on bended and grateful knees.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_Halfway through the coalition government, suddenly Osborne realised May was** ""no longer compliant and was a potential rival for his next job"** says (Fiona) Hill. Her team had picked up that Osborne had only wanted her appointed to the Home Office so that she would be the lightning rod for its cuts that would fall heavily on police, with the subsequent rise in crime giving a pretext for them moving her on, replacing her with a younger and more amenable Home Secretary as the deficit narrowed and the austerity drive ended. Osborne, in truth, never took her that seriously and was baffled, as were others in Cabinet, when she emerged as a credible successor to Cameron. Everything about May and Osborne grated on each other-philosophically, culturally and socially. Fifteen years his elder, she viewed him as a "**boy's boy",** upper not middle class, urban not shire, and cosmopolitan not nationalistic. Their first skirmishes were over immigration and student visas. Their teams echoed and reinforced the antipathy between their bosses, seeing slights even where none were intended. Osborne (with a compliant Cameron) relentlessly promoted his own supporters, helping them into safe seats in Parliament and thereafter helping them up the ministerial ladder. ..The friction with Osborne was manageable so long as May and Cameron remained on good terms..When things became tricky she and Cameron would get together and patch things up, despite her increasing suspicion that Osborne was whispering in his ear.-May At 10 2016-2019, Anthony Seldon_

_We had a discussion about Chinese visas, on a paper introduced by the Chancellor of the Exchequer. This soon turned out to be a full-frontal attack on the Home Secretary for failing to keep a series of pledges about making it easier for people from China to get visas. Theresa May remained very quiet, seething with anger, while the Chancellor, sitting right next to her on her left, launched his scathing attack. _

_I felt certain that she would come back with a strong response, and she started off sounding irritated and confident. However, she then went on and on, and the more she went on, the more obvious it was that she had very little of substance to say. Cameron got visibly angry and began to go through all the points on the Chancellor's list, one by one. What had happened to this particular deadline? he asked. Why had this particular process not been put in place? Theresa stuttered and stumbled and looked desperately through her briefing notes for the answers that she needed-but without finding any. There was an uncomfortable feeling around the table. Other ministers looked embarrassed at seeing the Home Secretary squirm so badly. At the end of the discussion, Cameron said "**Look, I really don't want to have to do this again. The Home Office is going to have to get its act together and sort these issues out."** Senior Cabinet ministers aren't usually humiliated in this way, and I doubt Theresa May will forget this.-"Tuesday 4th December 2012", The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_ Osborne had been Cameron's right-hand man for eleven years, five in opposition and six in government. He had been more than Chancellor of the Exchequer: in many ways, he had operated as joint Prime Minister. He had for several years been promoting allies and colleagues to test their suitability for his future government. How she handled Osborne as heir presumptive would be a litmus test for her. _

_ Osborne has a clear recollection of his meeting with her on Wednesday 13 July (2016): **“She came back from Buckingham Palace in the early evening. I was up in my flat above No 10 where I had been told to wait for her to call. Very shortly after her return, I was summoned. It was just me and her, nobody else. “Congratulations, Prime Minister” I said, thinking I must have been one of the first to say that. “It still feels very strange” she replied before continuing swiftly, “Look, there is no space for you in the administration.” ** _

** _ I could take that, but then she went on to say “I hope you understand if I give you some advice as an "older sister.” You need to get to know the Conservative Party better.“ Our meeting finished very soon after that. I couldn’t wait to get out of the room. I was told to leave by the back door. It was all quite shocking. Downing Street was where I lived with my (then) wife and children. _ **

** _ Dismissing me was a perfectly reasonable call for a new Prime Minister wanting to have a new Chancellor. But she could have handled it so much better. They gave no thought to how she should conduct the interview. Nor to how I might react. They could have told me in advance and allowed me to walk out with David Cameron so I could have coupled my resignation with his. She could have said "You’ve done so much for the party. I’m sorry that there’s no space for you, but I’m grateful for your six years as Chancellor.” If you were getting rid of a supply teacher, you might have said at least that to them. They could then have briefed how valuable I had been. Instead they briefed that I got it wrong on Brexit and needed to learn. I was told just to clear out. It was like an out-of-body experience. I couldn’t believe I was on the wrong end of such an amateur way of doing business.“ _ **

_ The rage Osborne felt towards May rebounded against him. Had he shown more sangfroid, and not resigned his seat in high dudgeon, he would have been in pole position to have succeeded her, perhaps as early as straight after the general election...The chiefs had no illusions about Osborne, knowing that he had been remorselessly plotting against her, as indeed they had been plotting against him. During the referendum campaign, in particular, they suspected Osborne had been gunning for May, including threatening to sack her...T_ _ he manner in which (May) told Osborne about his departure, and his perception of May’s team as trashing his economic record, led to an even deeper enmity that rebounded against her in the months and years to come…(Fiona) Hill later regarded the callous sacking of Osborne as **"the biggest mistake we made."**-May At 10: 2016-2019, Anthony Seldon _

_**"Yes, yes, yes!" ** It is Saturday 25 September 2010 and George Osborne is on his knees. He is fixated on the television screen, in the company of Cameron and Andy Coulson. It isn't positive news of the latest quarterly figures that has brought him to this position. It is something that he knows will have a much greater bearing on the outcome of the 2015 election. Ed Miliband is announced leader of the Labour Party, beating brother David by just over 1% of the vote (50.65% to 49.35%) and Cameron's team are fizzing with excitement. For the first three rounds of counting, David was ahead of his brother, but in the fourth and final ballot Ed edged over the 50% mark required for overall victory. While David is supported by most Labour MPs and constituency parties, Ed has secured the backing of the trade unions, sufficient to tip the balance in his favour. Cameron and Osborne fear David. They don't fear Ed. Cameron agrees with his ultra-political strategist-in-chief. **"Ed will be a thousand times better for the Conservatives"** he says. Ed Miliband will take Labour more in the direction of Gordon Brown's failed policies and he is **"much less confident"** than his brother, he thinks-not that he knows either brother well (he tells them).-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_He (Ed) re-emerged in spectacular style in January 2009 for what a former government insider calls an "epic" row with Brown-the first of many-on the proposed third runway at Heathrow. Four months before Ed's appointment as Climate Change Secretary, in June 2008, David Cameron-trying to emphasise his **"vote blue, go green"** message-had ruled out a third runway under a Conservative government. Cameron's pledge only hardened Brown's own instinctive support for the runway-always keen on his **"dividing lines"**, the Prime Minister saw it as an opportunity to portray Labour and not the Tories as the party of business. Much has been written about Ed's stance on the Heathrow runway, including plenty of speculation that he almost resigned over the matter. David Muir and Douglas Alexander were alarmed to find themselves, on a trip to Washington, bombarded with calls from anxious Number 10 officials believing Ed would **"walk" i**n January 2009. **"It was interesting for us all to watch"** says one former Downing Street insider.** "Ed pushed Gordon fucking hard."** Advisers to both Ed and Brown say they never heard him use the word "resignation", but he did tell Gavin Kelly, the Brown aide who was handling the runway issue, **"I will not do this deal until I get much more",** that is, policy concessions. Ed's view throughout the negotiating process was that the expansion of Heathrow would make it near-impossible for the government to implement its pledge to reduce carbon emissions by 2050. Another Downing Street aide says Ed's strategy was **"to really dig in and make some big demands. At each stage, he would demand more. And each time you thought he would cave, he wouldn't."** Ed's obdurate approach came as a shock to Number 10's permanent secretary, Jeremy Heywood, who told Brown the matter needed to be resolved. **"Why is this new minister holding up the wheels of government like this?"** Heywood was overheard asking a colleague. Meanwhile on one occasion the Prime Minister was **"livid"**, according to an aide. He shouted of Ed, **"Get him on the phone. This is a total betrayal."**_

_Kelly says today: **"Ed and I had a very difficult, very acrimonious row over Heathrow when I was dealing with him at Number 10. We really took it to the limit on that; I didn't know how that was going to end up, to be honest, but he played hard, very aggressively...We were right up against the deadline and he didn't blink. It was probably the most difficult negotiation that I can remember having with a Cabinet minister. He got a lot more than anyone thought he was going to get."** The reality is that although the thought had crossed Ed's mind, he never came anywhere close to going through with resignation-or even threatening to do so. **"It would have been ludicrous to resign after just three months in the job"** he told friends later. Instead, while his special adviser Polly Billington briefed the press, especially The Guardian, that Ed was** "unhappy",** he took the only route he believed was open to him: Ed "**talked truth to power"** as his aides put it now, but in a private and not in a public setting. **"There were blazing rows"** says a former Cabinet minister. Ed's stubbornness in meetings-both one-to-one and Cabinet-shocked Brown. It also infuriated Ed Balls and Peter Mandelson, both of whom sided with the business community and argued that the move would create jobs-with the latter reportedly having banged his head on the Cabinet table in frustration (a claim he has since denied to friends.) Mandelson did, however, lend his considerable weight to support the position of Geoff Hoon, the Transport Secretary, who took it upon himself to push the case for the runway inside government and voice considerable frustration with Ed's blocking tactics on behalf of other pro-business Cabinet ministers. Anonymous quotes started appearing in the press accusing Ed of having **"gone native."..**The Climate Change Secretary's chief ally, however, was Hilary Benn, the Environment Secretary. Journalists and MPs spoke of a "**Milibenn"** tendency in Cabinet. At one meeting of ministers, Benn repeatedly and loudly interrupted Hoon's defence of the government's position. "**Stop heckling me"** Hoon barked back._

_A senior official describes another tense meeting with Hoon, Heywood and Ed. **"Jeremy clearly felt Geoff had given enough. But Ed refused to leave the room until he had a meeting with Gordon. He had gone red, almost like a child. He was clearly very emotional. Jeremy thought he was being unreasonable and puerile. But I don't think Ed gave a toss. He wanted concessions-and he won."** Supporters of Ed see the row over Heathrow as his coming of age in the Cabinet. He did not resign but in the end did win a series of concessions out of the row with Brown. Aviation's contribution to carbon emissions was to decline and airlines using the new runway would be required to use the newest, least-polluting aircraft...More crucially still for Ed, in return for agreeing to the compromise on Heathrow, he persuaded Brown to agree to commit to working extra hard for a positive outcome at the Copenhagen climate summit later that year. Ed had learned to negotiate with Brown while working with him at close quarters at the Treasury; he knew how to extract concessions from his old boss. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

* * *

_Posner: But he doesn't understand. Irwin does like him. He seldom looks at anyone else._

_Scripps: How do you know?_

_Posner: Because nor do I. Our eyes meet looking at Dakin._

_-The History Boys (2006)_

_No-one's the same as they used to be_

_Much as we try to pretend_

_No-one's as innocent as could be_

_We all fall short, we all sin_

_-"Fast In My Car", Paramore_

_All of your flaws_

_And all of my flaws_

_They lie there, hand in hand_

_Ones we've inherited, ones that we've learnt_

_They pass from man to man_

_-"Flaws", Bastille_

* * *

"_Five-"_

David catches George's eye and gives him a wink.

_"Four-"_

Elwen scrambles around David's feet. Luke shoves his younger sister's shoulder, sending her into Geronimo, nearly knocking his glasses loose.

_"Three-"_

Michael kisses Sarah on the cheek. Beatrice, Libbie and Nancy are readying their special child fruit mocktails, sparklers fizzing.

_"Two-"_

Samantha presses a kiss to Flo's cheek, and hoists her a little higher on one hip. Beatrix curls in closer to her mother's shoulder, while Sable clings to her leg.

_"One-"_

David draws in a breath, as his eyes meet Sam's and Clare's simultaneously, and George's hand brushes his.

_"Happy New Year!"_

Fireworks explode in their ears. Glasses soar into the air. Cheeks clash together.

"And many more-" George kisses Sam's cheek before David can, and grinning, David does the same to Frances. Flo shrieks out a giggle and casting a glance at his elder daughter, David sees that even Nancy's smiling.

"Happy 2015-" Samantha kisses him, and David is cut off halfway through. Elwen makes a vomiting sound that is so realistic, David almost reels back, and then nearly falls over as he catches sight of Alex across the room, waving at him.

"Good start" Michael remarks, kissing Sam and Flo on the cheek one after the other. Sarah squeezes her goddaughter's shoulder and then bends to kiss her own daughter's forehead, while her son and Elwen appear to be conducting some sort of duel with their straws, Galileo and Artemis winding around them.

"Hopefully not start as we mean to go on-" George arches an eyebrow, squeezing David's arm. "Unless you mean reeling away from disaster-"

"Yes, hopefully not, David-" and David turns around to see his mother beaming at him, Tania at her side. "Unless you wish to guide the country completely down the drains."

"Happy New Year, Mum." David presses a kiss to her cheek. "And thank you ever so much for the encouragement, we will do a positively wonderful job of ensuring the country fails to meet your lofty standards-"

George pretends to salute her. Mary eyes him contemplatively.

Tania winces. "You're dead" she tells him succinctly, as Mary draws herself up to her fullest height-which, though it barely comes up to George's shoulder, is still somehow impressive.

"You're five years younger than my son" she informs him gravely. "And I don't balk at giving him a smack."

George keeps a completely straight face as he answers her. "My wife would quite agree with you."

Frances promptly proves George correct by whacking his arm, causing a wry smile to appear at Mary's mouth. She pats George's arm affectionately, in exactly the same place Frances has just hit. "Do keep David on track, he's liable to wander free otherwise-"

"I'd give anything for you to wander free" Clare mutters, to an elbow in the ribs from Samantha.

"What was that, dear?" Mary smiles at her. Clare smiles back. "Nothing." She steps on Sam's foot at the precise moment that Sam opens her mouth.

"Well, anyway-" George pats David's arm. "Preferably not having to reel away from disaster-"

"Have some faith in Lynton" David protests, with another kiss to Sam's hair, as his wife tries to avoid his sister's elbow in return. "As if he'd steer us towards disaster-"

George grins. "I didn't say anything about _Lynton."_ His eyes sparkle mischievously.

A few moments later, Elwen and Luke are cheering-"Go on, Dad-", Flo's giggling, and Michael's observing with an amused expression, which is when Alex ambles over, clutching a glass of ale in his hand. "Hey, hey, what's all this? I invite bloody politicians into my party-"

David would protest, but it's difficult, with George's head, still shaking with laughter, currently being wedged under his arm.

"And here I thought the Prime Minister was going to give us a bloody song..."

* * *

Ed stares at the ceiling, listening to the steady in and out of Justine's breathing next to him, and wonders how everyone else is spending their New Year.

He's always lain awake at night, and it's happening a lot more recently. It doesn't help, perhaps, that Justine's parents are here, and he's aware the entire time that they're in the house-even though it's Margaret's friend's house, and she's the one who's let them stay here for New Year-in a way he can't really explain.

But really, it's more that every second that's spent away from the news and politics, he wonders what's really happening somewhere, if there's something more they could be doing, and it's always there, a persistent backbeat in his mind, a backing track to whatever else he's doing.

When he lies awake, he always finds his mind pulling focus, sharpening moments of memories, narrowing in on tiny details, playing them over and over.

He remembers yesterday, in the pub, patting the man on the back, hoping it wasn't too awkward, that he hadn't said anything he shouldn't-but the man had seemed happy, excited even, as he walked away.

He'd headed for the door, Justine waiting outside, pushing at his glasses awkwardly, trying to ignore the pub musk around him. Pubs have never entirely been Ed's forte, and being left alone in one to pay the bill had made him even more acutely aware of this.

He's not sure, taking this into account, not to mention the fact that neither he nor Justine are big drinkers, why on earth they'd chosen to go into a pub at all. Perhaps it had been the fact that they were on their way back from their friends, and maybe they'd both been thinking about the childrens' faces that morning, and neither of them had been keen on seeing their expressions again-

(Though Ed can't get rid of the nagging thought that that might have been only him)

Maybe the silence had dragged a little too long between them, and maybe the sounds of glasses clinking and drinks pouring and the sheer familiarity between people who are local to an area, in a way they never would be, might fill up the gaps, perhaps neither of them wanting to say that they didn't know if words alone would be able to.

(Though they were tired and it had been easier with friends, easier to let others do the talking, to corroborate each other when needed, and that was conversation, that still counted.)

Perhaps the simple fact it had seemed something to do; the sort of thing most couples would do, he was sure of it. Like visiting friends. Like having a day out.

He'd instantly regretted these assumptions on New Year's Eve morning, when he'd informed Daniel and Sam that they'd be spending the day with Margaret and Stewart.

Margaret had made a little more of an effort, attempting to make a fuss of the boys, ruffling Sam's curls, and giving Daniel a weak sort of half-chuck under the chin, even as he scowled, looking away. Stewart had raised an eyebrow and told the boys that they needn't worry about it if it bothered them, that he certainly wouldn't, leaving Justine to whisper frantically at her father and Ed to try fruitlessly to distract the boys with the Octonauts, only for Stewart to remark that "those kids watch too much TV as it is."

Ed had gritted his teeth, the same way he did whenever Stewart's incredulous look had slipped through that Ed has found appears whenever he mentions that he has no idea how to bleed the radiator or change a fuse or perform any one of a hundred other basic DIY tasks.

But Margaret's attempts at cuddles or hugs hadn't made either of their sons smile as they left the house, and aside from Justine's pointing out whichever direction they needed to head in next, their journey to Dover and then to the pub had been mostly in silence. Ed isn't sure even now if it felt companionable or not.

He hasn't been sure, over the last few days, if many things have been companionable or not.

"You need to watch those boys" his mother had told him bluntly, as he washed the dishes on Christmas Day.

"What do you mean?"

His mother had just looked at him then, all 70 years of her, her eyes steely. "You know perfectly well what I mean, Edward. Your family is a recipe in _barely."_

Ed had blinked. Marion had raised her eyebrows.

"Sam barely speaks. Daniel barely smiles. Justine's barely _here."_ She'd folded her arms. "It's not a recipe for happy family life, Edward."

Ed had blinked again. "The boys are-"

"Unhappy" Marion had informed him without preamble. "And it'll be far worse if you win this election."

"I-what do-"

"You're not a stupid boy, Edward" Marion had told him with a firm look. "You know you're not giving them what they deserve at the moment."

Ed had swallowed, hard.

"And neither's Justine."

"Justine's got to work-"

"I'm aware." Marion had handed him another plate. "And I'm aware that your father and I must clearly have spent our lives scrounging money and slumped in front of a '70s sitcom, given the amount of attention we lavished on you two."

Ed had felt the words sting, and his mouth open in indignation, remembering the nanny-one of their nannies, there were so many they all tend to run into one-hand on his shoulder, pulling him back from the bannisters. _Come on, Edward, Mummy and Daddy are talking..._

Then he'd heard the words "you two" again and they'd stung more.

"Edward-" and his mother had touched his arm suddenly, which is rare enough to make Ed fall silent. "If you consign something to the back burner, it could be too charred to get it back when you remember it."

Ed had opened his mouth but then Justine had come into the kitchen and he'd turned away, not knowing what to say to either of them.

Now, Ed rolls over and looks at his wife for a moment. Justine's curled on her side, facing away from him. She rarely smiles in her sleep. Ed watches her for a few moments, considers putting an arm around her, then considers whether he wants to.

They've never really been the type of couple that sleep with their arms wrapped around each other, cuddled up. They had done a few times, in the early days when she was pregnant with Daniel, but something about it had always felt a little wrong, a little disjointed, like trying to cram jigsaw pieces where they just wouldn't quite fit, and one or the other had always slid away sooner or later, glad of the excuse to make a cup of tea or fetch the phone. Just glad of the excuse to slide away, really.

He didn't think he'd minded, then.

He rolls onto his back, thoughts drifting back to their excursion the previous day. Perhaps with the conversation with his mother dwelling on his mind, he'd determinedly tried to bring up Daniel and Sam as their main topic of conversation. He'd told himself firmly that that should be easy.

It had been. A little. The boys were fractious, yes. They both worked a lot, yes. It was important that they both worked, yes. The election would be tough for the boys, of course. Justine had found a book on Amazon that might help to explain it to them-good idea. They should try and make time once a week or so to talk to the boys about it-good idea.

They'd had lots of ideas for the boys and every so often, Ed would try to bring up something about the boys-something Daniel had told him or Sam's new favourite food-and he'd be about to start the story, groping for words, when he'd realise he couldn't-that he couldn't find them because he didn't have one.

Or rather, he had snapshots. A half-formed sentence out of Daniel's mouth, a point of the finger from Sam at the TV screen. Snapshots, small films of memory that spool out for a few seconds, and nothing more.

He'd thought about asking Justine for her insights and then had had the uncharitable thought that he might well be better off asking the table leg if it could possibly give him its' impressions of their children.

He'd opened his mouth because surely it was something they should mention, and then stopped. Because Justine has a case and he has an election. Because this Christmas was supposed to be about spending time with the boys, and they both want to think that its' worked.

This train of thought had led Ed to quickly drag his thoughts back to the campaign, to the BBC and the speech on Monday, to needing to keep an eye on Cameron's launch-tomorrow, now, technically, God, tomorrow-to watch Marr on Sunday, to-

He'd said a couple of lines about this to Justine. She'd nodded.

She'd told him a little about her latest case. How it was no-win, no-fee, but they could afford it, and he'd nodded because they could. He'd taken a sip of his drink and noticed that he hadn't even swallowed half of it.

There must be other things they talk about, he'd told himself then, tells himself now.

There are. Of course there are. They discuss the boys, their jobs, politics-

Ed had frowned, pushed his glasses further up. Now, in bed, he frowns, clutches the duvet a little tighter. There's more than that. There's-there's more. There will be-it's just-

He'd been longing to check his phone by halfway through the drinks and had felt an irrational pang of annoyance at Justine that he couldn't. Then, he'd felt awful, because she didn't even know, and-

_Doesn't know what?_ had been his next thought.

They'd both tried hard not to look relieved when it was time to go. Justine had tried to protest when Ed had told her he'd pay and she should just go on ahead without him. He'd tried not to feel relieved when she'd let him.

And then, he'd found himself standing outside the pub, trying to remember exactly why he was feeling relieved to be alone and wondering simultaneously what aspect of his speech he needed to focus on the moment he got home.

He sighs, rolls over and reaches for his phone.

Most of the messages are the same as earlier and his eyes hover on the ones from his team, from Balls, from Marc-

_Happy New Year, from me, L. and the kids._

Ed had stared at his brother's message for a long moment a few hours ago, and then for the first time had nodded gratefully when Stewart had offered him some of the Scotch he'd brought (half of which he'd ended up pouring discreetly into a potted plant.)

Now, he scrolls through the messages a little faster, and then his eyes roll automatically as he finds Cameron's name. There's a grin tugging at his mouth as he opens the message before he can think twice, re-reads Cameron's New Year greetings, which he'd received at half an hour past the chimes of Big Ben, when Justine and Margaret had been struggling to put Sam back to bed while Sam's face had dissolved into those horrible, silent tears that always make Ed feel helpless, and he'd been instructed to sit on the couch and ignore it, to "help him learn."

Learn _what?_

The thought had hit Ed hard, harder than he would have expected and now his hands curl into fists as it hits him again. Anger curls, hot and bright and unexpected in his stomach, and Ed realises he's gripping the phone tightly, his knuckles whitening.

But it's stupid. It_ was_ stupid.

He shouldn't have let Margaret-

And then, stronger than that-He shouldn't have let _Justine-_

He stops. Actually, physically, freezes under the duvet, considering this.

_Teamwork._ He can hear it in Justine's voice, quoting from one of those hundreds of parenting books that always seem to appear when they make a point that somehow it's been decided they agree with, and are carefully discarded when they don't.

_Teamwork. Communication. United front._

But louder than that for all its' silence, is the fact that all he can see is Sam's red, angry, flushed little face, dark eyelashes wet under damp curls, cheeks smeared with silent, crumpling, straining tears.

_Teamwork_ and _united front_ are dying away, but he can see Sam's face easily, no matter how hard he stares at his phone.

He shakes his head and then finds himself staring at Cameron's message again. _Despite our contradictory and occasionally mutually exclusive hopes for 2015, Miliband, Happy New Year._

Ed feels a smile make its' way to his mouth. He reads the message again and then his own reply.

** _Spending time with Boris, again? But I return the sentiment. Happy New Year, Cameron._ **

_Actually, no,_ had been the response. _I am capable of extensive use of loquacious vocabulary myself, Miliband.:)_

** _I thought you agreed to cut down on your emoji usage? And I'm aware._ **

_Do we agree on anything? Also, I may be mistaken, but that sounded like a compliment._

** _You're often mistaken. But maybe it was._ **

_Well. Thank you. Talk about New Year's Resolutions._

** _You're one to talk about promises. And you're welcome._ **

Ed feels himself grin as he looks over the messages, and then bites his lip. He's lying here, grinning his head off into the dark, all over a message from David bloody _Cameron._

It's stupid and-

Ed can't stop grinning.

But looking at his phone just leads to flipping through his pictures and he stops on one of Daniel and Sam crouched under the Christmas tree. They're smiling, Sam's hand tugging at Daniel's sleeve, and it's only then that Ed notices, first, that that's one of the nicest pictures he's seen of his sons in a while; and second, that neither of them are anywhere near-or indeed,_ looking_ anywhere near-him or Justine.

He thinks that it would have looked more natural if they'd used a photo like this on their Christmas card.

A second later, he hates himself for thinking that.

It's only when he closes the photo that he realises he's already made up his mind not to mention that to Justine. Knowing her, she might decide it's a good idea.

The thought makes Ed frown.

As he turns over, eyes drifting to the window, he recalls suddenly Christmas Day, taking a break from peeling the potatoes to check his phone, and grinning at Cameron's Christmas message-_Merry Christmas-been a long time since the last day of gifts for you, hasn't it, Miliband?-_and he'd just been tapping out a reply along the lines of _I'm not sure if that's aimed at my birthday or the current state of my party_-that Marion had remarked "You look happy."

"Hmm?" It had been such a simple remark, so easily dropped or tossed away, that Ed had only looked up when his mother had neglected to reply.

Marion had been standing with her arms folded, watching him closely, and all she'd done was look at him for a long moment, and then Ed had realised he was beaming without even knowing it, that his shoulders had relaxed for what felt like the first time in what felt like a while.

"You look happy" his mother had said again, more softly, and Ed had only been able to nod, feeling oddly wrong-footed by such a simple observation.

But he'd been happy suddenly, and somehow that seems a strange and sad thing.

Perhaps it's merely the direction of his thoughts but suddenly one of those snapshots flickers into life, sharp relief colouring the words, the snapshot becoming a photograph gripped tight by the fingers of his memory.

It had been the day before Margaret and Stewart had arrived from Nottingham before they'd all headed up to Kent, and they'd been at Parliament Hill.

It hadn't been deliberate that they'd ended up there. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision for Ed to take the boys out at all. Justine had been in the study working and Ed had been struck again by that look on Daniel's face on Christmas Eve, and before he'd known what was happening, he'd been leading the boys outside, dragging Daniel's bike and Sam's scooter with them, calling to Justine that they were going out, and her lack of response only made him more determined.

It had only been once they got to Parliament Hill that he'd realised where he was heading, and for some reason, the sight of the swings had made a flush rise to his cheeks, and at the same moment, a confused sort of happiness rise in his chest, that had left him fumbling for a moment, almost dropping his son's hand, a grin hovering at his mouth.

Then, it had transpired that Daniel wanted the stabilisers off.

"But you've never had the stabilisers off" Ed had told him and Daniel had looked up at him and said "I _have_...just not with _you."_

Ed had tried not to wince.

Sam had remained silent, pushing himself along on his scooter, and Ed had found himself awkwardly doing as his elder son commanded, holding the bike for a second and then letting Daniel ride along the path for a few moments before grabbing it again.

It was only a few minutes into this that it had occurred to Ed that technically, he was teaching his son to ride a bike, and yet he felt absolutely none of the pride and excitement that he'd always anticipated thinking about this moment.

Perhaps because it had felt less like he was teaching Daniel than that Daniel was showing him someone else's ways of teaching.

This suspicion was confirmed when he'd asked, struggling to sound enthusiastic, when Daniel had got so good at riding a bike, and Daniel had said _"Zia"_ without looking at him.

Sam had nodded and said "Ice cream" which had led Daniel to explain in a tone far too world-weary for a five-year-old, that Zia "picks us up and brings us to play."

Which hadn't lifted Ed's mood.

It had been during one of these interludes that a hand had tapped him on the shoulder and upon turning round Ed had found himself face-to-face with someone whom he would struggle to decide would make his day better or worse.

"I take it these are yours'?" Richard Desmond had said with a grin, a large dog tugging at the lead grasped firmly in its' owner's hand, and Ed had found his own hand being firmly shaken.

Sam had just dimpled quietly, which seemed to be one of Sam's default positions when being introduced to people, and Richard had seemed more amused by Daniel's half-hearted glance in his direction before he'd pushed off on the now re-stabilised bike.

Ed had ended up sinking onto a bench when Richard had said, with a grin "Now, you might want to prepare yourselves for some of the headlines we've got coming up" and with Sam ambling about his feet, occasionally ambling closer to the dog, hand outstretched to pat, before backing away, apparently losing confidence at the last moment, had found himself debating immigration.

Justine would have said this was just more evidence of how obsessed with work he was, and it occurs to him now, with a sharp jab of annoyance, that she has no right to talk.

Ed has no idea how long it had been before he'd looked up and felt his heart plunge into the depths of his ribs.

Sam was tracing his scooter back and forth on the path. Daniel was nowhere in sight.

_"Shit."_ Ed had almost scrambled up off the bench, his head whipping back and forth as he struggled to catch sight of his son. "Hell-_Daniel-"_

"You said bad word" Sam informed him cheerfully, looking completely unconcerned by his brother's sudden disappearance.

"I know, th-Sam-" His lisp had crawled out at the wrong moment, as well. "Oh God-" He crouches to take Sam's shoulders. "Where's Daniel?"

Sam glances about, then, turning back to Ed, shrugs with a big grin, "I don't know."

Ed swears under his breath, glancing around, Richard now doing the same. "Well, we've got to _find _him-"

"Daniel-" Richard is stepping away now, calling himself, his eyes narrowing through his glasses.

"Daniel!" Ed had shouted his son's name, the sound stinging the back of his throat, even as he knew it was hopeless-if Daniel was near enough to take any notice, he'd be in sight.

He'd grabbed at Sam's sleeve. "Sam, come on-"

"No-"

Ed had still been glancing about frantically, but he'd managed to stare at his son. "What do you mean, _no-"_

"No." Sam had folded his arms firmly, a scowl now creeping across his face in a decidedly Daniel-esque way. "No, I'm staying here."

For a moment, Ed's hands had flexed and he'd thought they'd fasten themselves in Sam's sleeves, fasten there and _drag_ him along-"Sam, come _on-"_

"No-"

Ed had heard himself make a strange, inarticulately frantic sound. "For God's _sake-"_

Richard had been spinning around, hands cupped around his mouth._ "Daniel!"_

Ed's heart had been throwing itself against his ribs so hard that his stomach had twisted, so tightly that for a moment, he thought he was going to vomit. His eyes had been scanning the horizon frantically, and his son wasn't there, he _wasn't_ _there-_

"Oh _Christ-"_

"Right." Richard's hand had been on his arm and his voice was calm, even as Sam had looked from one to the other, confusion crumpling his face. "Right. He won't have gone far. I'll watch Sam-you go and find him-"

Ed had stared at him, torn for a moment, but he's smart enough to have known, even in the panic that was currently engulfing him, seeping over his thoughts, that he had very little option.

"Right. Right. Thank you." He'd patted Richard's arm, absent-mindedly, and almost grabbed Sam's arm. "Sam, you stay with Mr. Desmond, I'll be right back-"

Richard had already been holding his hand out with a grin, lashing the dog's leash around the bench in a careful knot with the other. "Come on, Sam, let's go on the swings-"

Sam had squealed happily and Richard had half-shouted after Ed, "We'll stay near here, in case he comes back-"

Ed had already been running, his feet pounding the path, panic aching in the back of his throat, his heart painful in his chest.

_"Daniel!"_ The sound had been ripped out of him as he reached the end of the path, stared around, and then headed for the trees. _"Daniel!"_

It was icy panic gripping his chest-he couldn't_ see_ him, Daniel was nowhere and _God, _if he'd been paying attention-

He hadn't been paying attention. That was the truth of it. He _hadn't _been-

Daniel had been right, was another thought that stabbed into the back of his mind.

He couldn't see him. The minutes crawled by, too fast and too slow. Ed's heart was rapid enough to hurt. Panic was gripping his stomach and head and chest, and he couldn't breathe through the fingers of it, he couldn't not look about. His eyes were trying to take in everything and everywhere at once, and _I can't see him, I can't _was drowning out everything in his head, and he'd come to a stop, swearing. One hand curled into a fist, clenched into his hair.

_"Daniel!"_ It came out as a yell, fear throwing his heart against his ribs, and for a moment, he thought he was going to vomit.

He'd taken a few more steps, struggling to grasp for any sense of coherent thought-he needed to get back, get Sam to stay with Richard, ring the police-

_The police, oh God, oh God, the police-_

_Oh God, this'll be all over the headlines_ hit him in the chest and then a jolt of something like disgust that that had occurred to-

_Daniel_ jostled in his brain then, louder than anything else.

His eyes had swept the trees and then he'd caught sight of a coat. He'd blinked, convinced he was seeing things out of sheer desperation.

Then the coat had moved and he'd seen the little face poking out of the collar, and the relief had slammed into him so hard his knees had almost gone out from under him, before he even knew it was relief.

_"Daniel!"_

He'd been running towards his son almost before he could realise what he was doing; the last few steps seeming to take an age, his legs shaking under him; his hands fastening into his son's shoulders, his voice ripping itself out of his throat-"What the _hell _were you doing-"

His son's face was staring up at him, blue-grey eyes wide with defiance or shock or both and Ed half-lifted, half-dragged him off his bike into the air, the relief coiling in his stomach into hot, furious anger.

He barely knew what he was shouting, that his hands had knotted in his son's coat, that he was shaking, almost shaking his son, too. All he knew was that Daniel had just stared back at him, and then had shouted something incoherently angry and ragged with tears about _"you talking with the man"_ .

Ed had been too angry to even apologise, half-pulling his son back by the hand, anger slamming his feet hard into the ground, Daniel sniffling at his side.

It had been when he'd reached the playground that he'd stood and watched for a moment, and Ed turns over and shuts his eyes tight but still remembers.

Sam was on a swing, legs kicking in the air, Richard behind him, pushing him. Sam was shrieking with laughter, dark curls flying, his cheeks flushed, and it had hit Ed then, as he stood looking at them, that he couldn't remember the last time Sam had smiled like that for him.

He couldn't remember the last time either of his sons had smiled like that for him.

Now, lying in bed, phone still gripped tightly in his hand, Ed vaguely notes and then notes again, two things; one, how ironic it is that one of the two recent clear memories he has of his children is one Justine doesn't even know about. Two, that it's a memory in which one of his sons is crying, face crumpled and red and furious, and the other is absorbed in someone else, lost in his own laughter, so far away from Ed that he couldn't touch it if he tried.

* * *

David opens his eyes slowly, Sam's arm draped over his chest. He snuggles closer in, fingers trailing over Sam's arm, feeling strands of her hair tickle his fingers.

His eyes fall shut-then, with the vague sense that he's missed something, he opens them again.

A pair of blue eyes are hovering just above his own.

_"Aah!"_ David almost leaps backwards, but lying down, ends up doing a sort of crazed wriggle back up the mattress.

Flo jumps back a little but maintains her happy, wide-eyed look. David slams a hand over his chest, Samantha jerking awake next to him, and wonders quite how many years, exactly, having children can reduce one's lifespan by.

"Sorry, Daddy." Flo dimples up at him in her pyjamas, eyes wide and blue.

Samantha props herself up on one elbow, tucking her hair behind her ears. "No, no, it's all right, sweetheart-"

David could point out that Samantha isn't the one who just woke up to find their daughter's face an inch from his own, lovely as she is.

"Daddy-" Flo's scrambling up onto the bed and David feels Sam jab his arm quickly, frantically, under the duvet. His own fingers fasten into the sheets, very strongly aware firstly, that neither he nor Samantha are wearing anything, and secondly, that this is one memory of her parents he would prefer his daughter not to carry with her into her twilight years.

"Flo, darling-" David catches Flo's shoulder carefully, gently holding her back as she scrambles up the duvet. He catches her as she squirms happily and then lifts her gently, kisses her hair. "Flo, could you be a very big girl and go and get me your Harry Potter book?"

Flo's eyes light up. "Yes, Daddy, yes-"

"Because we could have a read, if you want, and a cuddle-"

_"Yes, yes, yes-"_Flo's already scrambling down off the bed, charging for the door. David barely waits until she's reached the landing before he's diving for his boxers, scrabbling under the duvet and dragging them back on with what he likes to imagine is rather impressive speed.

"Sam-" he starts, but she's already grinning at him, darting for the door and pulling on her robe.

"Lucky she didn't walk in last night" she whispers into David's ear, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and he grins back at her, remembering her fingers pushing his boxers down last night, as she shushed kisses into his neck.

David gives her a playful tap as he pulls his shirt over his head, while Sam grabs her nightie and Flo reappears in the doorway, accompanied by Elwen.

"Here, Daddy-"

"Hi, Dad-" Elwen scrambles onto the bed, nestles under his father's arm. "Can we play football later?"

"I think we might be able to make some time, yes-"

David finds himself once again gasping as both Elwen and Flo buffet the breath out of him. "If I'm still alive by breakfast time-"

"You're not _that_ old, Dad" Elwen says, grinning as he carefully moves Flo over, whilst his little sister crawls across the duvet, before wriggling under, pressing herself into David's chest. David kisses her head fondly and cuddles Elwen for a moment, while his son squeezes his shoulder affectionately, before saying with wide, overly sincere eyes, "You probably won't die _yet."_

"Oi." David ruffles his son's hair and Elwen grins, grabbing his hand to pull his father into an arm-wrestle. "See, Dad, Dad-you're _terrible_ at this-"

"I am _not_ terrible at this-your Uncle_ George_ is terrible at this-"

Flo giggles, pushing her hands into her mouth, and then tugs at her father's sleeve. "Daddy, Daddy, read-"

"All right, Daddy, Daddy will _read-"_ David lets Flo nestle her head against his chest and Elwen huddles closer, tucking his legs under the duvet.

Sam appears when they're halfway down the page, now clad in her nightie, and David gives her a quick smile over the book, remembering the night before when she'd stood in front of him in that nightie and he'd found himself completely unable to catch his breath, even as she took his hand with a grin and had slid it slowly under her nightie and between her legs.

He quickly looks back at the book, taking a grip of his thoughts, but not before he catches sight of the small, answering smile hovering at Samantha's mouth.

They're another half a page in, with Sam scrambling onto the bed next to them, pressing a kiss into Elwen's hair, when there's a small noise from the doorway and David looks up, feeling a smile pull at his mouth at the sight of their eldest daughter.

"Morning, Nance-" Sam tilts her head. "You coming to join us, darling?"

Nancy hovers, and for a moment, David is gripped by a strange fear she'll say no.

But then she nods, heads over to the bed and climbs in next to Sam, who immediately tucks the duvet round her and kisses her head. Nancy's hand reaches round Samantha's shoulders to pat David's head.

They get through a couple of chapters like that and then Sam takes over, while David takes up the task of fetching tea and milk.

It's always better when they get up to Witney, he decides, shivering a little at the bite of the cold through the flagstones as he waits for the kettle to boil. It seems to have a good effect, he reflects, gazing out of the window at the countryside spread out around them. Especially on the children. He hasn't seen Nancy smile like that for a long time and he makes a mental note to take her out for a milkshake soon, or a hot chocolate. Though she's seemed to cheer up a little over Christmas, from when he tucked her into bed as they stumbled into Chequers late on Christmas Eve, with a kiss on the head for each of them, to when she curled up between him and Sam on Christmas morning, with Elwen wrestling her and Florence squealing as she tugged open her stocking.

Still, they haven't gone out, just them, for a while and it's only going to get busier with the election coming up.

They can seem more trouble than they're bloody worth, elections. The thought that this might not be the last one he has to fight is rather exhausting in itself.

This sticks in his mind as he carries the tray upstairs, and he has to remind himself as he pushes open the door that this isn't the time to be thinking about work. There are many times to be thinking about work but this isn't one of them.

And there's going to be far fewer of these times in the months ahead.

David shakes these thoughts away firmly and pushes the door open with his foot.

"And Daddy's going to be-nearly breaking everything-" Sam says optimistically, as she looks up from the book, using it as a makeshift microphone. "And he's cutting the corner, cutting the corner, tight victory this could be-"

David places the tray successfully on the ottoman at the end of the bed.

"And he _puts it in the back of the net-"_ Elwen roars, then throws himself face down into the pillows, shaking the bed and almost knocking the entire tray to the floor.

Flo is wriggling and squealing and Nancy rolls her eyes, telling her brother "You sound like Luke Dunphy, for pity's sake-"

"If I'm Luke, though, you're Haley-_Haley-"_

"I'm not _Haley-"_

"You're not _Alex-"_

David is just watching them with a grin-just taking them in, the three of them, locked in their laughter, quarrels sliding into each other, when Sam pats the bed next to her. The children scramble down to seize their drinks, and David beams when Nancy wriggles back so she's leaning against him.

Sam passes him his mug before Flo nestles herself in her mother's lap and Elwen sprawls across both of them. David takes a moment to stare at them, revelling in the sight of them, and it's difficult to only allow himself a few moments before he lifts the book, his heart aching with them all.

"Right. Now, I believe Harry had just come across Justin, if I remember rightly-"

* * *

"When Nancy writes her book-" Flo is draping herself against David, her arms winding around his neck. "Is she-is she going to put _me _in her book?"

"Well, you can ask her" David tells his younger daughter, with a kiss to her head. "She's right here."

"You might be." Nancy nestles against David's other side, while Sam plays with Elwen's hair, gently. "You and Frozen-"

"Yes, but _Frozen_-_everyone'll _want to know about _Frozen-"_ Flo's hands are curled into fists in David's shirt, when his mobile rings.

Sam rolls her eyes. David quickly runs through the options in his head and decides that since this call is to his mobile and isn't accompanied by frantic aides running into the room, that it's unlikely to be a national emergency.

"Right-" he says, reaching for his phone. "Everyone want to make their bet?"

He nods at Elwen, who nudges Flo upright and then says "Go and see Chelsea next season, Uncle George telling you he needs your help because the banks have broken."

"Optimistic." David nods at Sam. "Darling?"

"Meal out, your mum reminding you just how much you had to drink last night."

"Defamatory but likely. Nancy?"

"Tickets to _Swan Lake_ when it's next here, Mr. Crosby asking something about the election."

"Very likely. Flo?"

Flo beams up at him. "Custard tart later, and Uncle Nick and Mr Ed Miliband telling you to cancel the 'lection."

"Another optimistic one. Well, let's see." David lifts his phone and, holding a finger aloft, answers. "Hope you know there might be a custard tart at stake" he says amiably to whoever it is on the other end of the phone.

There's a silence and then a nasal voice-but quite a different nasal voice from the one David's used to-says "Well, that sounds rather a vital bargaining tool."

David sits up, with a raised eyebrow. "I believe you may have just cost my daughter a custard tart, Mr. Miliband."

Flo frowns. "I said Mr. Ed-"

David shakes his head and it's Sam who nods. "Ah."

"That sounds rather interesting" says David Miliband and David frowns at the little jolt of strangeness that sends through him. The voice is similar to _his_ Miliband's-a little nasal, a little similarity in the pronunciation-but slightly less heavy and with no hint of the lisp that can make David grin whenever he hears it. It's strange, to hear a voice that has the edge of familiarity, but is so undeniably different.

It's then that it occurs to David that he's just thought of Ed as _his _Miliband.

And that he's thought of Ed Miliband, in any way, as _his._

He doesn't have much time to consider this, though, with_ this_ Miliband already speaking again. "Thought I'd wish you a Happy New Year, Prime Minister."

"Oh. Well-" David supposes he's received polite greetings from the elder Miliband before, but he can't recall any recently, and it seems a rather unexpected move.

"Thank you very much" he offers, pulling a confused face at the children, who are all gathered around him with varying degrees of interest. "I'm wishing you the same."

"Thought I'd ring before we went to bed, as you're a few hours-"

"Of course, you're on New York time-"

"Yes, we've been in Times Square-"

"Ah, did Jacob and Isaac have fun?"

At this, Nancy and Elwen's faces brighten a little with recognition at the names-David recalls the children playing together a few times, back when he was Leader of the Opposition and David Miliband was the Foreign Secretary whom they were keeping a worriedly close eye on.

What had he thought of Ed then, he wonders suddenly but Miliband's speaking again.

"The boys, yeah-thought it was terrific. Nancy, Elwen and Florence all doing well?"

"They're fantastic." He arches an eyebrow at the three faces in front of him, all of whom seem to have heard their own names. "Louise?"

"She's wonderful. A lot of work with her-"

"Violin, I remember-"

"Yes, she's doing very well-New York's fantastic for music. And Sam?"

"Brilliant-Smythsons is going fantastically-"

"Oh, yes, yes of course-"

A short silence falls and then David says, with the grin that comes naturally now, "Anyway, how's New York treating you?"

"Oh, wonderful. I mean, the job's time-consuming, but you'd know more about that than me-"

"Very true."

The words hover for a moment and David takes a second to consider the possibility-the slightly bizarre possibility, it seems now-that this could once have been the Miliband he was running against.

"Anyway, I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year, Prime Minister."

"Well, it's much appreciated-"

"I suppose your Leader of the Opposition already has?"

The words make David simultaneously bite his lip, fighting back a bizarre urge to laugh and at the same time, feel a strange wriggle of warmth in his chest at hearing Ed once again termed _his._

"He told you?" is all he says, however, grinning as Nancy draws a hand across her throat and pretends to collapse backwards across the bed.

"I heard he'd been spending some time with you" the elder Miliband tells him. "So I presumed."

"Ah." David barely resists the urge to ask if the Miliband brothers have actually spoken to each other over the Christmas period. Not that it should bother him-it might be a shame for them, but as George-and now Lynton-repeatedly point out, the fact is, it's a rather effective stick that they can batter Labour with repeatedly.

"No-one's ever going to forget that" George said jubilantly once, while Michael nodded, after a headline about the progress of David Miliband's new career. "No matter what he does, no-one's ever going to forget that he's the guy who shafted his brother."

_And we can't afford to let anyone forget it_, David can almost hear Lynton telling him.

"Yes, _ah"_ says the elder Miliband, in such a way that David can't tell whether he's smiling or not. "So-I thought it would only be polite that you got your best wishes from both."

David smiles, grips the phone a little tighter. "Primogeniture has to take priority, I suppose" he says, keeping his voice deliberately light. It's strange, that there was a time when he would probably have said he knew David Miliband better than he knew Ed-though he supposes that he knew them in different ways, really.

"My brother Alex would say the same" he laughs.

He'd always been friendly with David Miliband, back in the days when he was almost entirely focused on how to get into power, into government, into a place where they could make a real change. Even though Miliband had been Foreign Secretary in a crumbling government led by _Brown _of all people, they could get on, laugh together. It helped, perhaps, that he'd known the elder Miliband had been a breath away from shoving Brown out of power, until his little brother-and _that's _how he'd thought of Ed Miliband back then, he remembers now, as Miliband's little brother-and some of his Brownite chums had talked him out of it-

"I expect so." There's a laugh in the voice and David treads carefully as the other David says to him "You might never know how annoying it can be."

_He's never nicked my career, no._

(Has Ed nicked his brother's career?)

(Though, it doesn't really matter-that's what they'll say, anyway.)

"Well, I just called to wish you well-" Another laugh. "Maybe not so much, politically-"

"No, I imagine you wouldn't be-" A jab of something like glee, prickling into life at the thought of the election in the next few months, at the thought, once again, of which brother he'll be facing. "I'm sure you'll understand if I return the sentiment to your brother."

Nancy bursts out laughing and Sam smacks him in the shoulder. Elwen and Flo both look merely confused, while Nancy rolls over, stuffing the duvet in her mouth to muffle her laughter.

"Understandable, yes" the elder Miliband says, and David has to bite his lip to prevent himself reminding him he's not a Roald Dahl villain, there's no need to talk like one-

He'd have said it to Ed, he realises vaguely, but winding David up isn't quite the same.

After they've exchanged goodbyes and David's checked to make sure he has actually ended the call, he puts the phone down and Nancy rolls over, giving full vent to her laughter.

"You two are horrible" Sam says, although there's a smile creeping out at her own mouth.

David shakes his head, hugging his daughter tightly. Nancy nestles into him, still helpless with laughter.

At the sight of Elwen and Flo's confused looks, David struggles for breath, puts up a hand to explain.

Nancy beats him to it, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright in a way that's been missing lately. "Mr. Ed Miliband has a brother" she says, rather breathlessly. "That's who Dad was speaking to. And he hates him."

_"Nancy-"_ Sam gives her a reproving look but Elwen's already asking "Why does he hate him, though?"

"Because Mr. Ed Miliband beat his brother to be Labour leader." Nancy turns to Flo. "Leader of the Red Team" she says, by way of explanation.

"Oh." Flo's brow creases, furrows, her eyes narrowing as she puzzles her way through it. "So...Sam's daddy beat....beat..." Her eyes fly wide as she lands on the answer. "Sam's _UNCLE!"_ she shrieks in excitement, bouncing up and down in glee.

"Yes." David pulls her close, gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Sam's daddy beat Sam's uncle. And Sam's uncle...isn't very happy."

"He hates him" Nancy reiterates, apparently keen to get this side of the story across.

"That's so awkward" mutters Elwen-his new favourite word-with a grin.

"Well, _duh-"_

"Like, like, imagine that family Christmas dinner-" Elwen's sniggering now too, and Flo descends into shrieks of giggles, even though David doubts she fully grasps the conversation.

"It must be so awkward-"

"Yeah, yeah, like-" Elwen's sitting up now, propping himself up on one elbow. "Imagine like, _please pass the sprouts and don't throw them at me-I can get cranberry sauce in your eye from here-"_

Flo almost screams with laughter. Nancy's draped, giggling, over her sister's shoulder. "They probably don't even _have _dinner together-"

"Like, one of them has to sit in another _room-"_

"Now, now-" Sam touches Elwen warningly on the shoulder, even as Flo clings onto her brother's sleeve.

"No." David chucks Elwen under the chin. "One of them has to be in another country. Mr. Ed Miliband's brother moved to America-"

He doesn't get through any more before Elwen bursts out laughing. Flo's giggling and Nancy's leaning against him, shaking with laughter, while Sam says "All right, that's enough-"

David shakes his head, soaking in the sound of his childrens' laughter a little more than he should. He's got to launch the campaign tomorrow and then when he gets back to Downing Street, there's a meeting on Saturday, and then he's got to answer Marr's questions on Sunday-

It's starting. And he might as well take whatever chances he can to laugh with his children-

Even if it is at the expense of his opponent.

(Perhaps _especially _if it's at the expense of his-)

"Right-" he says, clearing his throat. ""Right, Florence-" pulling his youngest daughter round so she's sitting on his knee, arms wound around his neck-"I believe I said that you only got a custard tart if your guess was right?"

Florence's mouth puckers ominously.

David beams at her. "I may be reneging on that promise." He presses a kiss to her forehead, and says, with a glance at the other two, "For all of us-"

"What does rena-rena-" Florence mouths as Nancy punches the air and Elwen grins, following his sister's example.

"Go back on." David presses another kiss to Flo's head, and then gives a wink at Sam, who's doing the same with Nancy. "Though, for God's sake, don't tell Mr. Ed Miliband I said that!"

_He hears the name vaguely, but it only hovers for a moment, before the air is split with George's cheer. A fist is thrown into the air and then the cheers spread, as if everyone is only just realising that they're allowed to make a noise, that it's all right, they're going to be all right, because it's-_

_"It's him! It's the younger one!" George grabs David's sleeve, points at the screen as if David's blind. "Bloody Mili Minor!"_

_"That what we're calling him?" David asks lightly, his heart slamming against his chest, relief trembling in his limbs as he watches the younger Miliband stand up, his brother already heading towards him, arms out, with a smile on his face David would bet has been rehearsed in the mirror. "Mili minor?"_

_"It's what they all call him" Ed tells him from his chair, where he's already got a phone pressed to his ear. "Everyone, everyone calls him that-David was Mili major-"_

_"Miliband Major-" Michael reminds him and George shakes his head._

_"Who cares? We're home free with him."_

_"Don't get too cocky" David warns him, but his heart is already lighter, a grin swelling in his chest as he watches the awkward embrace between the two brothers on-screen. He squints at the younger Miliband, who's patting his brother on the back, eyes darting, as if he doesn't know quite what to do with his hands._

_He's seen that look before, he thinks, a few times-he remembers the younger Miliband, from when he was Energy Secretary, a few times they'd had to collaborate on projects, back when Steve was touting the push for the green vote, and they'd shaken hands, talked a little, and something about the way Miliband's little brother's eyes had glimmered when he got excited about something, the blur of movement his hands became, the way his jaw set whenever David muttered something about Brown,and the way his words would snap out a little harder and faster had spiked something in David's chest, made him say things a little more teasingly, a little more sharply, just to get that feeling of something like glee, at watching Miliband's little brother's brow knit, his eyes narrow. Something about that look had left him with a mischievous squirming in his chest, and at the same time, a sort of wondering about how someone could believe in something so painfully. Miliband minor's big eyes, the way he repeated things sometimes, his words rushing together when he hit a topic he was excited about, all screamed painful earnestness, and David had watched it, slightly amused but something else, too, that he couldn't quite identify._

_But now, he glances at Steve, who's sat back in his chair, bare feet tucked up underneath him. He meets David's eyes, then George's, then grins. "You can probably get the champagne out" he remarks. "Just make sure you can keep it together when you have to speak to Miliband."_

_George almost pumps his fist into the air. "Knew we made the right decision storing the champagne-"_

_David glances at the screen where Miliband Minor is taking his first steps behind a podium. He looks small and fragile there, somewhere where his brother would have commanded and David feels a stab of something like triumph, and knows something, instinctively, lodged under his ribs-he'd have had to fear David Miliband, Miliband Major._

_Miliband Minor, Miliband's little brother-_

_The glass that's pressed into his hand is smooth and the champagne is cool and sweet and bubbles in his mouth, making him laugh, as they watch the younger Miliband talk, the drink fizzing in the back of his throat and up into his skull, and fizzing through there too, cool and sweet and certain as the knowledge he's suddenly very sure of-he doesn't have to fear Ed Miliband._

* * *

Ed takes a long look at the poster. Tom is standing to his right, eyes narrowed. Greg's studying the poster assiduously. Bob's watching Ed. Lucy stands to the left, pen tapping nervously at her knuckles.

"It's good" Ed finally manages.

And it is good-it's very good if that's the sort of thing they're going for. Cameron's face stares out at them from a poster that's been blown up so that in this version, Cameron's face is bigger than Ed's whole body. Underneath it, reads the essential message: _The NHS as you know it cannot take five more years of David Cameron._

He squints at the text across the picture: _The Conservatives want to take the NHS back to the 1930s, when there was no NHS._

"See-" Greg taps the poster thoughtfully with his pen. "That's the bit I'm worried about."

Tom snorts. "What, Cameron's face? It might get punched, I suppose-"

Ed has to force himself to laugh. They've airbrushed the poster, he realises suddenly; taken out all of the wrinkles and creases, darkened Cameron's hair. He wonders briefly if it's supposed to fit the image of Cameron as the slick, PR, image-obsessed-

Of course, the real Cameron has those lines and creases and bags under his eyes and those dimples and Ed has to admit, peering at this airbrushed version-

He likes how the real Cameron looks better. More-

Real, but not just _real-_

There's something there that Ed just _likes,_ in the creases and dents and dimples, in those smiles that-

Ed catches himself and blinks.

Why on _earth _was he thinking about-

He shakes his head. This picture's better. It's colder, smoother, more clinical. It works.

It's not like the real Cameron, but then his promises aren't like the real Cameron either, so what difference does it make?

This thought makes Ed frown, but then his brain catches onto the word _accurate _and he tunes back in to hear an argument between the others.

"We can't prove they're taking spending levels back to the 1930s" Greg's saying, furiously. "We can't prove that-they could cite it as inaccuracy, use it to get us on the economy again-"

"Oh, for Christ's sake-it's a _simile-"_

"You mean a metaphor" Bob supplies. "And it's not even that."

"Oh, for God's sake, we're taking a bit of licence, so what-"

"Licence can work" Lucy interjects, her eyes widening a little, the way they always do when she's trying to convince. "Licence can get the message across-"

"But we can't _afford _to take fucking licence-" Greg lowers his voice, almost hissing the words. "God, the Tories already have a field day saying we're crap on the economy-Christ, why don't we just hand them a loaded gun-"

"Because they'd kill more foxes?"

All four of them slowly turn to look at him. Ed looks back.

Finally, Tom holds up a hand. "Ed, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but don't fucking try to fucking joke, OK?"

Ed feels the heat creep into his cheeks immediately, but Tom is already staring at the other three, stretched out in his chair. "It's not meant to be literal. Get Alastair on the phone, he'll say the same-"

"We don't want to be bothering Alastair all the time-"

"And they could_ imply_ it's literal-"

"And that won't bloody matter because no ordinary person's going to have a fucking clue, they're just going to see the poster-"

Ed swallows, as the others turn to look at him. It takes him a moment to realise that they're waiting for him to make the decision.

Ed clears his throat. "Um-" He takes another look at the poster, but his eyes hover on Cameron's face.

It's just....different.

It's colder and smoother than the real Cameron and a few months ago, Ed would have been a lot more comfortable with that.

"What do you think?" he says to Bob, because it lets him look away from the photo of Cameron.

Bob shrugs. "I think it could go either way" he says, examining the poster himself. "But it's your call."

Ed takes in the poster again. His eyes linger on the words.

They're exaggerating. But it's a campaign.

"What you need to remember" says Greg, more quietly now. "Is that Cameron's launching his campaign today. This'll go out today or in the next few days." He takes a step closer to Ed. "What you need to decide is if the pay-off is worth it. Whatever criticism you get. The NHS is a big attack line."

Ed bites his lip. They need the NHS-he remembers his own words a few weeks ago to Robinson, how they _need _to use the NHS to show the difference between their parties, utilize it or something like that-

This is an opportunity.

And yet it could be seen as-

But the Tories _will _damage the NHS.

And Cameron would do this-

_(to him)_

Cameron would do this.

Ed blinks.

Cameron would do this.

He looks at the poster one more time.

And voters_ are_ concerned about the NHS.

He meets Greg's eyes and nods. "Run it."

* * *

It's easier than it should be.

Smile, beam, look around. Mention the Tour de France, break the ice a little, like Clare suggested.

He launches into a story about the time he took Elwen to the Tour de France, and it's easy to tell it, because he can still remember Elwen's little face at his side, his eyes bright and dancing, freckles sprinkled across his cheeks, the same way David's had been at that age.

"And I was with my young son, who's only eight-" He looks around, falling into it, the ease of it. "And we walked round Harrogate, and I'm pleased to report that there were lots of cheers and-" He pumps a fist. "Go for it-you know, "Come on, Dave, do your best", all the rest of it-"

_Makes you look self-deprecating,_ Craig had said, advising him to wing it at that bit. _Less polished. Nice anecdote._

He looks round. "And then, I have to admit, there were one or two-one or two jeers from a small part of the crowd-"

It hadn't bothered him-he's used to it by now, more used to it than he'd ever thought he'd be. But he'd looked straight at Elwen, who had been staring around, looking for the source of the noise, brow furrowed, and a wave of anger had spiked sharply in his chest, because it was one thing to shout at him, but his son was there, didn't any of them have fucking kids-

"And I looked at my son and said, "Elwen, I'm sorry, sometimes that happens in my job-""

Elwen had looked up at him, little brow furrowed, as David had stared back, hoping his son would understand somehow, would understand that it was just political. That it almost wasn't personal, in a way.

And then Elwen's brow had cleared and David feels a smile creep out at his mouth, remembering it.

"And he said, "No, no, no, don't worry, Dad-""

Elwen's little face brightening, his blue eyes sparkling with the words that would send David laughing for ten minutes, and Elwen wouldn't even quite understand why-

""That'll be the French!""

The laughter breaks out around him.

The poster hangs behind him, the poster that Lynton's approved of and Craig's approved of and just about everybody he can think of's approved. The poster, that's one of the main arguments.

_Let's Stay On The Road To A Stronger Economy._

_Hammer it home._

He looks out at Halifax and he doesn't think about the meeting with Lynton tomorrow or the flight he's got to Cornwall later or the interview with the Mail he's got to conduct en route.

He can hear his own voice, saying the things he's rehearsed, but not rehearsed too much, but not rehearsed too little-"To mark the start of an election year-"

_We're firing the starting gun._

"And it is an absolutely _vital _election for our country-"

_We're the ones who fixed the deficit._

"I think it is the most important election-"

_They're the ones who wrecked it._

"In a _generation."_

_They're the ones who wrecked it. They're the ones who wrecked it._

And he hammers it through the speech, the speech worked on with Craig and Clare over the phone, the speech they've gone over and over in the car. The speech that shows who succeeded, and who didn't.

Us, not Them, for the first.

Them, not Us, for the second.

He fires out the statistics for Yorkshire. _119,000 more people in work. 61 000 fewer people unemployed. A quarter of a million apprentices trained._

And then wider, because _make them see. We did it. Not Them._

_1.75 million jobs created._

_A thousand jobs for every day we've been in office._

"We've been on a journey-"

_Emphasise it, you've got to stick with us, because they'd wreck it-_

They'd wreck it.

_Miliband_ would wreck it.

"And it's important that we stay on this journey."

More statistics. _Two million more private sector jobs. 1.75 million more people in work._

_The unemployment thing's brilliant _Lynton had barked out over the phone. _Fucking put that in. You always hammer Miliband on it in PMQs. Don't let anyone forget the unemployment._

_Make it human, _Clare had said. _It's got to be human._

"That is 1.75 million more people taking home a pay packet, able to deliver security for their family-"

_Cut taxes for 26 million, 3 million out of income tax, 2 million apprentices trained, a million more children in good or outstanding schools._

_We're making things better, hammer it home._

"So, at every stage of people's lives, we are trying to help." He looks round at the crowd assembled in front of him, the down-to-earth, Yorkshire-blunt, mostly Labour-voting crowd and remembers Lynton's words._ We're the ones who fixed it. That's what could win us the whole thing._

"Whether it's creating those jobs, whether it's cutting those taxes, whether it's building those homes that we need-or whether it's providing good school places for our children."

_Make it clear. Make it clear._

"What is absolutely crucial is that we _win _this forthcoming election-"

_Status quo. Competence vs chaos._

"Because it's _so important _that we stay on the road to a stronger economy."

He goes on, outlining all the things they've done, the things they can still do:

"I say we should stay on the road to a stronger economy _not just_ because the alternatives are so disastrous-"

He looks round, lets them remember, lets them remember, what Labour did-

"Though frankly, they _are_ disastrous-"

He lets it sink in, lets it linger, even as he goes on. _Remember what Labour did. Remember what they did. Don't let them back in. Don't let them back in._

It's at the back of his mind the whole speech, and when it comes to it, he looks out at the crowd, fixes Balls' whining little article that morning in the Guardian firmly in the forefront of his thoughts and says the words loudly and clearly:

"There is another road people can choose. But it's about higher spending. Higher borrowing. Higher debt. And more burdens on future generations."

He lets his voice get louder. "It's about higher taxes, higher taxes that will _destroy _jobs and livelihoods in our country. And it's a future that I believe-"

_Competence vs. chaos._

"Will be about insecurity and potential economic chaos-"

_Make them remember it._

"Instead of the security we offer."

He looks out at them, meets some of their eyes. _"That_ is the other road."

The applause breaks out at the end. And he's done it. He's done it. The first one.

Just the first one.

But he's done it.

The gun's fired. It's started.

* * *

"Excuse me-urgent announcement-"

For a moment, David truly thinks Lynton's about to die.

Lynton's eyes bulge behind his glasses. When George doesn't speak for another moment, Lynton almost leaps out of his chair. His knuckles whiten on the table. _"What?"_

George waits another moment, eyes flickering between all of them, before a smile creeps to his mouth. "I was just going to ask if we've all got our air raid sirens ready-since we're apparently all going back to the 1930s-"

There's a moment of silence before Lynton almost collapses over the table.

"Don't you _ever _do that again-" He nearly kicks the cardboard box at his side, tugging at his collar.

David bursts out laughing. "Jesus, George-"

George is laughing already, his dark eyes glinting. "Just thought we could do with something to break the tension-"

David pats George on the back. "Don't worry" he says. "I'm too busy being flattered by the picture."

"Yeah, it was pretty altered." George winks. "Which explains why it flattered you."

David demonstrates Prime Ministerial authority by kicking him.

"If we could take things fucking seriously-"

George smacks the back of his own hand with a grin. David nudges him in the ribs.

Lynton glares at them both, until they sit up and David inclines his head, gesturing for Lynton to go on.

"Right. The launch was brilliant, yesterday." Lynton claps his hands together. "We got the message out and we can stick to it. One message-they broke the economy, we fixed it. That's it."

George furrows his brow. "Let me just write that down-" Off Lynton's look, he subsides.

"Now, David's on Marr tomorrow-"

"I'll be gripped" mutters George. David is strongly tempted to kick him again.

Lynton glowers at George. "So you're prepared?"

"After Maya saying I should put my job in a wedding dress yesterday-" Craig flashes David a quick grin-Joanna will have had a field day with that. "Yes. We got a good deal done over the phone, during travelling. He's prepped."

"Well. Make sure you go over it again, later. Might be a kangaroo in it for you this time."

David raises an eyebrow. Lynton gives the cardboard box at his side a quick shake.

David and George peer over the table simultaneously, and David sees his Chancellor's eyes widen. Staring back up at them are at least a hundred toy koalas and kangaroos, all tangled comfortably together.

Lynton shrugs. "Went back to Australia over Christmas." He extracts a kangaroo from the box, pats its' head affectionately, and tucks it into the chair next to him.

George arches an eyebrow. "So, I somehow missed the story of the single-handed shattering of the economy of the Australian soft-toy industry."

Lynton raises an eyebrow. "You're steadily reducing your chances of getting one."

George raises a finger to his own lips and bats his eyelashes. "I'll be good."

"Right." Lynton claps his hands together. "We need to talk about seats."

George gives David a grin and David has the strange glimmer of a feeling that Christmas might as well not have happened at all.

* * *

"So.." Ameet says some time later, when Lynton seems to have temporarily talked himself into silence. "Reckon Miliband was behind that picture?"

David shrugs. "Almost definitely, since it's his party-"

Ameet and George exchange a look, Ameet's eye flickering closed in a quick wink. "I meant the flattering aspect."

For some reason, David can't quite meet his eyes. He swallows, carefully modulates his tone. "I doubt it" he says, strongly aware of George's grin. "If Miliband had been personally involved in the poster design, I might have been given-I don't know-" He tugs the poster closer, examines his own face once again. "A couple of horns-the number 666-"

"Maybe a tail" Grant suggests, from the corner. "I think you could do with a tail."

"I'll suggest that to Flo." David pulls the piece of paper closer. "She made short work with her drawing in those Miliband policy books."

"Flo our new campaign artist?" suggests Stephen quietly, with a smile. David feels a pang of fondness.

"If you want us all dressed up as Elsa, singing _Let It Go_, then I'm sure it could be arranged-"

George frowns. "That's an intriguing image-"

"What would you suggest, Stephen?" David asks, with a grin."Cartoon of me doing the Nazi salute, that sort of thing?"

"I should think they'll save that for Farage, Prime Minister."

"What'll be saved for Farage?" This from Adam, who's just walked in with George. David's George is already upright, patting their arms and George gives David a quick, one-armed hug as he gets up from his chair.

"What's that?" Adam asks, peering over David's shoulder. "Ah, of course-I forgot to bring my evacuee box-"

"How was Christmas?"

"Not long enough." This George, too, casts an amused eye over the poster. "Yours'?"

"Too long" David's George replies. "Frances would say the same-and Libbie, despite pestering me for ruddy Taylor Swift tickets-"

"Have they scribbled Dave into a church mural, yet?" Grant asks, grinning at the poster. "Maybe have George crouching off to the side with a pitchfork-"

George opens his mouth, then looks thoughtful. "I might see if I can commission that, actually. Could look good on our wall."

"We were discussing whether or not Dave should have a tail" Grant tells the other George happily.

"A _tail?"_

"On the poster."

"Oh." The other George grins, and Ameet looks thoughtful. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if-"

"I bet Miliband would like Dave with a tail" remarks George, with a grin.

Grant whistles. David rolls his eyes. "Doubtful" he remarks, with a nudge to his George's ribs. "That would steal Labour's limelight-their USP is rather their terrible campaigning skills-"

George snorts. David wonders why the tail remark has left a strangely pleasant shiver running up his spine.

"Fascinating though this discussion undoubtedly is-" Lynton remarks, leaning back in his chair. "It's not going to help us get more Lib Dem seats, is it?"

David bites his lip, sending a grin at the others as they all take their seats around the table.

Lynton gives Adam a nod. "I called these three in, because we need to take a quick look at the map. We're not doing much with it today, but we need to work out where we're going to bring the majority in from-"

"And the Yellows need the chop" remarks the other George, causing David's George to grin.

David frowns, but Lynton's already speaking. "Now-" He points directly at David's George. "Heard about that infrastructure shit you pulled with Clegg."

George sighs and holds out his hand for another smack.

"Hey, let me fucking finish." Lynton holds up a hand. "Good work. Exactly what we needed. I'd have given you another koala, but time was short."

George shrugs, with a grin, apparently coping rather well with the loss of the koala.

"But that's what we need." Lynton looks round at them all. "We're attacking Labour on the economy 24/7. But those target seats aren't going to be enough. We need to hit the Lib Dems. We need to hit them hard. And we need to leave Clegg as weak as possible."

David blinks. George, next to him, tenses a little.

Lynton's gaze finds David's unerringly. "We're aiming" he says, not asks. "For a majority."

"Yes."

"This is how we _get _a majority." Lynton's finger stabs down into the map, once, hard.

"But we have to be realistic." David keeps his voice careful, but he leans forward a little. "There's a chance we might need a coalition."

"In that case, Clegg might be necessary" Grant points out.

"But he'd need some MPs" says Craig. "Unless we went into coalition with multiple parties."

Stephen's chewing his lip. "That's pretty unprecedented, from what I remember-"

"We need-" Lynton looks round at them all. "A majority. To _get _a majority, there are a few risks we're going to have to take."

He stabs the map again with his finger. _"That's_ where we win. _That's _where the majority comes from."

There's a moment of silence. David glances round at all of them. Craig's watching him. His George is studying the map, eyes narrowed. The other George is muttering something to Adam, who's nodding with a sharp glance at David. Ameet is looking at all of them, clearly anticipating instruction. Stephen is taking in the map thoughtfully. Dan's leant back in his chair, watching the room at large. And Lynton's looking at David.

It's George who breaks the silence, finally. "How many would we be going for?"

Lynton doesn't blink. "All of them."

There's a much, much longer silence.

Then Craig clears his throat. "Ah. Are-are you serious?"

Lynton's head snaps round. "Do I look like I am fucking joking right now?"

Craig watches as Lynton clutches the kangaroo tighter, pulling it into his lap and stroking its' head.

"You might want to plead the Fifth" mutters George.

Before Lynton's wrath can descend on him, however, Adam chips in. "Jim mentioned something similar" he says, with a glance at the other George for support. "That we'd have to target that number of seats, I mean."

Lynton nods triumphantly. David's George looks round. "Messina?"

"Yeah. I can get him to call, if you want-"

"We'd have to schedule carefully" says Ameet, with a glance at Grant, who nods. "Our campaign teams would have to avoid running into each other-"

"George would have helped yesterday" Grant points out, with a glance at Lynton. "With that campaigning in Twickenham."

"Cable's seat, isn't it?" David glances at George. "When did you do that?"

George grins. "Twitter."

David rubs his arm. George grins at him, then widens his eyes at Lynton." Worthy of a koala?"

A koala promptly comes flying across the table. George catches it, and pats its' head affectionately.

"Though this could work to our advantage, if we _did_ need a coalition" Craig says suddenly, eyes narrowed now. "It's always the Lib Dems who've been seen as traitors for the coalition, not us."

"But that's the thing" David says, unable to simply listen to the arguments any longer. "There's a chance-and I _know _we're going for a majority, but the fact is, there is a chance we might need a coalition."

Stephen nods. "If we've decimated their party-"

"If we've decimated their party, that means we've _won-"_

"But what if Labour take some of the seats?" Stephen asks, addressing this to Lynton and Grant. "Or they offer the Lib Dems a coalition?"

George nods. "Cable was keen to go with Labour, last time."

"Exactly" David points out. "There's a chance neither of us-" He carefully avoids saying Miliband's name-"Will get enough seats. For an overall majority, I mean."

There's a moment of silence, then Adam chips in. "There are other parties."

"The DUP" agrees the other George.

"The UUP."

George spins in his seat so fast David is stunned his friend doesn't give himself whiplash. _"Not_ _UKIP."_

Stephen and Grant both shake their heads and David's already speaking. "Not UKIP. Absolutely not UKIP. And that's another problem-"

"We'll deal with what we're going to do about UKIP another day" says Lynton firmly. "But now, we need to focus on the Lib Dems."

"But we need to reduce the threat of a Lib Dem-Labour coalition" David argues. "We could find ourselves completely locked out of government."

Lynton smiles, then. It's a slow smile, that creeps out like a fox that's just spotted a particularly tasty rabbit, separated from its' mother. The fact Lynton is clutching a toy kangaroo does absolutely nothing to make the image less terrifying.

"And that's another thing." His finger traces the map again, wanders higher to Scotland. "We've just unwrapped ourselves a bloody gift." He beams. "We've just unwrapped Nicola Sturgeon."

George's brow furrows. "Can I make a request, Lynton?"

"What?"

"Never say those words, in that order, again, ever."

"Or anything like it" Grant agrees. Dan nods fervently.

Lynton rolls his eyes. "If you could all grow up for five fucking minutes-"

"You'll all get a koala-"

"I'll have yours' back in a minute." Lynton doesn't even look at George. "Sturgeon is the best gift you've ever opened under your fancy Christmas trees, trust me. Including that time your wife stepped out in a Victoria's Secret bra and asked you if you had a Boy Scout's badge in tying knots."

"Can you say that in front of our wives?" David asks, kicking George at his friend's rather contemplative expression. "I'm intrigued to know which one would kill you."

Lynton glowers. "Sturgeon is a fucking gift. She'd hammer Miliband in a Labour-SNP coalition. And that's what we're going to get out on every party political broadcast."

"Wait." David sits up, leaning forward, eyes flickering to Craig and Stephen. "Wait. That's a real possibility? That she'd offer a coalition with-"

For some reason, he can't say the name.

"Possible-"

"Probable." Lynton slaps his hand down. "It's pretty damn likely, with the strength of the SNP as it is now."

"How is that a strength for us?"

Lynton meets David's eyes. "Because we can use this. I mean, Salmond was good enough-"

"Please don't talk about unwrapping him" mutters George.

"But Sturgeon is gold. They're calling her another Thatcher."

Lynton leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and grins. "Now, imagine Miliband up against _Thatcher."_

Despite the strange pang that goes through him at Miliband's name, David feels a smile slowly creep to his mouth.

"Now, what you just pictured-" Lynton slaps the table. "Is exactly what the country will think."

David glances at George and stops then when he sees George smiling. When he spots David watching him, he grins. "Come on. You've seen Miliband's ratings. People would trust a dead snake over him."

David turns to Craig to see a similar smile stealing over his mouth.

"That could work" Dan's saying, nodding slowly. "That could definitely work-"

The other George is nodding. So's Grant.

"And when we get to TV debates-" Lynton says. "They won't have to imagine it. And that reminds me."

He snaps his fingers, glances at Craig. Craig nods, and turns to David.

"You're not ever debating Miliband."

David blinks. "What?"

He glances at George, but George is watching Lynton thoughtfully, head tilted to the side. He turns back to Craig, but he too is watching Lynton now, as are Stephen and Grant-Ameet, Adam and the other George all exchange quick, questioning looks as if unsure whether their input is required or not.

Lynton shakes his head. "You know how it is in the US debates" he says, warningly. "The challenger always gains ground, nearly always. Their ratings can skyrocket. And with someone like Miliband-"

"The only way he can go is up" George mutters and Lynton nods. David turns to George.

George is watching him, head tilted with that cool, decided look he gets whenever he's come to a satisfactory conclusion. "Dave, Miliband's ratings are so bad that he could walk out there, vomit and lie down in it, and it would still be an improvement."

Grant rolls his eyes. "It's the imagery that really makes these meetings."

"But doesn't that just hand them another weapon?" David asks. He can't see how Miliband yelling at an empty chair will do anyone any good-apart from Miliband, if he manages not to fall over the chair.

"It could reflect badly" agrees Craig. "I mean, we don't want to look as though we're chickening out."

"Credit me with something" Lynton remarks. "We're not going to avoid debates." The smile appears again. This time, he's stroking the kangaroo more slowly. David resists the urge to slide his chair back from the table a little.

"If Miliband wants _debates-"_ Lynton says slowly, as though savouring the words. "Let him _have _debates. The more, the better." He leans forward, smile deepening, eyes slowly getting brighter and brighter. "The more _people_ for him to debate, the better.

Next to David, George breaks into a slow smile. He turns to look at him, dark eyes glittering with barely-concealed delight.

"The SNP" he says slowly.

"That's one" Lynton agrees.

"UKIP?" suggests Stephen.

"Are you sure Farage will manage to turn up?" Dan asks with a snort. "Or turn up sans pint?"

"We could always tell him there was an open bar" Grant suggests, half-seriously.

"Farage-the SNP will cancel out any negative sides of him debating us-us, Miliband, Clegg-" George doesn't even pause at using Nick's surname. "So that's five-"

The other George whistles. "Five-way debate? Who'll hold _that?"_

"Forget five-way debate" says Lynton, leaning back in his chair. His eyes meet David's and he smiles. "Try _seven_-way debate."

David laughs, and so does George. When Lynton just stares at them both, the sound dies away slowly.

"I feel like this is a rhetorical question" says David slowly. "But are you serious?"

Lynton doesn't miss a beat. "Plaid Cymru will want to show up. They'll be hoping for the same kind of boost the SNP have had recently. And then we have the Greens."

George snorts, as does Adam. "The _Greens?_ So they're going to turn up in a caftan and offer us all tofu?"

"The Greens" Lynton says calmly, reaching for an apple from the fruit bowl. "Are what we're going to use to back Miliband into a corner." He takes a bite out of the apple. "He wants a debate? He can have a debate. But it will be a fair debate with all parties who want to be involved. And that-" He takes another bite of the apple and gives David a grin. "Just happens to involve Miliband being battered over and over again by the others."

"Sturgeon will crush him" Stephen says quietly. "And if he won't agree to a coalition deal, she'll hammer him for being a Red Tory."

"And if he does, he'll be crucified in England" Grant says, with a grin. "People already hate the idea of the SNP having more influence down here-add that to what they already think about Miliband and that could _crush_ him-"

"And if he tries to refuse debates-"

"He's a coward" Craig tells them. "We'll turn his own accusation right back on him."

David nods, turning slowly back to Lynton. "And while that's impacting Labour-"

"We'll be taking Lib Dem seats."

David looks down at the map. His eyes move from one yellow dot to the next, trying to remember which one is Sheffield Hallam.

"You said-" he says slowly. "All the seats."

Lynton nods. David looks back at the map.

"Including Ni-"

He stops. Clears his throat.

"Including Clegg's" he says, a little hoarser.

Lynton nods again. George has stilled next to him. David knows without looking at him that he's thinking about Danny.

David doesn't say anything for a few long moments. Names and faces flicker through his head very quickly-Danny, Nick, Tim, David-and his eyes move from one yellow dot to the next, unable to tell which constituency is which.

He clears his throat. "Maybe" he says. "We could do both."

He looks up. "Target some Lib Dem seats. A lot, but not all. We need to err on the side of caution. The last thing we want is to reduce the number of Lib Dem seats and not have enough ourselves to form a government." He meets Lynton's eyes. "Then we've got the worst of all worlds. No majority, no coalition-"

He waits for a kangaroo to come flying at his head, but Lynton just nods slowly.

"That makes sense" he says slowly. "But we'll have to decide pretty damn soon which seats we're going to target."

"That's an idea."

Lynton claps his hands. "I mean, you don't fatten the fucking pig on market day-"

David nods. "Absolutely" he says and it isn't until he feels his shoulders relax that he realises how relieved that decision makes him, and then wonders whether he should feel relieved at all.

But they've got a window now. A window to decide what to do with the seats.

"Now, we need to talk about the dossier we're going to unveil on Monday, but we need a break for a bit, you all look fucking exhausted-"

They've got a window to decide what to do with the seats.

The Lib Dem seats.

Including Nick's.

David feels his eye give the tiniest twitch.

No. Including Clegg's.

* * *

Nancy's never sure if she wants to watch or not.

Flo doesn't have to wonder, because she's too little, but she always wanders in anyway, and claps loudly even when Dad isn't saying anything at all.

Elwen will usually oblige them with a punch in the air and a "Go on, Dad!", but he doesn't really listen. Nancy does, and sometimes, she doesn't like it.

Mum's watching with Flo on her knee and some of Dad's advisers around her and after Bells ruffles her hair and Uncle Ed (Uncle Ed L, as Nancy sometimes calls him, to differentiate, because half of Dad's friends seem to have the same names) gives her a box of Celebrations, Nancy bites her lip and leaves the room before Dad's interview can start.

She sits at the kitchen table, swinging her legs. She glances at the ipad again, then again (waiting until she's a teenager for an iphone is borderline ridiculous but Dad has managed to convince himself that ten minutes staring at the screen of a phone would leave her brain trickling out her ears. He once actually started a whole conversation with Nick about whether they should bring in a ban on them for anyone under thirteen and, with a wink at her, call it "Nancy's Law." Nancy had expressly told him she'd leave the country and change her surname if he should ever do such a thing.)

Now, Nancy pulls the ipad closer, and types for a moment. Then stops. Then again.

She bites her lip, then types in her dad's name, glancing around to make sure Flo hasn't come up behind her.

She winces a little at her dad's picture-it's nice, but it's the same smile he wore when they were walking around Grey Coat and Lady Margaret and all the other schools and every single time they went into a classroom, everyone would look up and then their eyes would bulge and their heads swivel back round. A couple of times, people dropped pencils. Once, someone fell off her chair. Nancy was never sure whether she was meant to smile or not, or whether it looked stupid to smile or not. Dad always seems to just know these things, and so does Mum.

She clicks on her dad's Twitter page, clicks in the search box, then out again. She swallows hard.

It feels like something wriggling in her stomach every time she does this. But if she doesn't, she wonders, and it just sticks there, and she can't stop thinking about it, and then she'll think about what could be there, and her chest tightens, too much saliva filling her mouth.

She types it quickly and then her eyes skim over the results. She never reads them for too long.

"Well, that was an average morning." Nancy closes the tab quickly as Gita walks into the kitchen. "Walk out of building. Nearly get shot."

"Isn't that, like, the third time you've said that?" Nancy turns round to face Gita and Gita sticks two fingers up at her, something she'd never do if Mum or Dad were around.

"Doesn't bode well for your dad, does it?"

"I don't know. The security team didn't shoot Flo when she made them all sing "Do You Want To Build A Snowman?""

Gita snorts and then takes a closer look at Nancy. "Not watching your dad?"

Nancy doesn't remember a time when her dad wasn't on TV. She doesn't even remember realising that her dad was on TV or when she realised that other dads weren't.

She remembers Mum sitting with her on her knee, watching Dad on the screen. Nancy doesn't remember feeling anything much-just a vague knowledge that that's Daddy. Daddy talks on telly.

She remembers saying "Daddy" to Mum, pointing at the screen, and Mum laughing, clapping Nancy's hands together for her. Elwen was asleep next to them under a blanket and she remembers she and Mum making shushing sounds at each other, and Mum kissing her head. Ivan was next to them, with one of the nurses.

That had meant it was a bad few days. But Ivan was quiet, and then he'd looked at her and his mouth had twitched. Nancy had waved at him, and reached across to pat his arm. Ivan's mouth had twitched harder. Mum said that meant Ivan was smiling at her.

"Hey, Nance-" Gita ruffles her hair. "You remember the deal?"

Nancy tilts her face up, forces a smile. "Yeah, I remember."

"Anyone says anything about your dad-" Gita adjusts her glasses and slams her fist into her open palm.

"I know. Thumb on the outside-"

Flo skitters into the kitchen, pigtails flying. Nancy turns round to look at her, as Flo hugs Gita round the legs.

"Hello-" Gita picks her up, and presses a kiss to her cheek. "How's Mum-"

"Mummy smiled." Flo claps her hands together and Gita lifts her higher. "Daddy laughed."

Gita kisses Flo on the cheek. "Good."

Nancy thinks of the few words she caught on the ipad screen and her stomach seems to squeeze itself painfully.

"Nancy-" Flo's got her arms up and Nancy helps her scramble up onto the chair next to her, reaching over to fix one of Flo's pigtails, which has come loose.

"Daddy _famous_" says Flo, and Nancy feels herself stiffen. "Who said Dad's famous?"

Flo's kicking her legs under the table in a little dance. "Some people-lots of _cameras-"_ Flo turns round to tug at Nancy's hand. "You said you're going to write a _book-"_

Gita arches an eyebrow. "And I'd better be getting a signed copy" she mutters, with a kiss to Nancy's head.

"If Nancy writes a book, Nancy will be_ famous-"_

"I'm not going-going to be famous" Nancy says, but her voice is so quiet, she's pretty sure Flo doesn't hear.

"When Nancy's famous, I'll get to-Nancy will know _Elsa-"_

"I'm not going to be famous" Nancy says again, quietly.

Flo doesn't hear. "And Daddy and Nancy will be famous, and then we'll know Elsa-" Flo's clapping. "Take Sam-go to the _Ice Palace-"_

Gita tugs at a pigtail. "Slow down the chattering, Flo-"

Nancy thinks of that Twitter page again. She swallows, sickness suddenly hollowing itself out in her chest.

"And Nancy going to meet Elsa and we'll _skate _with Elsa and Anna-"

"No, we _won't."_ Nancy nearly shoves the ipad away from her. "It's not _real, _Flo."

Flo's mouth puckers. Nancy feels guilt stab into her ribs, deepening the sick feeling in her stomach.

"Sorry" she says, and Flo glances about, chubby cheeks trembling, confusion and tears creeping into her big blue eyes.

Nancy puts her arm around her, then, lets her little sister's head nestle against her chest. "Sorry, Flo" she says and presses a kiss to her little sister's cheek. "Sorry, Flo."

Flo's lip trembles, but she nestles in. Nancy presses a kiss to her hair.

"Elsa real?" says Flo, questioningly, with a suspicious look at Nancy.

Nancy nods reassuringly. "Yeah."

"If you're famous, we can visit Elsa." Flo puts her arms up trustingly round Nancy's shoulders.

This time, Nancy swallows. "Yeah" she says and this time she looks at Gita over Flo's head.

Gita just arches an eyebrow. "Remember" she mouths, and slams her fist again.

Nancy manages to smile properly this time, but only a little.

* * *

Being at home somewhere doesn't mean David has to love it.

Now, sitting on the sofa with a bunch of cameras pointed at his face, David's reminded of that quite strongly.

"I think, for families concerned, I'm not missing the point-" Marr's saying, and David seizes on the words in his head one more time, Lynton's voice echoing. (Lynton had ended up gifting David a phone call to help him prepare last night because the idea of Lynton staying away from David before an interview is about as likely as Miliband getting "austerity" tattooed on his forehead.)

_Unemployment. Long-term economic plan. They broke the banks. We need to finish the job._

"I think every family in this country knows you can only bring people out of poverty if you have a growing economy-" Tick. "And we started out with low growth or no growth-"

_Remind them whose fault it was._

"We're _now_ the fastest growing economy in the Western world-"

_Remind them who fixed it._

"You can only create-_get_ people out of poverty if you create jobs-"

_Keep hitting the employment theme._

"We've seen 1.75 million more-more people in work-"

And _we did that._ Hammered in through every word.

"We've seen all-families who are facing difficulties, but now you've got all these families who weren't previously in work who are in work and who are able to provide for themselves and their children." He lifts his hand, raises his voice a little. "We've come _a huge way-"_

Lynton's voice echoes louder-_And it was all down to you._

"Down the road we need to be on for a stronger economy-"

_And remind them who broke it last time._

"And the _real _concern I have-"

Because they did. It's true. Brown, for all Miliband's goggle-eyed hero worship of the man, _did _break the economy. Maybe not single-handedly, maybe not entirely unabetted by a global crash. But he was the Prime Minister who borrowed and borrowed and borrowed some more, so that when a crash hit, there were no reserves, and if Brown's not careful, that's all he'll ever be known as.

And Miliband, David has no doubts at all, would go exactly the same way.

"Is if we turn back _now-"_ He turns away.

_(Looks like you're thinking, more spontaneous_, from Craig, fussing with his tie, two hours ago)

"If we go back to the bad ways-"

Look back.

"Of more borrowing, more spending, more debt-"

_Remind them what that does._

"If we listen to the people-" He ignores Miliband's face hovering in his mind and then has to push away the jab of memory of Miliband's shoulder blades, sharp under his hands as he hugged him.

"That got us into this mess in the first place-"

_Them, them, them._

(Never let people forget.)

(It was _them.)_

(And why's he thinking about _hugging Miliband,_ for God's-)

"We could go _right _back to the start-"

Remind them of the progress.

"And really threaten the economic recovery that's now underway in Britain-"

_That we've created_ hangs unspoken, but, David knows, always heard.

"And that sounds in the _abstract _very compelling" Marr is saying, waving a hand. "But there are lots and lots of families up and down this country-"

David's already picking his next words, brushing away the jabs from the arguments, the way he's learnt to brush away most things.

(Miliband can't do that, he realises suddenly, sharply. He can try to laugh, try to shrug something off, try too _hard_, but you can still_ see_ it there, gnarled under his skin, niggling at him.)

(David can still _see.)_

(As if he just can't believe that these people don't agree with him.)

(David doesn't give a damn whether or not they agree.)

(He gives a damn about getting votes.)

(Which is the way you can get somewhere to make a difference, and the fact Miliband seems completely unable to grasp this is what makes him so horribly easy to beat.)

So, when they ask about meals on wheels, he has answers, as they've practiced, and points out all the benefits they've brought in for the elderly (Brown handed the Tories a free nail to hammer into his coffin there, slashing those pensions) and he can already hear Miliband's voice in his head, accusatory and whining, _"You didn't answer the question."_

He didn't, of course. He's not in the habit of committing political suicide.

He won't, and he'll keep not answering questions until they claw back a Tory majority and then they'll tackle the bloody meals-on-wheels issue and eradicate the necessity of the question in the first place.

_"How many would we be going for?"_

_"All of them."_

And so when Marr brings up where the money to that end will come from, David puts more emphasis on the words "More than _any other party"_ than he does on the carefully memorised proposals he hands over to be dissected by the ravenous teeth of whoever's watching at home.

He emphasises it again-_work, long-term economic plan_, and then latches onto the other thing Lynton has put forward-_stick to the plan, stick to the plan-_

They don't trust Miliband. That's what it comes down to.

And they trust David.

Not all of them.

They might not like him. But they trust him.

And that's what's important.

He recounts the Dementia Friends experience a few weeks ago, which had been brilliant-George would make a good carer, not that anyone else would believe that-and then they're onto Europe and, Jesus, a referendum-

He says something about doing it earlier, because the earlier, the better, if only to stop everyone harping on about it-

And then it's the hung Parliament question, because every reporter seems to have shoved Parliament's head through a noose.

And yes, they're fighting for a Tory majority, but if it's a hung Parliament, then they need Nick.

They do need the Lib Dems. Even if vastly reduced.

He doesn't say that, of course.

But they can still go for the majority.

_"How many would we be going for?"_

_"All of them."_

So he draws in his breath and pulls out the answer he practiced with Lynton last night-

(Competence over chaos, echoes in his head. Competence over chaos.)

So he waits until he's blagged the usual softened line about UKIP-"They've said extraordinary things", the new way of saying "They can be downright nutters who would make my grandfather tell them to get with the times"-and then-

"And the truth is this." He pauses for a breath, just barely. "Of course, there are other choices. People can vote in different ways. They can vote Green." _Count them off-"_They can vote Liberal, they can vote Labour, UKIP, SNP-"

He looks back at Marr. "But the_ fact_, as I see it, is that all those options give you uncertainty, instability-"

People like the status quo. However much they might claim otherwise, they like it.

"The potential of _chaos-"_

_Competence vs chaos, remember, competence vs chaos, you vs him-_

"If it leads to a-"

He pauses, the name fighting for a moment.

"Miliband in Downing Street, Balls in the Treasury-"

(Miliband. Not Milee-band, he thinks suddenly, not the way Marr said it-)

"Debt-funded government-"

Marr is about to say something but Lynton's words hover in his head_-Hammer it home-_

"The only alternative to that is the competence and delivery-

_Status quo, remind them._

"That you know you'll get-"

_Bring it home._

"With me as the Prime Minister and the Conservatives in power."

_Done._

Marr's talking about immigration, but it doesn't matter. He's said it, he's done it, and he's kept saying it.

Status quo vs uncertainty.

Competence vs chaos.

Cameron vs Miliband.

That's the way they need to see it.

David should see it that way, too.

(Miliband's eyes blinking a little, as they pulled away on his doorstep, confused and something else, something-)

(And why's he thinking about_ Miliband _at all-)

Miliband, he repeats more loudly in his head. _Miliband._

Cameron vs Miliband.

That's what they need to hold onto.

Maybe what he needs to hold onto, too.

* * *

Ed tries to ignore the heat of the studio lights on his skin, the dampness under his collar, and runs through the attack lines in his head.

Attack is the best form of defence, Bob had insisted, while Tom paced around, tugging at his hair and bellowing about "fucking _dossier." Just go on there and point out the IFS stuff and you'll be home free._

"So, the campaign has begun-" Nuga smiles at him. "With-I think it's fair to say it's officially kicked off, as the New Year's begi-begun-"

Ed folds his hands together, goes over the lines one more time in his head-

"But-it seems a bit bad-tempered-" Nuga tilts her head to the side. "Already-in terms of _negative _campaigning-" She spreads her hands. "Is this what voters should be expecting over the next four-four and a half months?"

He knows this one. Despite Tom almost tearing his hair out-_We've got to be fucking negative at times, how else can we fucking show that they'll be fucking negative at times, for Christ's sake-_Bob had gone over this one, because they've got to make people_ see_, they've got to-

"Well, Nuga, we want to run a _positive _campaign, and that's what we're going to be doing today-" _Make sure you explain, convey the message of how much is at stake_. "The-the reason I say it's a once in a generation choice for the country is I think there's-big differences between-where people think the country is now-"

_Tories, Labour, Tories, Labour-_

"We've got the Tories, who think things are pretty much fixed, they've done a great job-"

_Working people, working people-_

"I think more people are feeling is the country's not working for them-and a big choice about the future-"

_A Labour government or a Tory government._

"And I'm laying out that choice today-look, I think that what we've had in the last five years-"

_They're the party of the rich, get that across._

"Is a country where the Tories think that if you help the richest, the wealth will trickle down to everybody else-"

_And we're different._

"I've got a different way of running the country. I think let's put working people first again in our country-"

_Hardworking people. Get that across, hardworking people._

"Let's reward hard work properly, let's give opportunity to our young people-"

_Remind them of Murdoch, of Leveson-_

"Let's take _on_ some of those powerful interests like the energy companies and the banks and make them work for people-"

Because he can _do_ it. It's the same rush of feeling he got when he'd stood there and told his team that they were going to ask Murdoch to resign because what was the _point_ of them if they didn't do things like this?

What was the point of _him-_

Because this was how things could get better. They'd worked hard and they'd got here, and this was how things ended. With them making things better.

David would have said this was naive, but David didn't believe that things could get better.

That's the thing. David and Cameron-and it's strange that they can fall under the same label in Ed's mind-they don't think things can get better. They don't believe in an end to the story, in a moment when what's right wins.

But if Ed can show people that that's how things can happen-

(And _he'll _be the one who does it, and then people will _realise-)_

"We're putting forward a positive case for a change in direction-"

Nobody ever believes things can change until they do, and then everyone _realises-_

"I think that this is a crucial election for the British people, for the lives that they and their children are going to lead in the coming years."

Nuga tilts her head. "The reason I said that this appears bad-tempered already is just from the release-the launch of the posters-that the Conservatives have put out, that Labour has put out, already-and also, today, we've heard the Conservatives say that Treasury numbers say that your pledges-" Nuga meets his eyes. "The Labour Party's pledges when it comes to the economy-and fixing the economy, as you say, it needs to be done-means that there are £20 billion of worth-pledges that cannot be proven to be funded." She doesn't look away from him. "Your reaction to that?"

Ed makes sure to keep smiling, _don't look shocked, don't look rattled_. It had been him that had been woken by Tom at the crack of dawn two mornings ago, half-screaming down the phone that the Tories were putting about "some _bullshit_ about 20 billion, Osborne and the fucking team of Merry Men are doing a fucking _press conference,_ the bastards", and it had been him that Greg and Lucy had rung ten minutes later to tell him to _calm down, they're exaggerating, don't worry, IFS, just cite the IFS-_

_And make sure you say it's a lie. If we're clever, we can twist this on them. On Cameron._

He looks Nuga in the eye. Doesn't look rattled.

"It's completely false." He keeps his voice quiet, keeps himself still, don't turn it into a big thing. "You know, thi-I'm afraid this is what the Tories are going to do-the kind of campaign they're gonna run-" _Say going to, not gonna, Jesus-_

"It's going to be a choice between hope with us and falsehood from the Conservatives-"

_It's not true, they're exaggerating-just remember that, so we're not lying if we say they are-_

"Just look-the Institute for Fiscal Studies-"

_The IFS agrees, see, the IFS agrees-_

And he's telling _them _that, not himself-

"A respected independent body-has said that Labour has been the _most_ cautious of all the parties in making commitments-"

_Cautious on the economy. Trustworthy on the economy._

"And we've said something that no Opposition party has ever said before-let's get the independent Office of Budget Responsibility to audit our manifesto-to conduct an audit and say "Right, do the numbers add up" and we've said very clearly, there'll be _no_ unfunded commitments in our manifesto-"

_You've got to make them see they can trust us this time-_

"Every measure will be paid for, either by tax change or by a change in spending-and that's a contrast to the Tories who-who are spraying around all kinds of unfunded commitments, including £7 billion on tax-"

_Bring it back to Cameron. Bring it back to Cameron. This is about you and him._ Tom's hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard. _You and him. You've got to beat him._

"So, I'm afraid the Prime Minister launched his campaign on Friday, said it was going to be positive-it's taken forty-eight hours-and already, he's gone-he's gone negative-"

He tries not to think of Cameron's arms around his shoulders, the strange shock that had gone through him at suddenly being hugged by Cameron, the way Daniel's head had just leant into Cameron's shoulder-

(Like he _trusted-)_

"And I think it sh-it just shows he doesn't really have much to say, to defend his own record-"

He can feel Cameron on top of him, his face pressed into Ed's collar for a moment, the heat of his breath on Ed's neck, and the odd shudder that had gone through him, so that he wanted to wriggle closer or away or-

(Away. He wanted to wriggle away. Of course.)

"Or to actually explain how he wants to have another five years, and what he wants to do with the country."

Nuga's speaking again but Ed's running through lines in his head, his heart beating fast, and he can feel Cameron's words tickling his skin, making him laugh, and it was just the _words_ making him laugh.

Just the words and not the sight of Cameron so close to him, with his blue eyes and how warm he was and just how-

It wasn't that. It wasn't that.

* * *

It doesn't seem too long later that Tom's standing there in front of him, clapping his hands.

_"Right. "_ Tom claps his hands again. "They're about competence vs. chaos, more of the same-"

"I did see him yesterday" Ed manages, looking at his knees.

Tom freezes, then slaps his head. "Oh, you meant Marr. Right."

"Hard to tell these days" Bob mutters, with an attempt at a grin.

It might be an attempt to lighten the mood, but Ed just squeezes his hands together, runs over the speech again in his head. He wishes Ayesha was here. She's better at lightening the mood than anyone.

He glances at his notes, clutching them as if they might be snatched away any moment.

"Must have been an amusing day" Rachel tries to joke, but it falls flat.

Ed swallows, and Tom crouches in front of him. "Better than this. We keep hammering that. They want to keep things the same. But we want to make things change."

"It's a good strategy" Greg says, who's walking up and down, checking his phone every few moments. "People get behind change, it invigorates them-"

"Gives you something to fight on that Cameron doesn't have" Bob points out.

Ed doesn't get out the "but" but all he can think of for a moment is the smoothness of Cameron's voice yesterday, the smile that had crept out at the right moment, his hair neat and shining and-

Ed shakes his head. He doesn't need to be thinking about how good Cameron looks on TV.

He frowns. _How good Cameron-_

"Right." Tom claps his shoulder again, as Rachel heads out the door, presumably to join Anna and James in barring the press. "Better than this. Better than this. We can do better than this-"

"He gets it, Tom."

Ed squeezes his eyes shut.

"He's Teflon" Bob says, and for a moment, Ed thinks, _But people like Teflon-_

He shakes his head. Cameron might be smooth, but he's not-

It's not that he's not _meaningful, _it's that he doesn't mean _much-_

He just doesn't seem to _realise-_

But-

Ed shakes his head. People are cleverer than that.

"They'll _see" _he says, and only then realises he's speaking aloud.

Greg and Bob exchange the briefest of looks, and then Greg says "Yeah. 'Course they will."

He says it a little too quickly.

* * *

When Danny's name appears on his phone, Nick is a little too relieved.

"How are things going your end?" Danny sounds almost irritatingly cheerful.

"Extra £8billion to the NHS is working. Don't know if I am."

Danny laughs. "Just don't talk to students."

"Yeah, well, don't talk about rat runs."

Nick can almost see Danny's grimace. "I know. Look, we've got-"

Nick turns away from the building, wondering if it really was the best idea to stage this launch from a hospital.

"We'll sort it" he says, even though Danny sounds less panicked than him. "Though, did you, ah-"

He hesitates, then says, deliberately lightly-"You catch David's interview, yesterday?"

Danny laughs. Nick only wishes Vince had reacted the same way.

"Yes. We'll have to-ah-how did he put it-"

"Think of more things?"

"Yeah. That."

"Well, wouldn't want to disappoint him."

"Speaking of which-" Danny pauses for a long moment, then,

"Have you-are you definitely going ahead with the-ah-"

Nick glances around, though he knows there's no way David could hear him. George, on the other hand, he wouldn't put it past.

Nick immediately vows to redouble his security at some stage.

"The letter? Yeah."

There's a silence, then-"And you're not going to warn him-"

Nick opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"Nick-" Danny's voice is a little lower. "We've got two months left. This could make things awkward-"

"Oh, and the stuff _he'll _be doing couldn't?"

There's a long silence. Nick closes his eyes and curses himself.

"I didn't mean it like-it's not about that" he says, when he can trust himself to keep his voice level. He takes a long breath, grips the phone a little tighter. "Look-" he says, a little more calmly. "We've got to be prepared to use this stuff. We might end up in a coalition again."

The thing no-one can mention for certain.

"But we need to get enough seats for that."

There's an almost interminable pause and then Danny says, very carefully, "You know some people are saying that that might be difficult?"

Nick bites his lip. "Yes."

Another silence.

"That's why we have to do this." His voice hardens a little. "It's not five years ago."

"I know."

"We're not a surprise anymore."

"I know."

_We're anything but that._

"We can't afford to be nice to them." Nick becomes aware that his heart is beating rather fast. "They wouldn't be nice to us."

There's another moment of silence, then,

"So you're not going to tell him." It isn't a question.

"No."

"Have you spoken to Ed?"

Nick swallows, unsure which answer Danny would prefer to hear. But there's little point in lying.

"No."

"Then how-"

"I mean-our offices have talked, but-we haven't. Not directly."

"David might get jealous."

It's a joke, but Nick finds it hard to laugh.

"I suppose so."

_Who of? _rears suddenly in his mind.

"You know-" Danny's voice is a little lower. "It doesn't really bode well for us maybe going into coalition with him, if you two can't even speak."

It takes Nick a moment to answer. "That's not the reason."

Danny waits for a few moments, and then says slowly "I suppose it's natural to prefer a coalition with David."

"It's not about preferring-"

Nick catches himself, then starts again. "It's not about preferring a coalition with Cameron." He says the surname a little louder, firmer. "It's about who's a better prospect as leader."

_And Ed isn't,_ he leaves hanging.

"And if Cameron doesn't do TV debates-"

"We still don't _know-"_

Nick snorts. "Oliver's blocking every date anyone suggests, and I know David. If they don't do the TV debates, it will be free season on us and Labour."

_And we don't need to make it any easier_, they both think, but don't say.

* * *

"Nice to see Lynton trusts us" William remarks, with an elbow in George's ribs. "Only took five of us."

George gives him a grin. "Well, you know. We don't want a repeat of the '01 election_-oi-"_

Theresa rolls her eyes as George is forced to duck William aiming a folder at his arm. Nicky and Sajid watch, and George gives them a wink-even though they've been part of the Cabinet for so long, there's still a sense sometimes that he has to include them.

"It's not as if it's hard" he remarks, to the four of them generally. "We've just got to go on with what Dave said last week-no, Dave's head's not going on a spike, and, by the way, have you seen this £20 billion Labour's trying to find and-oh, look-it doesn't exist?"

Sajid snorts unexpectedly. _"It's not as if it's hard _could have been inferred whenever you hear you're up against a party led by Ed Miliband."

Nicky laughs, and William nods. "As the man who was photographed wearing that baseball cap continually, I concur."

"That reminds me-" George types on his phone. "Need to print out a copy of that for my wall-"

William hits him with a folder again.

"You'll be turning into Balls in a minute" Nicky remarks, looking a little more at ease now.

"Or Brown" George mutters, with a grin at Theresa. Theresa gives him an arched eyebrow and George wonders if Theresa will ever laugh at one of his jokes, and if, when that day comes, it will indeed be a sign of the impending apocalypse.

"Then again-" He gives William a tap on the arm. "We never had to just watch you for comedy. Miliband's on Marr next week. I'm thinking of watching just to cheer myself up."

"Oh God-" Sajid's head falls into his hands. "Don't remind me-"

George sniggers, only to be met with a raised eyebrow from Theresa. "Do you remember the definition of hubris, George?"

"As poor as my horrifically expensive education was, I believe I do, yes."

Theresa tilts her head. "If you have such a low opinion of Ed Miliband" she says, smile playing around her mouth. "Imagine how it would feel to lose to him."

George rolls his eyes. "Point taken. We'll make sure that 110% of our efforts are focused on grinding Miliband into the floor-"

"Hope your maths is better than that" Nicky mutters.

"Well, if my kids' isn't, it's your fault, you're the Education Secretary-then again, maybe we can blame Michael-"

"He gets blamed for everything else" concurs Sajid fairly.

"Anyway-" George flicks through his notes one more time. "That's why Dave's not doing anything like a head-on debate" he informs them, in more of an undertone now. "Miliband'll get a round of applause if he makes it off stage without wetting himself."

"And I thought it was Dave who liked the Enoch Powell trick-" William gives George a wink.

George snorts. "Honestly. They'd probably applaud him for breathing correctly-you know, the way they give medals to the kid who comes last on Sports Day."

"How often was that you?"

"A few times" George concedes happily. "Which is why I know this is infinitely worse."

"In which case I imagine losing to that child-"

"All right, Theresa, I know what I'm saying-you really imagine Lynton didn't pound it into me-bad choice of words-" he concedes, taking in the looks on all four of their faces.

"Of course" shrugs William. "You could always try saying that on stage. It might get a reaction-"

"Well, hopefully a better one than whatever Miliband's saying. Imagine-"Britain can do much better than thith-""

Sajid bursts out laughing. Theresa rolls her eyes. "What was I saying about hubris?"

* * *

"We're fighting for something much bigger." Ed looks around at the crowd assembled in front of him, runs the words more firmly through his head. "We're fighting for a Britain where everyday working people are properly rewarded once again. We're fighting for a Britain-"

The clapping's already started. Ed stops, doesn't look at Torsten, who he knows is in the audience.

"We're fighting for a Britain where every young person, no matter what their background, can start their working lives on a future that promises to be better, not worse, than their parents'. We're fighting for a Britain where everybody-everybody plays by fair rules, including the most powerful, like the energy companies and the banks."

This time, he meets Torsten's eyes and nods a little. Torsten gives him a thumbs-up.

"We're-we're fighting for a Britain-" More clapping's breaking out. Ed swallows, tries not to notice it.

"We're fighting for a Britain that deals with its' debts responsibly, without _shredding-"_

_Emphasise this point, emphasise this point, we can get them on this-_

"Our NHS and our _vital public services-"_

_We can get them on the NHS._ Greg, looking calmly at him over a document. _It's one of the top issues. You know what Greenberg says-_

This gets a cheer. Ed stands still, holds onto the words.

"And we're fighting for a true recovery and real, enduring prosperity that extends to the kitchen tables of working families all across Britain. Friends-"

_Better, not the same. Change, not the same._

"We're fighting-" He pauses. Look around, take everyone in. "To be the kind of country that we know we can be."

He pauses again. _That'll be the headline_, Tom had said. _That'll be the thing people remember._

"More just. More equal. And more prosperous-_that's _what we're fighting for at this election."

The applause breaks out around him. Ed catches sight of Torsten beaming and flashing him a double thumbs-up, grin creasing his eyes.

The applause fills his ears and he nods. They can do it. They can make things better.

They can. And they will.

* * *

Nick swallows hard.

_Coalition_, James says from somewhere in the back of his head_. Coalition. That's what we're aiming for. A coalition._

_We just need to get the seats._

He clears his throat.

"We, as a country, have come a long way since the great crash of 2008. Those long nights in May 2010, when we negotiated the coalition-"

He remembers him and David, walking towards each other, each surrounded by their own team. His eyes had flickered over him, taking Cameron in quickly, grabbing a few little details about him.

"As riots took place on the streets of Athens and our economy teetered on the brink-"

There'd been a sense of urgency, he remembers. A sense, even as they broke the ice, exchanged wives, families, schools, that people were waiting, their eyes fixed on this meeting, even if they couldn't see it, through walls and TV screens and headlines. That something was hanging on it. Everything was hanging on it.

This might not be something everything hangs on, but it's close.

"Seems ages ago now-" He takes in a breath. "It's been a hard slog-for everybody-"

Dog shit pushed through the letterbox. Saliva hot on his cheek. Miguel's crumpled look of confusion.

A hard slog.

"But one that is beginning to pay off. The economy is recovering."

He sounds like David, counting off their achievements.

"The deficit is coming down-"

No. He sounds like _Cameron._

"More people are in work and wages are starting to overtake inflation."

(And he can't decide if that's a good or a bad thing or neither.)

(Or if he should be able to decide.)

"The central question in this year's General Election is simply this-" Nick looks out at the crowd in front of him.

And for a moment, he wants to laugh, because if he had to choose one question about this election, he couldn't. There are far too many, and it worries him that he can't immediately think of the answers to any of them.

He swallows. Looks out at them.

They think they know the answer and he wonders how they're so much more confident than he is.

"Who is best placed to finish the job and do so fairly?"

He asks the question anyway.

* * *

George knew exactly how he'd start the speech off from the moment David told him he'd have to write it, and so he just hopes David's watching when he launches into it.

"When we took office, four and a half years ago, we were left a note-"

For the umpteenth time since they walked into Downing Street, he thanks God for David Laws and his quick thinking.

"By the Labour Party, which said simply, "There's no money left.""

He looks around. "And I guess it was meant as a light-hearted parting shot-but there's nothing funny about the mismanagement of the public finances. It cost people their jobs and their homes, it meant cuts to public services, it meant businesses didn't invest. "

He looks up. "It threatened this country's economic stability and the economic security of everyone living here-"

And he launches into it, the statistics, their record, the way Lynton had insisted on approving over and over again, and then he gets to the bit Lynton insisted on,_ the bit that'll highlight how fucking weak Labour are here, because this is our main fucking attack point, get this right and you get two more koalas._

"And what I've learnt doing this job is that making spending commitments is the easiest thing in the world." He looks up and around. "Spending commitments are superficially attractive. They get ready applause from lobby groups-they get you headlines."

He pauses for barely a second. "But _unfunded_ spending commitments-" He stresses the words ever so slightly. "Are made with borrowed money, and the price is paid by future taxpayers."

_Remind them what happened last time-_

"Add all the spending commitments up and you get an unaffordable bill for Britain that threatens our economy."

And it was Labour.

That's the thing, George knows, one of their key weapons, the one Lynton loves the most. It'll always be Labour who were in charge when the crisis hit, Labour who messed up the response, Labour who nearly turned Britain into a laughing stock.

It was Labour and it's one of the things they'll always be remembered for.

"And if you don't have an economic plan that adds up-then the small good you hope to achieve with your individual commitments is overwhelmed by the damage to public services that a failing economy brings."

_They're going to attack us on the NHS_, Lynton had said, pacing. _Remind them what they did to the NHS. Them and their fucking up of the money. Remind them. Don't let anyone forget it. They've done it before. So they could do it again._

Of course, it doesn't matter whether it's true or not. All that matters is that it could be.

It could be true, and the British people just need to not give Labour the chance to find out.

* * *

"Now, friends, for five years, the Tories have shown us their idea-" Ed turns slightly, so he can see the whole hall. "That if you strip government back to its' bare bones, if you just give into the powerful interests-"

His hand flies out, the words coming back to him easily now, with no need of the autocue. "And give huge tax cuts to the very wealthiest-that all of Britain will somehow benefit."

_You've got to ridicule him_, Tom had said, Stewart looking between them worriedly. _That's what he'll be doing to you. You've got to show you can do it._

"And you know what, judging-" _Too fast, too fast._ "From what David Cameron said last Friday-"

The name feels strange in his mouth, rounded, as though he's said it differently.

With the name comes a sudden memory-Cameron's shoulder blades were sharper than he would have expected under his palms and he smelt good, something like soap and-

Ed's thoughts reel almost with something a little like _alarm_, and maybe it's that that makes him turn to the audience, inject a little more scorn into his voice. "They think it's been a great success."

There's a few laughs, but Ed doesn't let himself meet anyone's eyes, tries to hold onto the words without glancing at the autocue.

"But you know what that tells me-" He looks at the camera_-Try to look down the camera, it will look like you're addressing anyone who's watching-"_It tells me what they think success looks like."

_Get into it, get to the main points._

"Because think about what has actually happened." He turns to take in the crowd. "Billionaires have reaped huge benefits from the Tory plan, there's no doubt about that. But working people in this country, as we've just heard, are worse off. Much worse off."

Make eye contact with some of them. "For the first time since the 1920s, working people will be worse off at the _end _of a government than they were at the beginning."

He looks round. "We know that zero hour contracts have exploded, driving wages down across our country and have allowed some firms to play havoc with people's lives. The energy companies have doubled the profits they make from family and the average bill has gone up £300 a year-"

* * *

Backstage, Anna elbows Tom in the ribs. "Got to be prepared for that one" she says, almost too quickly to hear. "The Tories will be all over-"

"Because then he went and switched to a higher-priced energy company, yeah, I know-" Tom's already typing furiously on his phone. "It was a fucking stupid move."

Anna and Rachel return their gazes to the screen to watch as Ed says after a pause-a little too long, Anna thinks, and judging from the look on Bob's face, he agrees-"And what I think is most inexcusable, is the shortchanging of the greatest hope for our future-our children-"

"He should have been quicker" Bob mutters worriedly. "That could be picked up on-"

"Who this Government is just failing to prepare for the challenges of the 21st century-" Ed turns, hand opening now. "At a time when education and training are critical to the chances of earning a decent wage-and to the long-term success of our country...tuition fees have trebled and apprenticeships are actually falling-"

"Do we know what the Tories are going to say?" Greg says, eyes still fixed on the screen.

Anna shrugs. "Similar to the dossier, probably. Osborne standing there with a big red book. Apart from that, they're being pretty quiet-"

"Maybe we want to try doing the same thing" Bob mutters.

"We have to get the message across" mutters Tom, still typing furiously. "It makes us more open, accessible-"

Bob looks uncomfortable but Anna's turning back to the screen, mouthing the last few lines of this section along with Ed.

Ed looks round. "And they call all of that a success. We're a country of food banks and bank bonuses. A country where social mobility goes backward and privilege is rewarded-" He looks back and forth. "Where millionaires have had their taxes cut and millions pay more. And they call _that _a success. Well, I _don't_, and _the British people don't, either."_

Ed takes a gulp of water as the applause breaks out.

"I am the son of immigrants who came here with nothing-" is the last thing Anna hears Ed say, before she nearly collapses in shock, as Tom jumps into the air, punches his phone, and bellows, without warning, "FUCK!"

Rachel's hand slams over her chest. "Jesus Christ, _WHAT?"_

Tom shakes the phone and consequently almost hits Bob in the face. "Jesus, I'm trying to see-"

"Five" growls out Tom.

"What?"

_"Five!"_ Tom bellows loudly enough that Anna's almost sure Ed could hear it on stage. "The Tories have fucking got_ five_ out there-"

"Five _what-"_ Rachel still looks as though she's recovering, or attempting to. "Is this something to do with Osborne's bloody dossier-"

_"Yes"_ Tom snaps, while Greg successfully wrestles a phone from Bob. "It _is_ to do with Osborne's bloody fucking dossier. That him and four other fucking Tories-including fucking Hague-are holding up at a press conference to every fucking news organization in bloody Britain that we've not got any funding-"

"And they've got some of the press we haven't" Greg says grimly. "They've nicked half our press outlets."

"Jesus _Christ-"_

"Oh, shut up, Tom-"

"Is there a reason you're not acting like this is a fucking disaster, Roberts-"

"Yeah, well, the last thing we need is you fucking it up again-"

"Would every fucking one of you just calm down?" Anna's already pulling out her phone. "I'm calling Spencer-"

"Oh, yeah, fantastic-why don't you have him give an interview to the_ Sun_ again-"

"Oh, would you _shut up-"_

"You know what, don't call Spencer-" Bob's holding his hands up. "Because that would mean him getting the information from Tim, and I don't even know if they're speaking-"

"We don't know if they're _speaking-_are you _kidding me-"_

"Let's face it, nobody speaks to Tim-"

"Oh, yeah, let's get _Tim_-let the bloody Reformed _Monk _grab a hymn sheet and fucking _preach_ to us-"

"You know they don't-" Anna points out.

"Anna, seriously, why don't you call the Sun-"

"Oh, Tom, why don't you go and phone Alastair and cry-"

"Oh, that's fucking_ it-"_

"For Christ's sake, would you all _shut up-"_ Greg's already got out his phone, hissing. "Tim-we need you to get hold of the IFS figures _now,_ for fuck's sake-"

"They've got May out!" Tom almost stabs his phone with his finger. _"They've got May out!_ And fucking Hague-"

"Would everyone just _be quiet-"_ Rachel's texting furiously. "We've got to find a way to spin this for Ed-"

"For God's sake, there _is _no way to spin this for Ed" Bob mutters. "The Tories are spinning it this way and they've got most of the bloody press in Britain at their event and not ours, and we've got to blow it to pieces or it's going to blow anything that Ed says right out of the fucking water."

Greg's hissing now. "Tim, I don't bloody care what your issues are with Spencer, fucking get hold of him _now-"_

"Burnham's out there, we could get some of his people on it-"

"Torsten's out there-"

"You can't text him, what the hell can he do?"

* * *

"Who is best placed to finish the job and do so fairly?"

He has to glance down, just for a moment, and he tells himself it's to collect his thoughts.

In his head, he can see himself last May, sitting in his study, Miriam at his side. The boys had been in bed-thank God the boys had been in bed-Tim's voice had been in his ear, the occasional shout from the car park he was calling from echoing down the line like a call from the past, which had seemed a far happier place to be.

Nick doesn't think about whether it still does or not.

_This is the best way,_ Ryan had said in the car, tossing an apple from hand to hand. _Look at it this way. We're almost definitely going to end up in a coalition._

James had given Nick a wink, reached out, and shoved his shoulder gently. _We should be more relaxed. We're basically the only party that's guaranteed to be in government._

He's right, of course, but still-

"The biggest threat to our economy, and our public services-"he says, and he's hurrying over the words a little. "Is Labour and the Conservatives-"

He tries to get the words out as quickly as possible.

_We need enough seats for a coalition._

"Both of which are resorting to type as the election approaches."

_You saw the results_, he'd said last May, chewing his nails, phone pressed into his ear, dying for a cigarette. _They were disastrous._

_Yeah, I know._

_If we're still like that next year, we'll be slaughtered in a General Election._

_Nick-_

_Do you think I should go?_

"Labour says-" He raises his hands, and it's not hard to fake scorn here. No matter what he thinks of Ed, it's hard _not_ to feel scorn.

""Trust us, we'll fix the economy and raise living standards."" He pauses, quickly, too quickly. "But they won't. They are a clear and present danger to the recovery." George's dossier flashes through his mind. If it weren't for the stunt George pulled before Christmas, Nick would find it hard not to grin.

"Their economic policy consists of huge borrowing and _total denial-"_ _emphasise that bit, Cameron and Osborne bloody will be-"_Of their responsibility for what happened last time."

_You know this reduces our chances of going into coalition with them_, Jonny had pointed out.

James had snorted. _Ed Miliband damages our chances of going into coalition with them_, he'd remarked, tugging a draft page closer. _In more ways than one._

"We've already had the risible sight of Ed Balls claiming Labour are the party of the centre ground. He is the man who, as City Minister-"

_Not enough people remember this about Balls, make sure they do._

"Let the banks get away with utterly irresponsible behaviour, now claiming he's the guy you can trust with the economic recovery. It's like waking up to a late-night voicemail from an ex, telling you it will all be different if you just give them one more chance-"

_I don't think stepping down's going to fix this, Nick._

_Then what will_, and the words had come out more plaintive and desperate than he could have expected, and maybe that was what scared him.

Tim had waited for an interminably long time before speaking. Then, voice lower now, he'd said simply, _I don't know._

* * *

Even though George had known what William was going to say beforehand, it's still enjoyable to hear his Yorkshire voice rounding itself on the words. George amuses himself by imagining the wide-eyed look on Miliband's face when he hears this.

Imagining Balls' expression isn't quite as fun but then, maybe for Dave, imagining Miliband's isn't quite so fun, either.

"In June 2013, Ed Miliband and Ed Balls vowed that they would exercise "iron discipline" when it came to controlling Labour's frontbenchers' spending proposals-"

The words _iron discipline_ just makes George think of Balls miming a whip across the House of Commons, and he lowers his eyes quickly, biting the inside of his cheek hard.

"No matter that this was the same iron discipline on public spending that Gordon Brown promised in his 1996 Party Conference speech-"

George feels a grin push at his mouth harder. Perfect. Brown's name, kryptonite for Labour, dripping with falling pounds and echoing with the last few coins rattling around in the bank for Britain's voters. Trust William to pull it out of the bag.

_"This_ time, they said, it would be _different."_ And William's beating Miliband at his own game now, with the facts and dates he's gathered and George feels a rush of fierce pride in his former boss.

"Ed Balls, the Shadow Chancellor, made a crystal-clear promise on the 3rd of June 2013." William glances down. "He said any changes to spending plans for 2015-16 must be fully funded-"

Typical Balls, George can't help but think, shuffling his own papers. Knowing him, he probably didn't even think the promise through-just thought he'd wriggle it in somehow. George might not dislike him but he knows that Balls loves the sound of his own voice and the idea of him blurting out a promise he's got no idea how to carry out is pretty easy to picture.

"Today, we are publishing a document-the document in front of you-showing that Ed Miliband and Ed Balls have failed to deliver this promise."

George has to fight not to grin. Jackpot. He wonders if William will get a koala.

"Since Ed Balls made his vow, Labour frontbenchers have promised £23.26 _billion_ in spending increases-" William pauses for the slightest moment. "But only _£2.52_ billion of proposals to raise revenue."

Perfect.

"That means, for the year 2015-16-Labour frontbenchers have made net unfunded spending commitments-" William looks up. "Totalling £20.7 billion, equivalent to £1,199 more borrowing for _every working household in Britain."_

George mentally counts how many koalas Lynton will now have to replenish.

"It would mean higher taxes for hardworking familes, higher mortgage rates, more debt for our children to repay-"

* * *

"Now, you know, I think it's fair to say that in the next four months, there will be the sound and fury of elections-" Ed looks around at the crowd. "But I actually think it's rather-going to come down to something rather simple at this election."

He looks around, conscious of Stewart's voice in his head-_This'll be the bit that's remembered, you've got to make it count-_

"It's about who we are. It's about how we want to live together. And it's about how we succeed as a nation."

He looks up, raises his voice a little-_make sure you get the message across, make it count_-"This is nothing less than a once in a generation fight about who our country works for."

His voice raises a little of its' own accord. "It's a choice between a Tory plan where only a few at the top can succeed and our public services are threatened-"

They'll see that. They have to see that. Everyone can.

His hands clench a little tighter on the podium. "Or a Labour plan that puts working people first, deals with the deficit, and protects our NHS."

The thing is, they can do it. They _can_, if they're just given the_ chance_ to.

"We have a Government that will say: stick to their plan." He looks around. "They really think _this_ is as good as it gets."

_Better than this, we can do better than this-_

"But you know why that is?" He looks out at them. "They're the pessimists. They're the _pessimists _about what is achievable for Britain and the British people-"

_They don't believe things can change. But things have. They've changed before-_

"And between now and the election, they will find all kinds of ways to tell you that change isn't possible." He lifts his hands. "Just as the pessimists have always done down the years. That change that puts working people first can't be done."

He stands up straighter, because this, at least, is a pattern. "But I don't believe them-and I don't think you should believe them, either."

He looks out. "We've done it before as a country, in the face of even greater challenges, and we can do it again."

He can hear his voice getting louder. "It is seventy years this year since Britain won the Second World War and went on to win the peace-"

_Make it inspiring, emphasise it-_

"Think about the challenges that_ that_ generation were facing." He turns round, his voice quickening of its' own accord. _"They _didn't sit back and put up with what they'd seen before! With the dark days of the Depression-they said never again!" He turns. _"They _didn't let negativity win the day and say there was no other way! Instead, they started to rebuild-"

Because it's _true._ They don't need to worry about the polls because people will _realise-_

"Rebuild with an economy that works for _all_ working people. Rebuild by honouring everyone who works hard. Rebuild by standing up to the powerful forces, those who need to be held to account. Rebuild by dealing with their debts responsibly for the good of the next generation. Rebuild by protecting our vital public services, including our NHS-"

He looks round once more. _"That_ is what our plan for Britain's future will do. _That _will be our task again. Let's go out and fight for the chance to make it happen. Thank you very much."

He says it even before the applause breaks out, the cheers, and he can't stop smiling. Because he knows now. He knows they can do it. They're listening. They can do it.

"Thank you very much" he says again and he listens, smiles, as they applaud it, their plan for the country, their plan for the future.

His plan.

His plan. Not Cameron's.

That thought sends a jolt of confusion through him and Ed isn't sure why so he smiles harder. Because he should be happy.

He should be.

* * *

"But it _won't _be different. Labour will borrow and borrow. Under Labour, we could be paying millions a year just on the interest on our debt-money that _should_ be spent on schools, hospitals and frontline public services instead."

He pauses, as if that will somehow soften what's about to come next.

_You think it's my fault, don't you?_ Nick had asked, in a sudden burst of anger or frustration or masochism. Or maybe a bit of all three.

There'd been too long a pause before Tim had said _No._

"On the other hand-" His voice is a little louder, almost bright. "You have the Conservatives."

He looks down again. Just to collect his thoughts.

"Unveiling posters saying we are on the road to a stronger economy. And indeed, we should be." Another pause.

_We need to get seats or it will lock us both out of government._

"But they don't plan to_ stay_ on the road. They plan to stray far from it. They're trying to sell you an ideological approach to cuts to public services, packaged up as continuity."

_If it's my fault, I should step down. _Miriam's hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"It's a con. It's like a mobile phone salesman offering your existing contract and cutting the number of calls you can make-"

It's longer than he remembers it, the speech, but at some moments, he wonders if everything can really be summed up in those two sections.

Two sides.

Tories. Labour.

Which to pick.

* * *

"Yet Labour still have not learnt" Theresa is saying, looking out at the cameras, her voice polished, smooth. "Our document today shows that they have made net unfunded spending commitments of just over £1 billion for the Home Office and Ministry of Justice in 2015-16 alone-"

Home Office. Business. Education. Foreign Office.

George smiles to himself, as they blow holes in every one of Labour's spending plans. He can even put up with it being Theresa saying it.

It's not even just that they need to win. Not even just that this is necessary, that the economy needs to be hammered through every sentence they say, the economy and how they've rescued it. It's that Labour need to lose.

George doesn't have a clue what Miliband sees when he closes his eyes-he suspects it's something to do with a Marxist housing block and himself being hailed as a conquering hero of social justice, if not David begging at his feet for mercy-either David-but he sometimes wonders what he sees when he opens them. If he ever has them open at all.

But all he can think is that Miliband must be stupid or blind or some odd mixture of both, because he pushes it away, every time, the fact that Labour got it wrong. They're words Miliband can't seem to bear to touch, because it taints this perfect vision he has of a world where everyone walks round hand in hand in circles and bank accounts are perfectly equal.

George glances at William and wonders how strange this is for him. Maybe it doesn't seem so many years ago that William stood outside CCHQ, the June sunshine too gentle on their skin, and read out a resignation speech.

They can't go back there, ever.

Blair's second election victory. Blair hammering home a landslide. Blair, seeming like he'd be there, living in Downing Street forever.

They can never go back there again, ever.

But he still wonders how it feels for William. William, who wore a baseball cap in a hundred pictures and was scribbled into a hundred caricatures, and coped with a hundred headlines.

William, to be throwing the same things at Miliband now.

But Labour didn't hesitate to throw this at them.

So, George thinks with a grin, they shouldn't hesitate now that the shoe's on the other foot.

* * *

"Did you tell him?" Rachel appears at Torsten's side, grabbing at his sleeve, even as he keeps clapping.

He keeps smiling at Ed, flashing him a thumbs-up, and speaks to Rachel out of the corner of his mouth. "Exactly when would I have had the fucking chance to tell him, Rachel, when I climbed on stage and threw away his microphone?"

"Well, you've got to tell him-" Rachel is staring at Ed with a perfectly composed grin, while she stamps furiously on Torsten's foot. "You've got to tell him, the fucking media's here-they'll end up asking something about the press conference, the Tories will have been fucking briefing them-or he won't know which ones aren't here, for God's sake-"

"We're going to take some questions-we've got some party members here-" Ed's speaking and Rachel groans, almost grinding Torsten's foot into the floor. "Too bloody late."

"Yes, and for my _foot."_ Torsten wrenches it back furiously. "Do you _mind?"_

Rachel doesn't deign to respond-instead, she just glowers and, with what's almost a toss of her blonde hair, says "Tell him it was great. James and I are going to have to stop him being mobbed. After that, no doubt every right-wing hack will want a piece of him-"

With that, she disappears, leaving Torsten nursing a conceivably broken toe and a vague but horribly growing sense of apprehension.

* * *

"A strong coalition government, with Liberal Democrats anchoring it in the centre ground and not lurching to the extremes of left or right-" Nick looks out at them, everyone who believes him more than he does. "Remains the best way to make sure we finish the job and finish it fairly."

They're asking for a coalition, he realises, and he almost has to laugh, because _they're asking for a coalition. _And it shouldn't be so funny, but it is, because he still remembers 2010 all too clearly, the high of it all, like a constant soaring in his chest, the feeling that _yes._ This was it. They'd make a difference.

And now he's standing here in front of a crowd of people who believe in him more than he does, and they're asking for another coalition.

Asking.

And he can remember Tim's voice last May, sharper suddenly, firmer. _You can't step down, Nick. You can't._

_How is me staying going to help?_ He'd forced the words out, felt Miriam's hand clench more tightly on his shoulder. _You know it's aimed at me._

A pause, then _You leaving wouldn't help anything._

Tim's voice had been flat, resigned, over the words that weren't a denial.

"That is why a vote in May for the Liberal Democrats is the only vote for economic security against economic turmoil-"

_Why wouldn't it help?_ he'd asked, before he could consider whether or not he wanted to know the answer.

"For stability against uncertainty-"

He hadn't even wanted to resign, or he'd thought he hadn't, but something had made him keep asking, the same feeling rising in his chest that he used to get every week on the radio. An awful anticipation, over a doomed, resigned feeling of just wanting to hear it, in case it wasn't worse than his thoughts.

"And for the national interest against petty populism-"

Tim's voice had been sharper, a little wrought.

"That is the case I will make every week, 'til May-"

_Because it's not fair to foist the state we're in on anyone else, now._

"A prosperous, secure future for our country depends on it. Thank you very much."

The applause breaks out. Nick glances down at his notes one more time, the same way he had when he'd heard Tim's words burst out on the other end of the phone, Miriam's eyes finding his as he sat in his study, wondering if you could actually feel a party disintegrate, and he tries to soak in the applause from all these people for whom party disintegration is the last thing on their minds.

He tries. He tries his best.

* * *

Nicky and Sajid have given the same warnings, quieter but just as important.

_Hammer it home._

_The economy._

_Stick to the argument._

"So, at a time of global economic instability, there's a simple choice facing the British people in May" Sajid is saying, quietly, but looking around at the whole room. "Stay on the road to a stronger economy with David Cameron's long-term economic plan, a plan that is securing a better future for Britain, for hardworking taxpayers, ah-for our children."

That's something they know Miliband will stick in, George remembers-the Conservatives hate young people, etc.

But of course, it's easy to promise all the things you'll give to young people when you're not in power and the money's just a fantasy.

"Or...Ed Miliband" and even Sajid manages to sound contemptuous. "Offering no economic plan for the future-just more of the same wasteful spending, borrowing and higher taxes that got us into this mess in the first place. In short-"

Sajid pauses and George can hear the words, the words that Lynton wants hammered home through every speech now, every line.

"Competence-" Sajid lets the word linger. "Or chaos."

George feels himself relax a little. Competence vs chaos. Competence vs chaos.

Cameron vs Miliband.

That's what they've got to bring home.

Robinson's up with the first question-of course he is, and George bites his lip, remembering some of the anecdotes David's regaled him with about Robinson in his university days. The first part's just something about some specific promise that George will pull something out about in a minute and then the second-

"One other question-before Christmas, at times, it looked like you were focusing on an election against each other after defeat at the General Election. Are your minds on winning this or the next Tory leadership election?"

There's a couple of laughs, but George feels a surge of pride that no one jeers or catcalls at Nick. Labour might say the Tories are the party of image but at least, George thinks, they know how to conduct themselves.

He leans forward, the way David has a tendency to, which Lynton loves._ Looks relaxed, almost like you can't be bothered with the question._

"Well, first of all, we're very focused on making sure that Britain's economic recovery continues-that requires a Conservative government and our long-term economic plan under the strong leadership of David Cameron-"

George isn't stupid-he knows what David has planned. That one day, he'll stand down graciously, go out in a blaze of glory, and then walk George in to take his place. He knows David might not even be aware of this himself-that it's just the glimmer of an idea, albeit one that's been seized on by almost everyone they know and most people they don't.

It might be David's plan. George just doesn't know if it's his own.

But this is the second thing Lynton wants them to emphasise and George has to fight a twitch at his mouth and an urge to thank Robinson-he's actually just done them a favour with that question, allowed them to kill two birds with one stone.

"Now in _our_ party, _our _leader is one of our strongest _assets_ in this General Election-" He can feel a smile hovering. "In the Labour party, _their_ leader is one of their _weaknesses-"_

There's a few indrawn breaths and then a scattering of laughter, and then-George has to fight the urge to arch his eyebrows in surprise at the small round of applause that breaks out at that-not just from his own party, he realises, glancing around, but from-bloody hell, from some of the _press._

Christ, they knew Miliband was _unpopular_, but that's something _else._

* * *

Andy is fairly used to watching Ed do speeches but doing them when the Tories are just up the road doing the same thing is a little different.

It's also a little different when he's almost knocked over by Rachel Kinnock, looking both more flustered and more hysterically dangerous than he's ever seen her.

"Hey-" He steadies her with his arm. "Everything all right?"

Rachel hisses. In Andy's general experience, it's rarely a good sign when women hiss.

"What is it?" He glances up quickly at Ed, mindful of the fact they're surrounded by media.

Rachel glances about, curses, then grabs Andy's arm. "You've got Balls' number, haven't you?"

Andy blinks. "Yeah, 'course, but-"

Rachel sighs. "Well, usually, I'd get hold of Alex, but you're here. Get hold of him and tell him he might have to start working on figures. The Tories have gone to fucking town on this dossier thing-they've just done a press conference full of bullshit that could grab every headline and make Ed look like a fucking idiot."

Andy blinks. "I'm not sure that's the usual function of bullshit, but-"

"Did you miss the part where I mentioned Ed looking like a fucking idiot?"

"OK, OK." Andy would point out that Ed might be his leader, but everyone is painfully aware of the elephant in the room, which is that the person most capable of looking like a fucking idiot is, in fact, Ed.

"What is it?" he says, already texting Katy to get hold of the other Ed as soon as possible. "What are they saying about the dossier now?"

Rachel hisses, looks away, then back and then leans up, whispering in Andy's ear. "They're still saying the £20 billion worth of unfunded promises thing, only now they claim to have figures backing it up, there's Osborne, May, Hague, and two others there, and they've nicked half our media."

"WHAT?" Andy nearly jumps out of his skin, spinning to look at her. Rachel grabs his arm, as half the people nearby turn to look at them.

_"What?"_ he manages, in a fierce whisper this time.

"Yes, _what-"_ Rachel hisses and Andy steps back, warily. "Don't you dare step on my fucking foot-"

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Yes, _what _and _yes_, it's going to make every fucking headline, and _yes_, it will mean their release gets twice as much coverage as ours, and _yes_, it hits us right on the economy, which, _yes_, is where we're weakest." She folds her arms. "And now we might have to get Balls working on a rebuttal, since that bloody Guardian article didn't work-"

"It had better not be true!"

"Of course it's not _true-"_ Rachel almost spits the word. "It's just more twists and exaggerations-" She glances at her phone. "Oh _great_, Morgan and Javid, _that's_ the other two they've got up there-" She shakes her head, curses. "I've got to go backstage, I'm supposed to be there when Ed gets off-oh, get your mind_ out_ the fucking gutter, Burnham-"

Andy finds it easier to do this than he should, partly because Rachel's shoes are rather worryingly near his foot and also because his mind has already latched onto something she just said.

Rachel squeezes his arm. "And Ed-" She jerks her head at the stage. "Doesn't hear a word of this conversation." With that, she's gone, leaving Andy to stare for a moment after the blonde head retreating and then turn back to his phone.

"Fuck" he mutters, wondering if he should call Ed directly or Jon or the other John or just go straight for Alex. Perhaps all four.

And it's those words-_twists and exaggerations-_that stick in his head and he can't help noticing that Rachel hadn't quite stretched that description to _lies._

"Norman Smith, BBC News" comes a familiar voice. Andy turns, but can't see him.

"Mr. Miliband, you've attacked the Tories for going negative in this campaign already, over the publication of the dossier about your spending commitments-"

Andy closes his eyes. Perfect.

If Ed's surprised, when Andy squeezes his eyes open an inch, he doesn't show it. Instead, he just keeps scribbling an answer and Andy stares at him, as Norman gets on with his question and it hits him-bloody hell, it wouldn't have been too difficult to give them all some kind of briefing to follow, for stuff like this-

Why the hell didn't they?

"Because you say it will be unrecognizable in five years' time, and yet Mr. Cameron has planned to ringfence the NHS Budget, an extra £2 million has been promised, and there has been no Winter Crisis-"

_The NHS_, Andy's brain supplies helpfully, if a few moments late.

"So aren't _you_ scaremongering over the NHS?"

The tide of jeers breaks out before Norman has even finished the sentence. Andy almost screams (which, incidentally, he hasn't done since he was very young and took a football in the wrong place.)

But, for God's _sake_, this is what people are going to see on their screens. A bunch of bleeding-heart socialists booing the nice guy from the BBC. And Ed might be holding up his hand, but that's hardly enough, and the bloody question makes_ sense_ more than anything.

So whose bloody side do they think people are going to take, people who don't have a clue about politics and wouldn't give a damn if you told them that guy could be the next Prime Minister-

_Could_ being the operative word, whispers the voice in Andy's head.

_Could_. Not _will._

Ed's answering the question and he's saying something about respect but, Andy thinks bitterly, the damage has already been done. People have already heard the reaction and, no matter how unfair Ed thinks it is, it will go down as Labour's reaction.

And, Andy thinks here before he can stop himself, he's not even sure if it's entirely unfair.

He only manages a slight grin when Ed mentions his name. The damage has already been done.

* * *

The applause is still dying down as Ed finishes his answer about the bedroom tax-and for God's _sake,_ what's Cameron_ thinking_ with that, it's _blatantly_ unfair-

And he doesn't understand, he reflects, as he looks around the room. He doesn't understand because-

His own words to Alastair echo in his head. _Cameron's not cruel-_

And he's_ not_, so why can't he-

Ed drags his mind back to his current surroundings, reflecting quickly that he should take more media questions, scratching his cheek-

"I'm going to take some more-journalists-do I have any broadcasters here?" he asks, on a whim-if they can get a question on every channel, so much the better-

"What do I-do I have ITV or Sky-" He glances about. No. No.

"Maybe not-" That's a disappointment but-

"Right-err, yes-this lady here?" he points, and only then realises that maybe he shouldn't have narrated a search for the broadcasters.

As it is, he just has to focus on the question now in front of him.

* * *

It's on the last question that George has to try not to cheer, because it could have been written for him to demonstrate economic competence and he can picture Lynton's face when he hears it, when he hears the answer George starts to give, and so he pauses for a moment before he delivers one of the lines they rehearsed, in amongst the facts and figures that he knows will find a home in some people's minds, no matter what the left-wing press try to spin it as.

"But also you have, if you like.....ahh, a snapshot of what the Labour party are offering this country-which is chaos, ill-discipline-ah, lack of fiscal control-this is, of course, when they've been trying to pretend they, er, wouldn't necessarily spend more money-and, and I think they've been exposed today-"

Lynton practically hammers _economic competence_ through every speech these days. Rupert and Juliet had agreed furiously, as had Thea, with Lynton nodding. _That's what you've got to fucking emphasise. We're credible. They're not._

_Stick it in._

_That sounds rather unorthodox._

_Shut up, Osborne._

He raises his voice a little, smile twitching at the memory, feeling the silent support radiating from William and Theresa on one side, Nicky and Sajid on the other. "And that, in the end, is the choice facing this country-"

_Status quo and improvement,_ Robert had said to both him and David. _Status quo and improvement._

"We either have a competent Conservative team delivering a long-term economic plan that is keeping us on the road to economic recovery-"

Emphasise it.

"Or we have the chaos of unfunded spending commitments, extra borrowing, extra taxes, that all the others offer."

_How many seats are we going for?_

_All of them._

"That's the choice, therefore-chaos and competence. And with the Conservative team, you get economic competence. Thank you very much. "

The applause breaks out. Theresa catches his eye and gives him a smile, which is a rare enough sight in itself. Only now as he steps back from the podium does George become aware of his heart, pounding against his chest.

But he can feel the smile trapped inside, fighting to get out.

_There's the message,_ Lynton's voice echoes in his head. _There's the message._

And they've delivered it.

* * *

Lynton's leaning over a table with Andrew and Ameet. "So if we focus solely on these homes-"

"We've got a better chance of getting votes-"

"Yes." Andrew rakes a hand through his hair. "Rather than running about all over the place-"

"And Tom and Craig are working on the Facebook targeting-here, we'll have to check the fucking conference in a minute, make sure the message is getting out-"

The door bursts open. Stephen's standing in the doorway, out of breath.

Stephen is not the type of person who ever looks out of breath.

Lynton stands up straight, rolls up his sleeves. "What is it?" he says calmly, while running through all the disasters that could have occurred and all the contingency plans in place for all of them, as well as a few less predictable ones-George has fallen over the podium, Theresa has crowd-surfed over the podium, David and Miliband have fallen out of a window, anything that doesn't involve falling-

Stephen shakes his head. "One of the researchers was talking to one of Robinson's colleagues down at the conference-"

"And?"

Stephen glances around, then grabs Lynton's sleeve and whispers in his ear.

"What the hell's going on?" Dan mutters to Ameet. "Miliband died or something?"

"Oh, Jesus-n_o-"_

"You never know-"

"Don't sound so fucking _hopeful-"_

They're cut off by Lynton slowly inhaling and exhaling.

Ameet eyes him doubtfully. "Lynton-"

Dan frowns. "Miliband hasn't jumped off something, has he?"

Ameet rolls his eyes and then stops at the sight of the slow, slow smile breaking over Lynton's face.

"Lynton?" Dan sounds just as, if not more, concerned by the smile.

Lynton closes his eyes and exhales again. Then, he opens them and claps Stephen on the arm.

"Come on" he says quietly. Stephen, beaming, follows him to the door.

"Oh-" Lynton turns back to Ameet. "Do me a favour-"

Ameet blinks. "Sure-"

"Go under my desk." Lynton beams, beams insanely. "And get me a kangaroo."

Ameet and Dan stare at him.

Lynton claps Stephen on the shoulder once more as they head out the door.

"The fucking largest kangaroo you can find."

* * *

"So, Stage Three in preparing for the Princess of Darkness-"

David shakes his head. "Don't say Princess" he advises Philip, through a mouthful of oatcake. "It'd be like saying it to Harriet."

"Oh no." Graeme shakes his head, as does Philip's Graham. "Harriet would just chew you up for a while."

"While Merkel would expel you in a fiery speech" adds Gabby.

"Consisting of your entrails" concludes Hayden.

Clare glances up. "I'm going to go out on a limb and suppose I shouldn't put any of that in the speech-"

Craig's phone rings and David reaches for a blue sharpie as Craig answers. He doodles on the piece of paper and glances up at Philip. "Well, if Europe's on the agenda-"

"Excuse-" Craig's holding out the phone. "Prime Minister-Lynton for you-"

David frowns, reaches for the phone. "Lynton? It's David-"

Philip glances at Craig. "Something wrong with George?"

"Start the list-" mutters Hayden. Gabby pushes his arm gently.

"David-" Lynton's voice sounds as though it's stretching over a smile. David honestly can't tell if that's good or bad. "How do you like to receive good news?"

David frowns. "What, the "dodgy dossier" stuff is good news?"

"Oh, forget the dodgy dossier stuff. It's gone. It's out the window." Lynton's laughing and David sits up straight again. "What?"

Lynton cackles. "Remember that interview with Robinson Miliband did a couple of months back-mini conference sort of thing-"

David casts his mind back. "Ah-vaguely-" He remembers Miliband mentioning something about it before Christmas, when David had told him that he had an interview with Robinson-after the last PMQs session, it had been-

Lynton chuckles. "You know how Miliband's little pet complaint rather tends to be the NHS?"

The entire office is now watching him. David grips the phone a little tighter. "Yes-"

"Well, Miliband has just grabbed the NHS, turned it into a giant sword, and rammed it, with a big, fat grin, up his own arse."

David blinks. "Aside from the fact that's almost definitely not literal-I hope-"

_""Weaponized", _David" Lynton says, with a grin David can hear. "That's what Miliband wants to do to the NHS."

David blinks. "I'm sorry?"

_"Weaponize."_ Lynton stretches the word out. "That's what Miliband told Robinson he wants to do. Well, Robinson and a whole room full of journalists. He told them that for their campaign strategy, he and Labour are planning to_ weaponize the NHS."_

There's a long moment while the words sink in. David sits back. "What?"

"Yep." Lynton's beaming, David can tell from his voice. "And you, Prime Minister, are going to sit on that little piece of information, and keep it nice and safe under your arse, until you are ready to throw it in Miliband's face at PMQs on Wednesday."

David has to sit very still for a moment, his mind still reeling from how Miliband could possibly have been so stupid as to use the phrase, let alone in front of a room full of bloody journalists, but then he manages to clear his throat. "I see."

He tries to say something else, but all he can manage is "I see."

The letters are there in his mind, vaguely, but suddenly he can feel the cold metal of bars pressed into cheeks, the hardness of a tiled floor through his knees. The tiny knuckles of his son's hand, the tip of his finger running over them again and again. _Hey, Ivan _over and over. _Ive-Ive, _hoping that his son can hear somehow, even as his breath rasps at his throat.

_Weaponize the NHS._

Something hard and cold is curling in his stomach.

"Can't imagine that'll play well with the electorate" Lynton's saying, his voice curling up around a smile. "With doctors, nurses, being used as Miliband's political weapon-"

The doctor gives Sam a squeeze around the shoulders, a nurse offering quietly to take her to the canteen, _rest up and take turns here._

"Not to mention all the parents of sick kids-"

David hears a muffled exclamation on the other end of the phone, the sounds of something like a scuffle, and then, very clearly, a furious hiss of _"Shut up!"_

There's a pause then, "Shit-_shit_, David-"

David shakes his head, because it's not how Lynton meant it-

He knows it's not how_ Lynton _meant it-

"Shit, David-sorry, I didn't mean it like-"

David finds his voice from somewhere deep in his throat. "It's fine" he manages, quickly. "It's fine. I know you didn't mean it like-"

"Of course not-"

"I know. Lynton, it's fine, honestly. I know you didn't mean it like-"

_You_ didn't-

But he-

There's a pause, then "But anyway, that's what he's said." Another pause, then "If you don't want to use it-"

_Weaponize the NHS-"_We're using it."

It bursts out his mouth before he can even stop it, the cold hard curling in his chest fanning into something hot and furious, something that makes him grip the phone tighter, his heart suddenly hammering. "He's not getting away with that. We're using it. And besides, people deserve-"

It lances into him, suddenly, the certainty-people deserve to know. They deserve to know what Miliband thinks of it.

"Are you sure? We-"

That's what Miliband thinks of-

Thinks of-

A political _weapon-_

"Yes" he says, his voice suddenly low and fierce and quiet. "Yes, I'm sure."

Lynton's saying something else now, but David's breathing hard, his heart hammering. He knows he's looking out at his office, but all he can see is his own hand, one finger poked through a hole in a tank, his son's tiny grip curled around it.

He could do this, he'd thought then, numb from sitting in a chair for hours, eyes stinging with tiredness. Even now, Ive could do this one thing everyone else can do.

_Weaponize-_

"Who else can I share it with?" he asks, his voice suddenly stronger now, almost trembling.

"Aides and ministers. And George. Breathe one word to the fucking press and we're dead, he'll mount a defence. And I want to see Miliband become a fucking deer, staring into the biggest pair of headlights he's ever seen, come Wednesday lunchtime."

After David ends the call, he lowers the phone and takes a deep breath, before raising his eyes to meet the sea of confused faces in front of him.

Craig's brow is furrowed. "David-"

"What's happened?" Graeme's voice is low, and Hayden and Philip exchange the briefest of worried glances. Gabby is already up, heading around the desk towards him.

"David-"

"Can I sidetrack for a moment?" It comes out strong. It doesn't come out trembling.

Philip nods slowly. The rest of them exchange glances.

David tries to force a smile. It doesn't come as easily as usual.

But it still comes.

He can see Ivan's little face, a bluish tinge around his lips.

_Weaponize._

He clears his throat. "I have something to tell you."

* * *

"Well, Rupert says Labour are already peddling the "dodgy dossier" headline" George says, with a quick glance at Sajid. "Just imagine what the _Mirror _will do with that. They'll probably be blown away by the concept of alliteration-"

"Which Labour probably want out of the National Curriculum" Nicky mutters, and George sniggers.

"It's probably Baldwin's idea" Sajid points out, texting frantically. "Used to work for them, remember."

"Oh, so _that's _why he thinks he's the next Campbell" William says, with a grin. "I wondered why he seemed like the vastly inferior sequel-"

"I didn't know you were aware of the term _sequel,_ William-"

William gives Nicky an amused warning look and George reaches for his phone, which is once again vibrating in his pocket, wondering what Rupert neglected to tell him that's become a matter of vital importance in the last few minutes.

"Anyway, wasn't it the _Times-" _He lifts his phone. "Hello-Lynton?"

Two minutes later, Theresa taps William's shoulder. "We'll need to get back soon. David's rather going to need help preparing for Merkel-"

"Doesn't everyone need help preparing for Merk-" William's voice trails off as he turns back to George. George is slowly lowering his phone, a strange expression descending over his face.

"Chancellor?"

Sajid and Nicky both stop and look back slowly, confusion dawning on both their brows at George's expression.

"Chancellor?" William touches George's arm. "Have you just discovered that the deficit has magically fixed itself in the last few minutes-"

"Or doubled" Theresa remarks, eyeing George the way one would eye a foaming dog. "We can't really tell, from that look-"

Theresa's voice is cut off by George starting to laugh. He stands there, the eyes of Theresa, William, Sajid, Nicky and most of their aides on him and laughs, furiously, until he's wiping his eyes and his chest is aching.

George stands upright, scrubs at his eyes once more. He takes in the crowd around him, then motions to Theresa and William, who are watching him as though rather fearful for his sanity.

"Chancellor-"

George shakes his head, feeling a grim smile make its' way to his mouth, the word _weaponized _ringing in his ears and furious, righteous triumph kindling in his chest. "I have something to tell you."

* * *

Nick waits until the others have left the room before he remarks "George looked happy."

For a moment, a slightly wry smile flickers at David's mouth. But then he just remarks "Did he?"

Nick knows David rather well, and he knows when David's hiding something, but at the moment, his mind is more on the way he and George had avoided each other's eyes for most of the meeting. Fortunately, Danny had more than made up for it while the rest of the Cabinet had seemed, mercifully, not to notice.

Though, technically, they are only a Cabinet for the next two months, now.

"You know that things are going to be tense, don't you?" David says, a few moments later. Nick isn't shocked. He knows David, the way he irons out pleasantries over whatever less pleasant information he has to give.

"Well-" he says, aiming for a lighter tone. "I suppose so. Given _"Who knows what they say-""_

David's brow furrows for a moment, then clears as he laughs a little. "Oh-Marr." He smiles, but it's a little sadder now. "Well-yes. We heard your speech."

Nick smiles, or tries to.

"Well, we just wanted to clarify-"

_We_, thinks Nick. It's you telling me, but it's a _we._

"That this doesn't get in the way of working together-"

David keeps his hands carefully separate. Nick is used to that, knows it's a sure sign that David's guarded, careful, waiting.

We're a _We,_ he thinks again. An Us and a Them.

Out loud, he says "Of course not. We're grown ups."

David grins, though a little smaller this time. "Good-I mean-we've done good work together. It would be a shame to squander it now-"

Nick clears his throat, and that letter feels like a weight in his chest. "Though-about the TV debates-"

David doesn't say anything, but raises an eyebrow.

"Well, we've heard quite a bit from your side-" Nick keeps his voice light, carefully. "That you're still not planning on taking part."

David doesn't look shocked-instead, he just nods. "That's correct, yes."

Nick clears his throat. "You do know that could play rather badly for you? Against Miliband-"

David laughs. "It's not about whether it plays badly for me. It's not a fair debate if all seven parties aren't included-"

Nick shakes his head. "Don't give me that" he says. "You know it's nothing to do with fairness. If you debate Miliband-"

David's eyes narrow for the slightest moment and Nick can't quite tell whether he's annoyed or impressed. But then, his brow clears. "You've seen the records" he says, fairly easily. "You know what the likelihood is if someone's lagging behind in the polls-"

"But if you don't participate-" Nick laughs himself, because the idea that the public won't even get a head-to-head debate between Cameron and Miliband-"Aren't you concerned-you know, the effect-people thinking you just don't want to defend your record-"

David laughs. "You mean people will say I'm running scared?"

Nick raises an eyebrow. "It's not improbable, but the thing is, you're the one who-" He flounders for a moment. "The debates in 2010 were welcomed. And you pushed for them. If you refuse to do these, it could turn a lot of people off. Piss off a lot of voters."

David laughs again. "Nick, do you _really _imagine Lynton hasn't considered every inch of this-"

It's the Cameron side coming out. The Cameron side. Nick's all too familiar with the Cameron side.

He sets his jaw. "It could be seen as undemocratic if you won't debate Miliband-"

David bursts out laughing. When Nick stares at him, David just stares back, laughter still shaking his chest.

"You must be kidding-"

"I'm not-"

David's laughing again. "Have you _seen_ Ed Miliband's poll ratings recently?"

Nick has to admit that he can see why they'd be a source of hilarity for the Tories.

But there's something there, clinging to Miliband's name in David's voice-a sort of fierce triumph, a sort of-

A sort of viciousness.

"The guy is like-" David gestures with one hand. "A boxer who is on the floor."

"David-"

David grins, sits back in the chair. "Why on earth should I give him the chance to get back up?"

Nick knows that David-their David-and indeed, James, will want him to get Cameron on board. But then-

This is about Cameron and his own interest, and he's being-

Well.

Nick just hadn't expected him to be so clear about it.

But he is, and that leaves Nick with very little he can appeal with because if he's honest with himself, no TV debate with Ed Miliband would probably be the best option for David. And whatever Nick's offering can't top the prospect of a boost over Labour.

Even though, without TV debates, other parties are likely to do substantially worse. Including the Lib Dems.

Perhaps especially the Lib Dems.

Nick swallows. It's an election.

David stares at him and then, in a slightly bewildered tone, says "Nick, I have no interest in letting these debates go ahead."

Nick frowns. "Miliband" he says on a whim, and David's jaw seems to clench-

Just for a second, his jaw clenches. His eyes narrow.

Then, just as suddenly as it happened, the look's gone. "What about him?"

Nic opens his mouth then and realises he has no idea what he wanted to say.

Just that-the way David laughs with Miliband, sometimes, their eyes darting to and away from each other-

But then, Nick reminds himself, they've worked together for five years. And that doesn't make a difference.

It's an election.

He meets David's eyes. "Nothing" he says, and it's far easier than it should be.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Together We'll Ring In The New Year-Motion City Soundtrack-"I'm not smiling, behind this fake veneer/I am often interrupted or completely ignored/But most of all, I'm bored/I'm trying to find out if my words have any meaning/Lackluster and full of contempt when it always ends the same....Heads up, Damage Control/There's a ring around her finger/Last chance for changing lanes/And you missed it by a mile"_

_Banana Pancakes-Jack Johnson-"We could close the curtains/Pretend like there's no world outside/We could pretend it all the time/And can't you see that it's just rainin'/There's no need to go outside"_

_Debate Exposes Doubt-Death Cab for Cutie-"thinking (pretending to read) about the impossibility of one to love/Unconditionally and the words that we drive into the ground, their repetition/Starts to thin their meaning...I tried to choke my stare at the perfection that others would kill for/But all of the parts are the same on every face (few variables change)/The differences pale when compared to the similarity they share"_

_ Money Changes Everything-The Smiths _

_Hysteria-Motion City Soundtrack-"That said, it was no different from the others/Except that this is now and that was then and everything/Seems to repeat in a cyclical pattern/I hum myself to misery and wish these words against my pillow/..... I fall apart, I fall apart, I'm back where I began/If I were anybody else but you, I would not be afraid/A total calamity, the choices I have made/Come help me figure it out/Come help me, get it right this time around/If you can figure it out/Then you could help me loosen up, get me off the ground"_

_Heavy Soul-Clarkesville-"I've got nothing else to say to you/I'm all out of reasons and lines/I don't care about your problems/Most likely, you don't care about mine/You say you're sorry, no offence intended/But your contempt is plain to see/You're so quick to play the victim..I'm so tired of being everybody's runaround...And I'm tired of hearing everybody put me down"_

_Running Up That Hill-Placebo/Kate Bush-"You don't want to hurt me/But see how deep the bullet lies/Unaware I'm tearing you asunder/But there is thunder in our hearts/Is there so much hate for the ones we love/Tell me, we both matter, don't we?....It's you and me/If I only could/I'd make a deal with God/And I'd get him to swap our places/Be running up that road, be running up that hill/Be With no problems/See, if I only could, oh/...You, it's you and me/It's you and me won't be unhappy"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David and Elwen at the Tour de France:https://shutr.bz/2WXNzd9  
https://bit.ly/2WUOueA  
The interview David gives:http://dailym.ai/39GlM4r  
Ed and Dave did work together on climate change, which he talks about here (links for quotes at start): https://bit.ly/2wLAjNK  
https://bit.ly/3cIW8ho  
George started out working for Hague-his enmity with Theresa culminated in her sacking him in 2016, him targeting her once he was editor of the Evening Standard, and saying he wanted her "chopped up in bags in his freezer":https://bit.ly/39GB5KC  
https://bit.ly/33iCeFX  
https://bit.ly/2Q5c2cb  
https://bit.ly/2W3VQvI  
https://bit.ly/3cJSN1E  
https://player.fm/series/the-political-party/show-95-george-osborne-live  
https://bit.ly/39FCSj9  
Uncle Ed L=Ed Llewellyn:https://bit.ly/3aKFk7Q  
Bells=Isabel Spearman, who sometimes babysat the Cameron kids:https://bit.ly/33dDfyP  
http://dailym.ai/2vNfbqq  
https://bit.ly/2W8zLvQ  
https://bit.ly/2IzYgdz  
https://bit.ly/39Hei1h  
Ed's team and their animosity can be read about here: https://bit.ly/2vWxucv  
http://dailym.ai/336lZeV  
Ryan=Ryan Coetzee:https://bit.ly/2IDg080  
Stephen=Stephen Lotinga: https://bit.ly/337ZkyF  
Jonny=Jonny Oates:https://on.ft.com/38yMs5W  
James=James McGrory:https://politi.co/3359cJG  
James=James Holt:https://bit.ly/2vV3Vbs  
https://bit.ly/2TCU435  
The reasons for the animosity to Anna:https://bit.ly/2xtb9Uv  
http://dailym.ai/2wHCWAj  
Alex=Alex Belardinelli, Jon=Jon Newton: https://bit.ly/2vbSMmj  
Stephen=Stephen Gilbert: https://bit.ly/3356i7M  
Messina=Jim Messina, Obama's polling strategist who was sent personally by Obama to help David: http://dailym.ai/39G0FiR  
Grant=Grant Shapps, co-chairman of the party: https://bit.ly/2TVCQN7  
Andrew Feldman is David's close friend and was co-chairman of the party:https://bit.ly/2Q3Rcdn  
https://bit.ly/2xsbxTe  
Ameet=Ameet Gill:https://bit.ly/39HgJAX  
Clare=Clare Foges, David's speechwriter:https://bit.ly/38AI6Lr  
https://bit.ly/2vaYjtb  
Adam=Adam Atashzai, a Downing Street aide:https://bit.ly/3aDOwLg  
The other Craig is Craig Elder, who ran the Tories' digital campaign: https://bit.ly/3cHso4F  
The other George is George Bridges, who'd tipped George off to his first job:https://bit.ly/2TX2QYq  
https://bit.ly/33iux2x  
Rupert=Rupert Harrison, George's Chief Of Staff & Thea=Thea Rogers, one of his advisers: :https://bit.ly/2IHfEgl  
https://bit.ly/2Q1bUKH  
https://on.ft.com/2W0ymrp  
https://bit.ly/2TCyXOh  
Graeme=Graeme Wilson:https://bit.ly/39BEGJM  
Liz=Liz Sugg:https://bit.ly/2TEk6CR  
https://bit.ly/2TT1Ftf  
Hayden=Hayden Allan:https://politi.co/39FepKN  
Mary is David's mother:https://bit.ly/2W3Q2SW  
Sarah and Kate Fall are Florence's godmothers:http://dailym.ai/3aKMUj4  
Alex James is the frontman from Blur, whose NYE party the Camerons attended: https://bit.ly/336rMRH Geronimo, etc. are his kids:  
https://bit.ly/2TEk8L5  
Justine lost the case mentioned:https://bit.ly/2IBOjwe  
The story about Daniel & Richard Desmond is real:https://bzfd.it/3cO4vs8  
Ed in the pub and David M in Times Square:https://bit.ly/38BTwi5  
https://bit.ly/2xkFNiG  
http://dailym.ai/338FPpZ  
The book is one Ed and Justine read to the boys:https://bit.ly/2TYmzag  
https://bit.ly/39HVSx8  
David's kids are Modern Family & Harry Potter fans:https://bit.ly/2TZ5m0m  
https://bit.ly/2TFIXXe  
David M's family live in New York, where he is head of the IRC:https://bit.ly/3aKwtTG  
https://bit.ly/39BjzY5  
David and David M were quite friendly: http://dailym.ai/2IHRFxz  
https://bit.ly/339y17h  
https://bit.ly/39Jfq4y  
David M was talked out of toppling Brown by Ed and others in 2008:https://bit.ly/38Hj1i5  
https://bit.ly/2vVbIWK  
Maya is Craig Oliver's daughter, and Joanna his ex-wife:https://bit.ly/38CMFFi  
http://dailym.ai/2Q6n019  
The account of the Tories' decision of which Lib Dem seats to target:https://bit.ly/2wHJJKj  
David Laws uncovered a note "Sorry, there is no money" which the former Labour chief secretary left for the new government, which was used as a symbol of the Labour government's record by the Tories:https://bit.ly/3cMv293  
https://bit.ly/3aKPJ3E  
https://bbc.in/2TYm4xb  
Here is David beginning his campaign:https://bit.ly/33dMvTB  
https://bit.ly/2Q3VrFM  
https://bit.ly/2W8kdZn  
The poster mentioned:https://bit.ly/2v7qNUC  
David's interview:https://bit.ly/2TInq05  
Ed's interview:https://bit.ly/38E4S5d  
Ed's campaign launch:https://bit.ly/2Q6cVkR  
Nick's campaign launch:  
https://bbc.in/38IOdxo  
The Tory press conference:https://bit.ly/38LwKog


	2. A Windfall Of Weaponizing, Foreshadowing Of Freedoms And The Culinary Delights Of The Nocturnal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
TW: the death of a child, ableism and a terror attack and the ensuing fallout are discussed in this chapter. No offence is intended, but events mentioned in this chapter were directly related.  
The reference quotes at the start deal with the Charlie Hebdo attack, David and Nick building Florence's bedside cabinet together, Ed and David's set-to at PMQs, George and Danny Finkelstein's friendship, some of the prelude to the EU negotiations, David's bond with his daughter Nancy and Nancy's bond with her late brother Ivan.  
If you want to ask me anything about the fic, let me know what you like about it, or just chat, you can find me on my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
If you want to read any of the articles linked and can't, send me a message or an ask on Tumblr and I'll find a way for you to. Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Kirsty: **But it (Ivan's disability) means that every pregnancy is a gamble, so it's a big decision-**_

_David:** Yeah.**_

_Kirsty:**-even to have another pregnancy-and you had Nancy-she's two, is she?**_

_David:** She's two.**_

_Kirsty: **And she's fine?**_

_David: **She's fine-she's-um-wonderful-and-er-she's very good with him (Ivan) as well, actually, very protective and always cuddling him and-erm-looking after him.**_

_Kirsty: **And then this year you produced Arthur.**_

_David: **That's right.**_

_Kirsty: **And he's, he's also fine?**_

_David: **He, he-so far-look, (laughing) when I last saw him, rather early this morning, he was-er-**_

_(Kirsty laughs)_

_Kirsty: **But it must be a nerve-wracking business..**_

_David: **It is, because when-when Arthur and when Nancy were born, obviously we were watching them like hawks and so instead of that great elation of birth, there's still some elation but you're watching very-you know-are they going to make a strange movement, is everything going to be all right? And so the first week, two weeks, it's-it's very tense.**-David Cameron, speaking about his other children's relationship with their disabled brother Ivan on Desert Island Discs in 2006_

* * *

_Labour, he (Ed Miliband) says, will be turning up the heat on the NHS, warning the electorate of the twin Tory threats posed by cuts and privatization. Warming to his theme, he declares that he intends to **"weaponize"** the health service-in other words, to turn it into lethal political ammunition. I glance round the room to see who else has clocked the phrase...Nick wants David and George to commit to increasing spending on the NHS next year. He thinks that an old-fashioned crisis in the health service is the only thing that can save Ed. Ed clearly agrees. Having checked around, I've learned that others have also heard him speak of **"weaponizing"** the NHS..._

_**"You told the political editor of the BBC that you wanted to "weaponize" the NHS"** declares Cameron. It is, he adds, **"disgusting"** that Labour are **"playing football with the NHS."**_

_Ed Miliband does not deny it. He can't. Before Christmas, once I'd established that he'd been using the phrase beyond his meeting with BBC editors, I reported how he'd told his aides that this year they had to turn the problems in the health service into a weapon against the Tories. Some Downing Street adviser clearly noted this down and stored it away for future use as armour against the weapon Ed hoped to deploy.._

_The weaponizing story simply will not die. The Telegraph reports that Ed Miliband used the word when speaking to a group of BBC executives he'd invited in for a briefing. Given that there were more than a dozen people there, most of whom he'd never met before, it was hardly the place to say something and expect it never to be repeated.-"11th November 2014-17th November 2014-7th January 2015" Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_On 7 January 2015, Cameron is in the prime minister's office in the House of Commons preparing for PMQs, as reports start coming through of a terrorist attack in Paris at the offices of the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo. With events moving at rapid pace and uncertainty over the numbers involved, it is difficult to know the extent of the attack. One of his staff emails him: **"It looks bad."** Visibly perturbed, he opens PMQs at midday by condemning the "barbaric attacks."-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Osborne left his grotty bed-and-breakfast hotel on 4 October (1994) to attend the new leader's conference speech. He found a seat near (Danny) Finkelstein in the gaudy splendour of the Empress Ballroom. They knew of each other only vaguely through Julian Kenny, a friend of Osborne's who worked for Finkelstein's think tank, the Social Market Foundation. The two listened as Blair began his speech..This was followed by his most daring gesture. It was time for a **"clear and up-to-date"** statement of Labour's mission, he said. Osborne and Finkelstein, both of whom had followed Labour politics closely over the summer, knew what this meant. Blair's first major act as leader was going to be a change to Clause Four, the section of the party's constitution that notionally committed it to common ownership of the means of production-or, to put it simply and toxically, nationalisation. In one speech, Blair had shown that his appeal to the swing voters who had ignored Labour since the 1970s lay in more than his charisma and southern, middle-class identity. He actual policies and actual strategy were pitched unwaveringly to the centre ground. Stunned, Osborne and Finkelstein repaired to a nearby burger bar to talk. "**At that moment, we agreed that the Conservative Party would never win another election until it found an answer to what we had just heard"** recalls Finkelstein, now a columnist for The Times and perhaps the shrewdest analyst of the party in the media.** "We knew it was very profound, that it was going to change British politics. Our friendship was forged out of our common ability to see that.".**.From the day he commandeered Stafford Place's back-room during the leadership campaign, Osborne had excelled as a speechwriter, a job he sometimes shared with Finkelstein. Indeed, the friendship between this odd couple-the baronet-in-waiting and the football-mad immigrants' son, almost a decade older-deepened during these collaborations. They would work late in Smith Square, nourished by Finkelstein's beloved Diet Coke and takeaway dinners ordered by young David Gold, Hague's diary manager. The banter between the two was and remains something to behold.** "You could have sold tickets for it"** chuckles Hague, more than a decade on.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_My next task was to convince twenty-seven fellow EU leaders, and the body of the EU, that they should accept the contents of my four baskets-and do so unanimously. The period between May 2015 and February 2016 felt as if it was spent largely on board a series of ageing RAF planes. Various combinations of the key EU renegotiating team-Liz, Ed, Tom Scholar, Ivan Rogers, Nigel Casey, Daniel Korski, Mats Persson, Craig Oliver, Helen Bower-joined me, travelling from capital to capital, conference to conference and summit to summit. It would become the biggest diplomatic tour in recent history. I turned up at leaders' pet projects and obscure events. I visited non-EU countries' conferences just to grab a word with their EU attendees. I went to places no British prime minister had ever visited. I hosted the biggest players-Merkel, Hollande, Juncker and European Council president Donald Tusk-at Chequers. I ate my way around the continent. Indeed, over one forty-eight-hour period I had lunch in Rotterdamn, dinner in Paris, breakfast in Warsaw and lunch in Berlin-and when I got home to Oxfordshire for dinner, Manfred Weber, leader of the EPP, was there to meet me. Wherever I was, my objectives were the same. Get them to agree to post-dated treaty change-the Danish Model. Explain the four baskets, and that I needed the main elements in each. Insist that I was serious about securing a better settlement in order to keep Britain in the EU. Warn of the risks of under-delivering and seeing the UK exit the EU altogether. Above all, get them to see the British perspective. Explain the prize: Britain secure in Europe, and Europe stronger with Britain._

_The most important of the conversations started, of course, with Angela Merkel. From pow-wows at the margins of meetings to strolls through the Buckinghamshire countryside, she made it clear that she wanted to help. But it was also clear that she was distracted by the migration crisis. She welcomed the idea of post-dated treaty change, and was gradually softening on ever-closer union. She understood what we wanted on the euro, and while she fundamentally opposed it, she believed that compromise was possible. She was more sympathetic than most towards my proposed changes to welfare, because Germany had been similarly affected by benefit tourism. But she was adamant that we had to find a way that was non-discriminatory. I assured her that we would make every effort, but impressed upon her: **"If you force the British people to choose between a measure of control over who comes into the country and staying in the EU, if you give them that binary choice, they will vote to leave the EU."**-For The Record, David Cameron_

_At heart, Cameron had two options: limit the number of EU migrants coming to Britain, or reduce the pull factors by cutting the benefits to which they were entitled. Iain Duncan Smith, the work and pensions secretary, and Michael Gove, by now the chief whip, pushed for quotas on the number of EU arrivals. The problem was that this flew in the face of the fundamental EU principle of the free movement of people. On 19 October (2015), the Sunday Times revealed that Cameron was considering **"an annual cap on the numbers of National Insurance numbers given to low-skilled immigrants from Europe."** Cameron blamed Gove for the leak. But at an EU summit later the same week, Merkel told the paper's Brussels correspondent Bojan Pancevski, "Germany will not tamper with the fundamental principles of free movement in the EU", words that killed the idea stone dead when they were splashed on the front page. In a confrontation with Cameron in the British delegation's room, Cameron explained that he needed a quota system or an emergency brake on numbers:** "If I could deliver clear demonstration of grip with controls even if those were for a temporary period, I think I can crack this. But otherwise this is becoming an unsustainable position."** But Merkel told the prime minister: "**No, I'd never agree with that. No. No. No. No way. Never, David."** A source present said, **"She was being as unequivocal as I'd ever seen her, completely clear. And that's what took us to the benefits route."** Merkel had grown up under communism in East Germany. She was not prepared to compromise on the freedom to cross borders, which she had been denied for the first thirty-five years of her life.-All Out War: The Full Story Of How Brexit Sank Britain's Political Class, Tim Shipman_

_Time and again, I found there was a fundamental misunderstanding between us about the issue of immigration. As Merkel put it to me: **"You have low unemployment, a booming economy, you're growing faster than most of Europe, there is no social crisis. And you are pulling in highly qualified labour, cheaply. Explain to me what the problem is." I**t was a real insight into how differently we saw things. Merkel and others just didn't see free movement as immigration. As far as they were concerned, if you're from inside the EU, you're a worker. If you're from outside the EU, you're a migrant. Indeed, we were constantly told by the central and eastern Europeans that we were not allowed to call them **"EU migrants."** They were **"EU citizens."** In their eyes, **"migrants"** were refugees from Syria and Iraq. I had to explain that that was not how we saw it in Britain. I would start off with my pride in the multiracial democracy we've built, and explain that increasingly when it comes to immigration, race, ethnicity, religion and nationality figure less and less. For us, it was much more about numbers and pressure. Therefore, people saw free movement and immigration as essentially the same thing...-For The Record, David Cameron_

_A few days later I did have a conversation with my friend Mark Rutte, who held the rotating presidency of the European Council. "**Look"** I said, "**we're in danger of losing this. The problem is the lack of a brake on numbers. Is it worth talking to Juncker, talking to Merkel, trying to come up with something that says we will address this issue?"**_

_He was helpful but sceptical, and the more I thought about it, the more doubtful I became. I talked to Tony Blair and John Major about it. They both agreed that it would just raise the profile of the issue without actually solving it._

_So by the time I talked to Merkel, I told her I was going to push on with the plan we had. "**But I want you to know",** I emphasised, **"that this is the major problem-and if we lose, this is why we're going to lose."** She simply said that it would be wrong to change tack on migration, and that those who had done so in the German elections had lost.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_No.10 is the heart of the UK government, but it is also a home. And it was my goddaughter Florence Cameron's first home...She was Queen of No.10 for the time she inhabited it and possibly loves it more than any of us. When the moment comes to leave in 2016, she tries to attach herself to the railings. We are supposed to make a dignified exit, Samantha explains. **But I don't want to go**, says Florence. Florence's popularity grew with her mobility. Her first fans are the custodians, policemen and gardeners, who admire her daily trips to St James's Park, where she is pushed in her pram by Gita, her devoted nanny. It seems hardly any time before she is propelling herself with speed and dexterity around the carpeted corridors of No.10 on a pink scooter, with matching helmet, visiting her favourite members of staff (noticeably those who had sweets.)-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_By the end of the first month, Sam and I decided we and the children would move into Downing Street rather than staying in west London, and we brought across the entire contents of our home-bikes, beds, beanbags, and, after a few months, our new baby daughter. When we departed six years later, we left some of the furniture behind. This included an IKEA kitchen cabinet which I had assembled in the days just after Florence had been born. Nick Clegg had needed to see me, and found me in the kitchen surrounded by pages of instructions, wooden panels, nuts, bolts and screws. He immediately helped out and we joked as we assembled the **"coalition cabinet."** Samantha commended us on our work, but pointed out that the two doors did not quite align with each other.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Nick Clegg could see where David Cameron was going wrong. He was trying to screw it in, with the screwdriver. But that's not what you did. It wasn't an ordinary screw, it was a cam lock. Cam lock. There was a joke in that somewhere. Anyway, you didn't screw your cam lock into the wood in the conventional way. You just pushed it in, and turned, and that locked the panel into place._

_He put down the briefing note. **"No, you don't screw it in. You push it in, then turn."**_

_**"What?"** He was still on all fours, trying to get the screwdriver to fit into the bloody screw head. But every time he managed and started trying to twist it, the damn thing kept spinning out and the screwdriver would pop out again. _

** _"Don't use the screwdriver. Push it in with your thumb. Then when it's settled into the hole, that's when you use the screwdriver. One turn should do it. You should be able to feel it tightening."_ **

_He put down the screwdriver and gently pressed the circular silver lock forward. It clicked into place. **"That's it. Now use the screwdriver."**_

_He picked up the screwdriver again and started to twist the lock. "**No, not that hard. You're not screwing it in, you're just locking it into place."**_

_He twisted the screwdriver in the other direction and heard a second, louder click._

** _"OK, that should have done it. How's it feel?"_ **

_Laying down the screwdriver he leant forward and pulled against the two sides of the cupboard. **"Solid. Thanks."**_

_When he'd signed up to the coalition agreement this wasn't exactly how Nick Clegg had envisaged their policy discussions taking place. But they were still feeling their way with each other, and he thought he should probably take it as a compliment that he'd been invited up to the flat to witness this slightly clumsy attempt at prime ministerial DIY._

_He'd been tempted to suggest they save it for another day and leave David to his labours. But then he'd recognized there was something quite comical about this moment. Perhaps in the midst of their discussions they would inadvertently make some sort of decision that would echo down the ages. Like Churchill and Lord Halifax's walk in the Downing Street Rose Garden. Or Blair and Brown's dinner at Granita. **At this time and on this date, the IKEA Accord was struck. The baby cabinet they were working on can still be viewed today in the British museum. If you look closely, you can even see the mark where the Prime Minister turned his Phillips screwdriver the wrong way.**-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition, And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_**"Bloody hell. Why won't this fit in now..."** He was trying to manoeuvre the second panel into position, but it was obvious the screws and holes weren't aligning._

_"**Here, throw me over the manual."**_

_Without turning he reached for the thin white booklet, picked it up and tossed it in the general direction of the sofa. He wasn't entirely sure this was appropriate. He was the Prime Minister, after all. Nick was meant to be his deputy. By rights it should be Nick down here on the floor struggling away, and him sitting on the sofa calmly issuing instructions. Plus, it was a little bit embarrassing. You shouldn't really have to ask another man for help in putting together your own daughter's playroom cabinet. Men were meant to be programmed to instinctively know this sort of stuff. Putting together flatpack IKEA furniture had become the twenty-first-century equivalent of making fire and hunting wild boar._

_Nick Clegg opened the manual, flicked past the dire warning in Arabic script of the dangers of misassembly, and came to the section he was looking for. The Incomprehensible Assembly Diagram. Experienced eyes skimmed across the page. He'd grappled with this type of IAD before._

** _"Ah, that's it. I see what the problem is. You've got it the wrong way round."_ **

** _"How do you mean?"_ **

** _"The panel. You've got it the wrong way round."_ **

_**"What? You mean I need to..."** He started to flip the panel horizontally._

** _"No, not like that. You need to flip it over longways, not sideways. So the cam screws align properly with the holes."_ **

_He twisted round and looked at him with a frown. Cam screws? Was he taking the piss now?_

** _"Seriously. That's what they're called. Cam screws, or cam dowels, or something."_ **

_He turned his attention back to the panel and began to lift it so he was effectively twisting it back to front. Despite his frustrations he had to admit there was something quite funny about all this. And maybe something quite important. He certainly couldn't imagine kneeling down here with Gordon Brown issuing the instructions. "**No David. No, no, no. That's not how you do it. For God's sake you're doing it all wrong. See, that's what I told them. This is no time for a novice."**_

_He eased the right-hand side of the cabinet forward forward, and with a final bit of pushing and tugging, slid it into place._

_**"That's got it."** He eased himself back from the half-assembled cabinet and twisted round so he was facing the sofa. **"I haven't got a clue about this sort of stuff. I did manage to put up a shed once. But Sam's the expert, really."**_

_He was about to ask himself why he hadn't just got one of the Downing Street maintenance guys to put it up for him. But he knew why. You needed to keep hold of something from before. Even if it was just one of the little things, like putting a cupboard together by yourself._

** _"Do you want to run through that paper now? I can finish this off later."_ **

_No. They may as well finish off the cabinet now. The paper could wait. And if they could successfully put an IKEA cabinet together, there was nothing they couldn't achieve.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition, And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_The following day ITN screened a film of the Cameron family having breakfast at home (**“Shreddies or Cheerios?”** Cameron asked his kids), not only the first time he had allowed cameras into his London home, but also the first time he had allowed cameras to film his disabled son Ivan, as well as his other children, Elwen and Nancy. **“I’m asking people a very big thing, which is to elect me as their Prime Minister. And I think people have a right to know a bit more about you, your life and your family, what makes you tick, what informs your thinking. And to me, nothing informs my thinking more than family because I think it’s the most important thing there is in our society. So that’s why I did what I did.”**-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_Surely ten years as prime minister and fifteen years as party leader would be long enough. Plus, Sam wouldn't have stood for it. She had been amazing, but only because she knew it would come to an end at some point, and we would get some of our old lives back. Yet it was dawning on me how difficult it must be being the daughter or son of a prime minister, and how it would become even harder as they grew older...Being a spouse, friend, sibling, parent or child of someone in the public eye isn't always easy-particularly when they're prime minister, and even more so when they've held a controversial referendum.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Nancy and Elwen had been so engaged in the campaign, and so sweet and supportive to me. I knew they knew I was stressed, because they'd been hugging me more than usual. Nancy had been taking my "Conservative In" campaign badges and giving them to her friends. There had been a contretemps between her and a bigger girl at the school fair, who had asked if she was for **"out"** or for **"in",** as in Remain. Nancy replied she was for in. The girl said **"Well, fuck you."** Nancy replied **"Well, fuck you too."** Sam and I had never heard her say the "f" word before she recounted this story. We thought it was a bit shocking, but rather extraordinary.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_After giving his speech to the campaigners, David Cameron asks, **“May I see the Dowler family in private now?”** _

_Everyone files out except Mark, his assistant and ourselves. A couple of prime ministerial advisers stand at the side of the room. We’re given tea. Biscuits are served on bone china. They are not chocolate biscuits like the ones served to Hugh Grant in Love Actually. _

_David Cameron says he is very sorry for our loss. He adds, with dignity, _ ** _“I know what it’s like to lose a child.”_ ** _ His own son Ivan, a severely disabled little boy, died in February 2009. He was just six years old. We express our empathy…I tell David Cameron about the police’s harassment of my father, when their only theory was that Dad killed Milly. I tell him about the senior officer who said that Surrey Police were not looking for anyone else in connection with Milly’s disappearance. I tell him about the police saying, just after Milly went missing, that if Dad ever slept in the same bed as me they would arrest him-this at a moment when I was hysterically afraid of being alone._

_At that David Cameron flinches. I’m suddenly sure that he knows what it is to comfort a distressed child at night, that he’s stayed by a distressed child until he or she finally falls asleep.-_ _My Sister Milly, Gemma Dowler_

_The clock is still counting. And in Westminster, in the upstairs flat in Number Eleven Downing Street, Florence Cameron is fast asleep. Beside her, her toys and books are piled neatly in the cabinet that sits by her bed. The low, white cabinet her daddy and his friend Nick had made for her.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition, And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

* * *

_"_ _How unfortunate given I have decided to loathe him for eternity!"-Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen_

_ _

_"Didn't even feel guilty about it" Craig said. "Does that make me, like, a psychopath?"_

_"Probably" I said. Nikki laughed and laughed.-Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_ _

_Phil: Look-your whole life my job's been to protect you-a job I kinda love. And I feel like I'm being forced into early retirement. I just needed to find you and know that you're OK.....for as long as I'm still allowed to do that._

_-Modern Family, s3ep6, "Go Bullfrogs!"_

* * *

_"They actually think-"_ George sticks out a hand, talking through his nose. _"That thith is as good as it gets?"_

"He didn't lisp quite that much" Michael says from where he's leaning back in a chair. "Usually, he's just talking like he has a cold."

David snorts, taking a fierce kind of glee in the slightly vicious edge to the words. Miliband's words ring in his head-_Weaponize the NHS._

He can almost hear them in that nasal voice, lisp clinging to the last letter, and he grinds his teeth.

Gabby reaches for a cherry from the bowl between them. "He'll sound like he's got more than a fucking _cold_ when you throw that weaponizing line across the floor" she says, almost spitting out the words. It's another fierce surge of comfort in David's chest, strengthened by the smile Gabby gives him and the touch on the arm and Michael's fierce nod, the way it's been strengthened over and over by the fierce, silent fury radiating from all his team after they'd heard Miliband's words.

"Anyone want to picture his face?" Michael dons a look of stunned incomprehension. David shoots him a grateful look-Michael's face had whitened when he heard the words, his mouth twisting as he ground out "That little bastard", his hand tight on David's arm and David had remembered Ivan's christening, Michael bending to kiss the baby's head so tenderly, as he recited his duties as the godfather to this child, to always protect and watch over.

_"Well, Mr Th-speaker-"_ George mimes stammering frantically and Michael collapses in laughter, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

David feels a wriggle of something a little uncomfortable in his chest as Michael launches back into the lisping. He looks down and reminds himself fiercely of the hard, furious feeling he'd lain awake with in his chest last night, seeming to coil tighter and tighter around his ribs, that feeling of _How dare you say that, how dare you-_

He can see Miliband suddenly, on Christmas Eve, arms wrapped around Flo. _I don't think you are-_pulling her back onto his knee._ I don't think you are-_

The stab of fury is sharper, hurts more, and then David sees Ivan's little face, in one of its' rare smiles, staring up at him.

_Political weapon_, stabs into his brain before he can stop it. _That's all Miliband thought._

Craig squeezes his shoulder. "At least _you're_ not going to lisp over _weaponized-"_

"Does _weaponized_ even have an "S" in it-"

George throws his hands up. "For Christ's sake, Michael, you were the bloody Education Secretary-"

"Good day for this, as well-" Craig points out with a grin. "Given Jeremy's got to answer Burnham's little question right afterwards-I'd like to see Burnham try to take the moral high ground on the NHS after this-"

"Oh, would everyone just _focus-"_ Graeme wriggles back into his chair. "Now, if Liz comes in we're going to get to tell her that the Prime Minister spent the last few moments ridiculing the Leader of the Opposition-"

"Isn't that what he does anyway-"

"The Prime Minister-" David points out, without looking up. "Has done nothing."

Graeme clicks his teeth. "Yeah, that's what Miliband's going to say."

_"Hath-"_ George says with a grin. _"Hath-"_

David smirks and shoves away the prickling of discomfort viciously.

"Of course, Miliband might be peering around for a TV camera-" Craig says, with a grin.

David snorts, recalling the moment that Miliband had peered out anxiously into the audience, eyes narrowing a little.

_Maybe not_, David had heard him mutter, a tinge of confusion in his voice, and that had sent a strange pang through his chest, as well as something like-

Well.

Just the way Miliband had said the words in that voice of his-

It had left David strangely unable to concentrate and now he shouldn't even be thinking about it-

_Weaponize,_ he reminds himself. _Weaponize._

_That's all he thinks-that's all he thinks of-_

"Then again-" Michael laughs, adjusting his glasses. "Ms. Merkel might say the same-"

"Oh, we won't let her frighten you" George assures him. "Terrible Eurosceptic that you are-"

"Is _that_ what we're going to say to Miliband?" asks Gabby, reaching for another cherry.

David's about to agree, even as a horrible surge of something like confusion rises in his chest at the sound of Miliband's name-

There's a sharp knock on the door at the same moment that George mutters "My phone's buzzing" while David nods at Graeme, frowning-people don't usually interrupt PMQs prep, unless it's pre-arranged-

"Come in" Graeme calls and the door is pushed open almost before he's finished speaking.

Hayden almost falls into the room. David scrambles upright, alarm flickering immediately in the back of his mind. "Hayden-"

"Sorry to interrupt, Prime Minister-Philip sent me, he wasn't sure if you knew yet-"

It's at this exact moment that George's hand flies to his mouth. "Oh, Jesus."

David feels sickness grip his stomach, cold and tight. He takes a deep breath. "What is it?"

George's hand is at the back of his neck now, his eyes wide and dark as they meet David's. "We need to turn on the BBC-"

David looks past the rest, whose phones, he now notices, are buzzing similarly, to Hayden, whose chest is rising and falling a little more rapidly than usual.

David swallows. He focuses on his heartbeat, over and over, constant, pumping urgently. "What-" he manages, through a mouth that's suddenly too dry. "Is it?"

Hayden meets his eyes. "It's Paris."

* * *

"NHS" says Spencer, pointedly ignoring Tim, who's pointedly ignoring him, while Anna pointedly ignores both of them and they pointedly ignore her. Rachel is pointedly ignoring everyone but Bob, Greg and Ed, while Balls is pointedly ignoring her. Ed is trying not to pointedly ignore anyone while no one is pointedly ignoring Bob. Everyone is pointedly ignoring Tom.

"You need to hammer them on the NHS" Stewart says, who seems to be wondering whom he should pointedly ignore. "You've seen the figures-and we talked to Alastair, who thought it was a pretty good fucking line-"

Bob's phone rings, and at the same moment, so does Alex's. Balls stares at him and Alex pats Balls's arm. "It'll just be-"

"Shit" Bob says and at the same moment, Tom's phone buzzes. "Oh Christ-"

Ed's head spins. "What is it?" he says, his mind already running over the list of disasters it could be-it'll be the "dodgy dossier" stuff, the Tories will have got hold of some bunch of figures they've decided to release right before PMQs-

"Turn on the BBC."

Ed blinks. "What?"

The phone rings-Ed blinks again, torn between the TV and the phone. It's Spencer who saves him, diving for the phone, while Greg snatches up the remote control.

"It's a fucking _terrorist attack-"_ Tom yells, even as the channels flicker across the screen.

"What?"

"It's a _fucking terrorist attack-"_

Ed's stomach seems to drop through his knees. "In London?"

Tom doesn't say anything.

"In _London?"_ It comes out almost as a shout.

_"No-_no, fucking, no-"

"Paris-shit, shit, it's Paris-" Stewart has his hand over his mouth. "Oh Christ, they don't know how many yet-"

"How many-"

"Ed-" It's Spencer gripping the phone and covering it with one hand. "It's Wilson-"

"Wilson-"

"Wilson, Cameron's guy-"

"Oh yeah-"

"He wants to know if you've heard-"

"Yes, yes, we've-we've heard, we've-"

Gunshots ring out behind him and Ed spins round to find himself facing what looks like a video of an empty street. More gunshots ring out and Ed flinches.

"It's the magazine, it's-"

"The _magazine-"_

"Cameron can't speak-" Spencer's saying, scribbling on a notepad. "He's briefing-"

"It's fine-" Ed manages barely.

"Charlie Hebdo!"

"What?"

"Charlie Hebdo, it's Charlie Hebdo-"

_"Shit-"_

More gunshots ring out onscreen.

"Cameron doesn't think they can cancel PMQs-"

Ed blinks. Then looks at Spencer, barely.

"This-ah-yeah, it's too close, probably, Jesus-"

Ed barely knows what he's saying. He's too busy staring at the screen, hearing something about gunmen.

"Yeah, he's being briefed with Hammond and May-"

"Tell him-" Ed shakes his head. "Tell him to get them to brief Douglas and Yvette, too-"

He can hear Spencer relaying the message, but all he can focus on is the sound of gunshots, ringing out one by one.

* * *

"How many? So far?" David asks, because being the Prime Minister sometimes entails you asking the questions no one wants to ask.

Philip shakes his head. "They haven't briefed me yet-" he says, glancing at Theresa, who's staring at the screen they're all gathered around, her eyes moving quickly back and forth.

"Charlie Hebdo-" She glances quickly at David. "If this is who everyone thinks it is-"

"We can say their name" says Hayden. "They are the fucking bigoted twats who are shoving their flag everywhere-"

"We need to contact Hollande" Liz says, who has returned from a quick snack break to find everyone gathered around the TV screen, phones consistently buzzing. "He's made a statement-"

Gavin lowers his phone. "Graeme says Miliband agrees it's too late to cancel PMQs-but we're going to have to say something, put out a statement-either now, or in the chamber-"

David nods. "Christ-Angela's here and we'll have to-"

"You're meant to be making the-going to the British Museum-" George is leaning his head on his hands, eyes narrowed and dark, zooming from one side to the other.

"Yes, I know, I _know-"_ David shakes his head, stares at the screen.

George leans over his shoulder, peers at his email. _"It looks bad,_ oh well, thanks, Graham, for that-"

"We're going to have to-"

Gunshots ring out from the screen. David has to close his eyes for a moment, ignore the way his chest holds tight.

"We're going to have to call Hollande" he manages, when he can speak. "We're going to have to do a joint phone call, if we have to-"

Philip snatches up his phone. "I'm going to contact the Embassy over there, see if any-"

His voice trails off but he doesn't have to finish the sentence.

David keeps his eyes closed. He's not stupid. He doesn't expect them all to like him. But the idea of any of _their _citizens being caught up in this-

_His _citizens-

Sends a curl of something fiercely protective, snarling tight in his chest-

But he's the one in charge.

He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Yeah" he says to Philip. "As soon as possible. And we'll have to go to France."

* * *

"Mr. Speaker, I'm sure the whole House will want to join me in condemning the barbaric attack this morning on the office of a magazine in Paris, in which it's reported that ten or more people may have been killed-"

The latest figures, briefed to him two minutes before he had to leave. The latest figures, set to rise.

"The details are still unclear. I know that this House and this country stand united with the French people in opposition to all forms of terrorism and we stand squarely for free speech and democracy-"

The tide of affirmation drowns out his words for a moment. It's a welcome sound.

"And these people will never be able to-to take us of these values-"

He hurries on a little, to drag his thoughts ahead, because there'll be more information afterwards, and now he has to focus, because he knows, knows for a fact that Miliband's going to lead on the NHS, and it's one of the few times he's been glad for poor NHS figures-

(It's horrible, that he has to drag them ahead)

(But he has to.)

(It's his job.)

Jeremy's sitting next to him and even as he rattles through the opening remarks and the first questions, he plays over and over in his head the order they've devised-_Leave it to the end,_ George had said. _The weaponized line-build up to it, we want it to make the headlines-_

"Mr. Ed Miliband."

David barely hears the cheers. Instead, he finds himself staring at Miliband over his papers, unable to quite take his eyes off him.

His teeth are grinding and he can hear those words in Miliband's voice, those words-_Weaponize the NHS-_

And he hasn't seen him in over two weeks, comes through his head at the same moment.

And there's a weird jolt of something-something almost like _comfort _in suddenly having Miliband there with him again, like that's where he belongs, under the harsh, clawing feeling in his chest of _that's what you said-that's all you thought of him_-

"Mr. Speaker-" David drags his mind back to Miliband's voice, glance catching the bags under his eyes and that patch of grey in his hair-_Badger_, David thinks, and the word feels strangely absent and it takes him a moment to realise he usually thinks that word with something like affection.

"I join the Prime Minister in expressing horror and outrage about the unfolding events in Paris-"

_Ten dead, ten dead, how many more-_

"We stand in solidarity with the people of France against this evil terrorist attack by people intent on attacking our democratic way of life and freedom of speech-" Miliband's looking around and David forces his mind onto the arguments, because they're going to destroy him. They're going to rip Miliband to shreds with this.

It's still strange to go from noticing the grey in his hair to this, this fierce, coiled tension in his chest, this longing for Miliband to come out with something in that bloody smug, self-righteous voice, so that David can just-_grab _those words and tear them to pieces-

"We are united in our determination to defeat them." Miliband looks down as the brief murmur rises around them, and then David's heart beats faster than usual, waiting, waiting-

"Doctors, nurses and other NHS staff are doing a valiant job, but 90,000 people in the last quarter waited on trolleys for more than four hours-"

Jeremy presses his leg to David's in a touch almost too quick to see.

"Ten hospitals have, in the last ten days, reported major incident status and _one-"_ Miliband looks up. "Had to resort to Twitter to appeal for medical staff-" Miliband looks up at him, the familiar look of exaggerated concern on his face. David's nerves are frayed and maybe that plays a part but that look chips sharply and irritatingly at his chest.

Miliband meets his eyes. "Does he agree with me that our NHS is facing a crisis?"

David prepares himself carefully as he gets to his feet. He's familiar with this type of question from Miliband-deceptively simple, congenial. But David knows him too well.

He starts carefully, all the rehearsed words in the back of his mind. _Ease him in, bait him, make him start attacking you.."_Well, our NHS is facing huge pressure this winter, especially in A&E units, but-I think that the point it's important to make is this-" He turns away, raises his voice a little. Draw him out-

"The NHS is_ facing_ this winter with more doctors, more nurses and more money than it's ever had in its' history-"

Jeremy's nodding next to him.

"I think what is important is that we recognize the pressures that are there and we put in place plans for the short-term, the medium-term and the long-term, but recognizing with the massive increase of people going to A&E, any health system in the _world _would struggle to cope with some of that pressure."

A deceptively simple answer. And one that will draw Miliband out.

"Ed Miliband-"

Nick shifts a little as David sits, and as he glances at his papers, his own words from the previous day come back sharply. _Have you seen Ed Miliband's poll ratings recently-_

He'd meant it. They are unbelievable and a few times, David has found himself wondering if it surely wouldn't be less painful for Miliband-and his party-if he just resigned.

He remembers his muffled _Happy Birthday_ to Nick this morning, how Nick's smile had twitched sadly as he inclined his head. David's never been fond of January and Nick's always said that it's the one month he wouldn't have chosen to have his birthday in. He just hopes Nancy doesn't agree.

"Mr. Speaker, in June, in June 2011, this was the Prime Minister's solemn promise-" Miliband's glancing up at Bercow in a way that sends irritation prickling up David's spine. He looks like a child waving his hand at a teacher, to bleat out tales in that stupidly nasal voice, and David feels a grim stab of something like satisfaction at the thought of what he's going to throw in Miliband's face in a moment.

"And I quote-"I refuse to go back to the days when people had to wait to be seen for hours on end in A&E, so let me be absolutely clear, we won't."" David finds himself noticing the way Miliband's eyebrows arch and dance as he talks, like two excited caterpillars.

The laughter rises behind Miliband, but today, it doesn't irk David. Or rather, it does irk him, but with a harsh stab of something that's almost pleasure underneath, at the thought of what Miliband's got coming-

_Make him wait for it, build it up-_

"Will he now apologise to patients across the country for having broken that promise?" Miliband sits down again, and David feels the grinding of the words in his chest, desperate to throw them at him-

_Better if you wait-_

And the ghost of that same anger that first stirred when he heard the word _weaponize _breathes too, as he gets upright, taking in the wide-eyed look on Miliband's face, all that compassion he knows Miliband just wants to believe-

_Just wants to believe is there_, jabs in David's head. _So Miliband can look at himself in the mirror and tell himself he's actually doing some good in the world._

Perhaps it's that that sharpens David's words, sends the adrenaline too, sharper through his veins as he gets up, leans on the dispatch box, and begins to speak.

* * *

Ed always wonders exactly how Cameron can come up with an answer each time. It irritates Ed that he wonders, but he wonders.

But this time, he's given him the figures-they've got the figures there, Cameron _can't _just wriggle out of it, Andy's_ checked-_

"I-I do regret any patient who doesn't get a good service but let us be absolutely clear about the number in terms of people accessing A&E-"

"Here we go" mutters Harriet next to him.

"Today, compared with four years ago, over two and a half thousand more patients are seen within four years-"

Harriet laughs and Clegg, but Cameron's already corrected himself. "Within four hours than there was four years ago. That's what is happening. Now, we knew there was pressure on our NHS-"

Something about the slip-up rankles in Ed's chest, rankles darkly under the amusement, because Cameron's just recovered himself and no one will pick him up on it. If _Ed _had done that-

"And that is why, over the last year, we've seen over 1,800 more doctors in our hospitals, 4700 more nurses in our hospitals and two and a half thousand more _beds_ in our hospitals-"

That prickling of indignation is there again because even after that slip-up, Cameron_ still_ gets to pull up facts and figures, even when he's got it wrong, and he doesn't _have_ to get it wrong, he's not _stupid_, _that's_ the infuriating thought-

"Now, there's _more_ that we need to do-" Cameron's saying. "But let us recognize that our health service in every part of our United Kingdom facing these challenge-" Even when he mangles his words, Cameron doesn't slip up. "We must go on giving them the money, the resources and the people, so they can go on providing a great service."

Ed's scrambling up even before Bercow's finished saying his name.

"As far as I can see, he's not apologising to patients, he's _blaming_ the patients-"

Cameron just smirks, even as the cheers rise behind Ed, and it infuriates him, because he's _right_, he _knows _he's right, and Cameron just doesn't _care-_

It's childish and whining, the thought, and that just makes him angrier.

"And the-and the-and the pressures on A & E-" He can't get his words together and that just makes it all worse and the anger coils into a tight knot in his chest-

"And the pressures on A&E are not just happening on his watch, but are a direct result of the decisions he's taken-" Ed swallows, because he's right, he _knows_ he is, and Cameron just doesn't want to listen-

"When he decided to close almost a quarter of walk-in ces-centres-" because it's just another example, and _that's what you need to get across, it's a choice between us and them_-"Wasn't it blindingly obvious that if people couldn't go to a walk-in centre, it would have a big impact on A&E?" He can already sense Andy nodding furiously on Balls' other side.

Cameron doesn't even look ruffled as he's called upright, as though everything Ed's pointing out just glances off him.

"We've got a thousand more doctors in A&E-" Cameron just ignores the noise and Ed's fingers whiten on his papers, because it sends something like irritation and something like fury through him and Cameron just looks so infuriatingly _calm._

"And we're spending £13 billion more on the NHS-" Cameron glances round at his own benches, as if sharing the joke, like that's all all Ed's attempts to make people see that things don't have to be like this are. A joke.

"When four years ago, _his_ Health Secretary said it would be irresponsible to spend more money-"

Ed feels his teeth grind together because he knows it's all too conceivable that Andy said it, because they wouldn't _use _it otherwise-they've dug up a quote from somewhere and everything they've done, him and Andy, to prove they can be trusted on the NHS, and now Cameron just gets to _derail_ it all with one fucking quote-

"But isn't it _interesting_, Mr. Speaker-"

Ed's knuckles whiten even more and to distract himself, he glances at Andy. It doesn't help-Andy's shaking his head, and Lucy next to him is looking at Cameron over pursed lips, as though anticipating the next blow, ill-deserved as she thinks it is.

"Here we are, Question Three on the NHS-" Cameron's voice is louder now, slowing a little over the words. "And he's got _no solutions_ to put forward-"

Ed glares for a moment. He can't help it, because bloody _Cameron-_he's _twisting _things, the way he _always _does, and the way he _always _gets away with-

"And that only says to me-" Even as the tide of noise rises louder, that grin's poking out at the corners of Cameron's mouth. "That only says to me-while we are interested in improving the NHS-" Cameron leans forward a little. _"He_ simply wants to use it as a political football."

The applause and cheers and yelling is rapidly rising now and Ed almost leaps upright because something niggles in his chest at those words, something more worried than it should be, and he's not sure why-

"Mr. Speaker-Mr. Th-speaker-" _Fuck. _He can hear Balls laughing behind him and he tries to let it spur him on, even as he spots Osborne's languid, vaguely amused look.

"This-this _is_ about politics-it's _his _politics and they have _failed-"_ It's not quite as strong as he means it to be, even when bolstered by the roars of the backbenchers, and Cameron's just _smirking-_

"No answer on walk-in centres-let's try him on another decision he's made-that's been the cause of the crisis-" He's losing his way a little and he has to keep looking down because every time his eyes meet Cameron's, some sort of-

Some sort of _jolt _goes through him, has him gripping the edge of the dispatch box for control or calm or-

And he can't concentrate whenever he looks at Cameron, because he's-

He's so-

_Angry,_ or something like it-

"When he decided to reduce the availability of social care services-" He can hear his own voice getting louder, breath tearing more harshly at his throat. "So that 300,000 fewer older people are getting the help they need-wasn't it blindingly obvious-"

_Hammer that in_, Stewart had said. _Make them focus on obvious choices, common sense-_

"That if people couldn't get the care they needed at home, it would have a big impact on A&E?"

He sinks down and as Cameron climbs to his feet almost lazily, Ed feels a rush of _something-_

He thinks it's anger. It should be anger.

But it makes his hands clench and his pulse hammer rapidly and something sharp and furious rise in his chest so that he just wants to-

_Grab _Cameron-

Just _grab_ him and-

Ed has to grind his teeth, and he turns and hisses something at Balls-even he's not sure what, just to _shove_ some of the feeling out-

It barely helps, even with Balls' fierce nods and the firm, watchful silence of Harriet on his left. He feels almost sick with it, and his chest's almost aching with how fast his heart's beating.

Cameron's voice is still curled, languid, and even through the clenched teeth and heart pounding, Ed has to catch every word of it and he can't ever decide if it's because it's his job or not.

* * *

David loves the outrage that rises from the Labour benches, especially when he knows he's got the upper hand.

He supposes some might agree with the "imp in his nature" remark, but on this occasion at least, he thinks it's rather justified.

Now, he watches Miliband as he climbs upright-casually, knowing it will only serve to irk Miliband more-and runs through the order in his head again. _Political football_ had worked better than he'd thought, drawing Miliband's voice louder, and introducing the topic without actually mentioning it-

_Save it until the end_, George had said. _Until there's one more question._

The words had almost exploded out of Lynton's mouth. _Fucking perfect. It'll have a bigger impact and the whole country will get to watch him squirm._

David knows Miliband well, and so he chooses his words carefully.

"Again, absolutely no solutions-"

He bites back a grin at some of the shrieks that erupt from the backbenches.

"So presumably, if he _had_ any solutions, he would have implemented them in Wales. Now, he raises-"

He waits until the noise dies down a little. He doesn't look at Miliband, savouring the moment where he can picture the look on Miliband's face. "He raises the importance of social care-"

Vaguely relevant to the question, exactly the sort of thing that gets Miliband riled.

"And I agree, and that is why from the 1st of April, we are putting £5 billion more into social care via the Better Care Fund. Up until-up until now-"

He raises his voice a little. _Distract him, make him come out with something-_

"The Labour party has told us _not to introduce_ the Better Care Fund-"

_Patronize him a little_, he can hear Lynton saying. _You know what Miliband's like, make him want to prove himself-_

"I assume from that that they now support this important investment."

Miliband's up almost before he's down and David knows even before he glances at him that he's hit the jackpot, even as Miliband's words spill out, too fast, wavering and angry-

"OK, there's one very simple solution-" His finger stabs the air like a child and David regards him with a vicious pang of amusement, the way his eyes are glimmering ominously, like a toddler not sure whether it wants to cry or not.

Miliband's finger stabs again, a little frantically. "Get rid of this _useless_ Prime Minister-"

David bursts out laughing, even as the Labour benches cheer. He's not the only one-George is creased in mirth, especially when his gaze roams to Balls across the chamber, taking in the sight of his eyes bulging. William too, is laughing, as is Jeremy, who nudges David even as Miliband glowers at them.

"And today irony was lost" intones Jeremy in his ear and David snorts with laughter, while Theresa's shoulders shake.

Miliband, for all the cheers, is tripping over his words.

"N-no-no-no answer-no answer on care for the elderly-no answer on care for the elderly-"

"This really is rather the definition of sad clown" William says over Nick's shoulder and David, who had been regaining control of himself, promptly collapses again in laughter.

"When he decided-n-next-next thing he did-" Miliband looks furious with himself, which makes David grin more, just to irritate him.

"To ignore the pleas of doctors, nurses and patients-" Miliband's finger's waving again. David takes a deep breath to calm his own laughter, running over the words in his own mind. This is it, now-next question-

"To plough ahead with his damaging top-down reorganization-"

"I'd yawn" Jeremy mutters into David's ear, over the cheers behind Miliband. "But it'd probably send him into cardiac arrest."

David snorts.

"Wasn't it blindingly obvious that if you dir-divert £3 billion out of patient care, it would have a big impact on A&E?"

Miliband actually steers himself round into a defence position, as if they're fencing. David has a job not to choke on his own laughter.

But he doesn't because that was Miliband's penultimate question and so he's getting up and this is it.

"Our changes have cut bureaucracy and saved £4.8 billion" he says, getting the figures out of the way first. "That is why there are 9,000 more doctors, there are 3,000 more nurses, there are 6 million more people getting patient appointments-"

The clamour of noise rings around him and David just lets it carry his words higher even as he takes a breath. "But you can see it plain as-"

"Order!"

Fucking Bercow.

"Order-there's too much noise in the chamber on both sides." Bercow glances at him and David has to begrudgingly admit that Bercow might have just done him a favour-it will give his words even more impact now-

"The Prime Minister's answers must be heard. The Prime Minister?"

David gets up, leans on the dispatch box. "But you can see this-"He gestures at Miliband-_as if you can't even be bothered to point at him_-"As plain as you like-"

He raises his voice, all the better to let the hacks in the press gallery catch his every word.

"The Leader of the Opposition-apparently said to the Political Editor of the BBC-"

A few "Aahs!" break out from their side. David feels the anticipation rise, thrumming in the air, for what his own next words will be.

He takes a deep breath.

""I want to _weaponize_ the NHS!""

The outrage smashes over the words, flung from the heights of the backbenches. There isn't a pause or a breath-fury floods over the chamber, as if they'd known what David was going to say, which most of them hadn't.

_"Shame!"_ The cry echoes a few times around the chamber, genuine outrage cracking in their voices, and David feels that well of fury he'd felt two days ago, felt over and over again over the last forty eight hours, rise again in his chest, and he feels for a moment the cold bars of that hospital bed, the rattle of breaths, each one struggling in and out of his little boy's lungs.

The words snap out of his mouth, more loudly now. "That's what he said, and I think that is _disgraceful-"_ He almost spits the word out.

"The NHS-" He spares Miliband the briefest flicker of a glance.

"Is not a _weapon-"_

Miliband's brow is creased, his eyes narrowed. But David knows him well, knows his looks too well, and he sees the slight widening of the eyes, the slightest tightening of his lips.

He did say it. The knowledge slices sure and sharp into David's chest, the slightest steel-edged cut of certainty. Not that he'd doubted Nick's word or Lynton's-but to see the proof of it in front of him-

Something seems to squeeze tightly around his ribs.

He _did_ say it.

"It's a way we care for our _families-" _The support swells behind him, cheers and roars rising in a wave that completely drowns out Labour's benches. "It's a way we care for the elderly! It's a way we look after the frail!"

The cheers are ringing in his ears now. His eyes catch George, but George is staring up at the press gallery, with the slightest smile playing at the corners of his mouth. David doesn't need to follow his gaze to know that Lynton's excitement has been proved more than justified.

"So perhaps when he _gets _to his feet-" His eyes are on Miliband now, even as Balls shouts and Harman murmurs worriedly to Eagle.

Miliband isn't looking at him. Miliband isn't looking at him at all.

And somehow, that just makes the words snap louder from David's throat, some untouched fury cracking the letters into pieces-

"He will _deny _that he said he wanted to _weaponize_ the NHS-"

He summons up every last bit of bile he has, from the moment the words had first sunk in, the coldness of those hospital bed bars reverberating in his chest.

"A _disgusting thing to say."_

And with that, he sinks down in his seat, the cheers rising furiously around him, Jeremy nodding, fierce support next to him, hand touching David's sleeve in a silent gesture. David grits his teeth, smiling as best he can, even as his heart beats painfully loud in his ribs and his smile feels stretched drumskin tight.

* * *

"The Leader of the Opposition-apparently said to the Political Editor of the BBC-"

Ed's mind flounders for a moment, searching for whatever he can have said, whatever he said to Nick that's relevant to the NHS-

It's bad, he knows very suddenly. It's bad and he can tell, just from the look on Cameron's face.

Cameron waits barely a breath, and Ed feels and resents the anticipation that climbs higher, and then Cameron says it.

""I want to _weaponize_ the NHS!""

The words hover there, ringing, and Ed struggles to grasp them for a second. What? _What-he-he-_He's shaking his head, but his mind is scrambling, catching at Nick's name, grabbing at whenever he last spoke with him-

"That's what he said-" Cameron's still talking and even as Ed's shaking his head, Balls yelling something next to him, some knowledge jolts surely into his chest, the utter certainty in Cameron's voice-Cameron wouldn't sound so certain unless he _knew-_

"And I think that is _disgraceful-"_ Cameron's still shouting and there's a bite of anger in the tone that makes Ed flinch, cold in his chest, and he wracks his brain harder, desperate to remember-his last interview with Nick had to be before Christmas, November even-

"The NHS is not a _weapon-"_

Capitalism, responsible capitalism, health spending, they talked about-

"It's a way we care for our _families-"_

The strategy, they talked about the strategy, and they went through their arguments, their weapons, their-

Oh. Shit. No. No. _No-_

"It's a way we care for the elderly-" Cameron's throwing his hand about on each point now, the tide of noise welling around him.

He remembers that room, Robinson and a bunch of others around him, and it had been more casual by that point, Robinson joking about his Rubix Cube, and he'd just been going through it all, Robinson asking what arguments he planned to put forward-

_And how's that going to work? How's that going to prove that you're better placed than the Tories to manage the economy? To be in Number 10?_

And he'd talked about how they'd be fighting the cuts, changing the austerity culture, that they'd be targeting the-

Twin threats, that's what he'd called them. Cuts and privatisation, and the damage they were doing, the twin threats of the Tories, and the NHS-the NHS was a prime example, he'd told Nick, warming to the theme, because it was, this was an example, the NHS was _crumbling_ under the Tories, and he told Nick that he wanted to show that, to hold the NHS up as an example in his arguments-

"It's a way we look after the frail-" Cameron's shouting and Ed can still hear the outrage from the Tory benches and there's less of the manufactured fury there, Ed notes somewhere in his brain, vaguely. There's outrage ripped raw, genuine and jagged and furious-

He said it. He said it and Rachel had been fielding another question and Bob had been making notes and Anna had been nodding along, and none of them had noticed.

But Nick had, of course. Nick had, and Cameron's found it out. He's got hold of it and he's waited until now, and now no-one will even listen to the rest of the argument because Ed's not stupid enough to think that this won't be the headline.

Balls is yelling and Harriet's murmuring something, but not to him, and her face is pulled tight, and Ed can't even see Andy's face, but he knows it's bad, it's bad-

"And so, maybe, when he_ gets_ to his feet-"

Ed's eyes flicker up before he can stop them and the sight of every hack in the press gallery typing furiously on their phone is like a punch in the chest.

He can almost feel it, the words being scribbled out in jagged biro on a white page and punched out in digits and code scrambled together to form letters on a screen and slapped black at the top of a paper tomorrow, screaming in a flat, loud, unmissable headline.

Cameron's done that to him, and that's all anyone will make of his arguments now.

"He will _deny _that he said he wanted to _weaponize _the NHS-"

Cameron's eyes are on his now and Ed hears, all too clearly, the bite of triumph under the judgement. He hears the triumph and underneath, he hears a snap of real fury, broken and spat out, and maybe that makes it worse.

(Because Ed did say it.)

Cameron glances at him and Ed meets his eyes and catches the challenge there, the dare that Cameron knows he won't be able to accept, because Cameron _knows-_

He wouldn't have said it if he didn't.

Their eyes meet with a jolt. In that moment, Ed hates him. Viscerally and with that almost sickening jolt, he hates him.

And under it all, he remembers his son's arms around Cameron's neck, and shoves that away, with another jolt of something like nausea, because that person cannot be the same one who he's staring at, wanting-

Hatred rises in him, an irrational wavering in his chest, and the impotency of it just makes it more fierce.

"A _disgusting thing to say_-" Cameron almost spits the words out and sits down, not even looking at Ed.

He doesn't need to. The adjective's done his work for him, like the verb and the phrase and both their voices, accidental and deliberate.

A bitter hating roils in Ed's chest, wild and furious, at Cameron and the cameras and those words in his own voice-

He's already upright, even before Bercow's finished saying his name, even though he knows that's the headline, that Cameron's made it the headline, that he probably planned the whole thing out-

"I'll tell him-I'll tell him what's-" The anger seizes hold of his throat. "I'll tell him-I'll tell him what's disgusting-I'll tell him what's disgusting-" His eyes meet Cameron's and the look on Cameron's face makes the fury flare higher, furious and frantic and wild-

"I'll tell him-" The words sputter out helplessly, and when Bercow interrupts the chaos, it's almost a relief. Ed barely hears whatever he says. He's breathing too hard, clutching his papers too tightly, too aware of Balls muttering to Andy and Osborne smirking at him across the chamber, tapping his wrist pointedly.

"Tick tock" Osborne mouths and the gesture doesn't even make anything worse.

Cameron's not looking at him because Cameron doesn't have to. He's just looking down with his perfectly smooth hair and his perfectly practiced smile and his perfectly polished words that are ripping Ed's arguments apart.

Ed grits his teeth and suddenly, without wanting to, he's seeing Cameron's arms around Daniel, the way he turned over Daniel's Peso toy, and he's feeling the weight of Cameron's chest pushing into his, the smell of his aftershave and soap and his own eyes wanting to flicker closed-

Bercow's saying his name. He's upright and that image is all there is now, and it just makes it worse, makes him want to _grab_ Cameron and-

"I'll tell him what's disgusting-" The words crack in the air, harsher now, and Ed wants to throw something at him, do something to_ shatter_ that unruffled look-

"It's a Prime Minister-" The edge of a lisp creeps into the words. "Who said people could put their trust in him on the NHS-"

He feels Cameron's arms around his shoulders then, the brush of Cameron's hair against his fingers and sees that smile on Cameron's face when Ed had grabbed his hand to stop him taking the book back-

(His sleeve.)

(Grabbed his _sleeve-)_

All of it stabs hard in his memory, sinks into his chest, catching his breath.

"And he has _betrayed that trust."_

The words are spat out and Ed feels like a child as he turns away, as though he's screaming furiously, throwing an impotent tantrum.

And when he thinks of Cameron in his house a few weeks ago, Flo on his own lap and Cameron's hand in Sam's hair, Ed feels a strange, sad, sick feeling sink into the pit of his stomach.

"He is in _denial _about the crisis in the NHS-" He stabs the words out with his finger, can feel Balls' frenetic nodding behind him.

"This is a crisis on _his_ watch, as a result of _his_ decisions-"

He can already hear Alastair's voice in his head. _You're not fucking denying it..._

He can't.

And that knowledge makes his voice louder, as though that might somehow strengthen the words. "That's why people know if they want to get rid of the crisis in the NHS, they have to get _rid_ of _this_ _Prime Minister._

He moves back too quickly and the words come out too quickly and all he can hear is _weaponize._

And himself not denying it once.

And as Cameron climbs to his feet, he knows, and he knows Cameron knows, that's what the public will hear, too.

Ed almost bangs himself back into the seat, not even caring about the childish pang of satisfaction it sends through him.

He's so busy staring at Cameron he almost forgets his own papers, so he grapples for them at the dispatch box, even as Cameron leans against it almost casually, his voice infuriatingly smooth.

"If ever you wanted proof that they want to use this issue as a political football-" Cameron's voice is curled and there's a smirk playing at his mouth. Ed fights the irrational urge to just-

Reach across and-

"You've just seen it."

Cameron spares him one glance, flickering quickly under his eyelashes.

"Ignore him" Harriet mutters.

Ed tries to nod, wraps his hands around his knees.

"And stop looking like you've been_ kicked_, Ed, you're on bloody _camera-"_

Ed tries to smile. His hands tighten around his knees. He's not sure how well it works.

"And-and-and if Labour-if Labour has an answer to the NHS, can they explain-"

Ed's heart sinks.

Cameron's voice is louder, rounded with its' own confidence. "Why they cut the budget in Wales by 8%?"

The cheers rise louder as Ed's knuckles whiten around his knees.

"That is where Labour is in charge-" Cameron's voice is surer now, stronger. "All parts of the United Kingdom face a health challenge-but-"

Cameron turns to him. "The _real_ risk to the NHS is the risk of _un_funded spending-spending commitments, bringing _chaos_ to our economy-"

The economy line again.

"Which would _wreck _our NHS." Cameron's finger is stabbing the air now, the shouts rising around him. "And that is why the choice at the election will be stick with the people with the long-term plan-"

Cameron leans forward. His cheeks are flushed, his voice louder now, and Ed feels a strange rush in his chest-something like excitement and dread. Like being on a rollercoaster.

"Not a Labour Party, which would _wreck _our economy and _wreck_ _our NHS."_

Cameron sits down but the cheers just go on and Ed becomes aware that his heart is beating painfully hard. He swallows, and then Balls says "He didn't say it a second-"

"He didn't have to." Harriet's voice is flat and Ed's stomach lurches.

He tries to say something, something to reassure them all. He's meant to be calm. He's in charge, it's his job.

But he said it. He can feel it from all around him, the silent thrumming in the air that no one on their side will say out loud. He said it.

Ed, almost before he realises, follows Harriet's gaze upwards and grimaces. The hacks are frantic, chattering, phones to ears, and Ed knows, somewhere gut-deep_ knows_, that it isn't good, or that at least, it isn't good for him.

His gaze falls on Cameron, Cameron who's done this with one quote and that urge surges, sharp and sudden in his chest to just-

Reach across and just-

_Grab him,_ or-

And the worst bit is that _he's _the one who did it, who gave Cameron the words, and that just makes him seethe silently and stare all the more and he doesn't know if all the fury tangled and choking in his chest is for Cameron or for himself or, in some strange way, for them both.

* * *

David knows he's won as he sits down and Scott's question is just the icing on the cake, even as the anger pulses in his chest.

(It would be easier if it was just anger. Instead, it's painfully wrapped up with the fierce, aching triumph of watching Miliband squirm and the harder, colder fury underneath that leaves a vague feeling of nausea gripping his stomach.)

"-asking to join us and also saying that the only people fit to run the economy are the Prime Minister and the Chancellor-" Soctt waves away the roars from the Labour side. "The_ surprise_ was that the gentleman was the ex-chairman of the Ilford North Labour Party!"

David doesn't even have to try, letting his first attempt at an answer be buoyed by the cheers that rise around him.

"I'm sure that's the first of, ah-four million conversations he'll be having-"

The laughter breaks out before he's even finished. "In the coming elections, as I-"

He grins at Miliband. Grins deliberately, even before he takes in the look on Miliband's face, the narrowed eyes, the worrying at his lip. Grins, because it sends a sharp stab of satisfaction through him, sharper than the cold sick anger that slices through his chest.

_"His_ month's going well-" he says, as an offhand comment, and looks away to say something about the economy.

_Keep mentioning the economy._

As they predicted, most of Labour's questions are on the NHS, and as they planned, David makes it work for the Tories.

Over and over again, he brings up their work, points out Wales and then, in a question from Mahmood, gets the chance to throw one last parting shot (Lynton's idea-"Get it into the hacks' heads one more time"-), and so after he rattles through what they're doing to make things better-and manages to bring the Simon Stevens plan in this time-he raises his voice a little.

"But, Mr. Speaker, people around the country will have been able to see-there is_ one_ part of this House of Commons working to _improve _our NHS for all its' users-"

He doesn't mind almost shouting the last part, still louder than the clamour of noise rising from the Labour benches. (_Because they're scared,_ he can almost hear Lynton smirking. _Keep going with it, you've riled them now.)_

"There is _another _part of the House of Commons that wants to _weaponize _the NHS-"

He doesn't even spare Miliband a glance.

"In the most _disgusting_ phrase I think I've heard in politics-and that wants to treat it like a political football-"

He leans closer to the dispatch box, aims his last words at Labour. "And I _know _they'll reach the right conclusion."

And with that, he sits down.

He knows he's won then. He knows and so does everyone else and when Bercow calls for order, and Jeremy begins preparing his notes, David turns to pat him on the back, only to find George already doing the same thing.

"You'll be great" George says, with a quick wink at David.

"Don't praise me, will you?" David gives him a grin, but pats Jeremy's arm. "You'll be fine. "

"After all-" and George now raises his voice loud enough to let it carry across the chamber. "Burnham's basically _nothing."_

None of them even look across at the opposite benches while Theresa rolls her eyes at their antics.

"Tories'll be cheering you on" David assures Jeremy, with a squeeze to his shoulder. "And we've got Lynton."

Jeremy extends a hand and they shake. Jeremy gives him a grin. "See you on the other side?"

David looks around for Nick, but he's already gone. William's there, though, joining David to pat Jeremy's arm.

After a few more moments of wishing him good luck, David gives George a quick wink. "After all-" he says, letting his own voice carry across the chamber this time-"Now, everyone knows what _they _think of the NHS."

He laces the _"they"_ with as much venom as he can possibly muster.

He's only watching out of the corner of his eye, but he sees the slightest flinch braid itself into Burnham's face.

He doesn't look at Miliband at all.

It's when, with a final squeeze to Jeremy's shoulder, he leaves the chamber for a few moments with the others following him, that it rushes back to him, and he takes a deep breath, as, he knows without looking, George will too.

Neither of them mention it until a short while later up in David's office, surrounded by Philip and Theresa and advisors, and then David takes a deep breath, the triumph of PMQs already fading. "So" he says. "What's the latest from Paris?"

* * *

"Tell me you didn't fucking say it" is the first thing out of Balls' mouth the second they reach Ed's office. He folds his arms. "Tell me Cameron's gone deranged with spending time with you or he's fucking lying or it's a case of bloody mistaken identity for all I care, just _tell me you didn't fucking say it."_

Ed looks at the assembled faces. Balls, Yvette, Harriet, Stewart, Lucy, Spencer and Tim.

He swallows. "I-"

Balls almost howls. "For fuck's _SAKE-"_

"Ed, this is bad" Harriet says, predictably calm. "In fact, this isn't just bad-"

"Well" Lucy chips in. "It's not campaign-ending bad. Or election-losing bad. But it is quite bad, yes. Rather bad. In fact, very bad. It's-"

"Here's an idea, Lucy" suggests Spencer, with a sniff. "Why don't you just devise a little scale of how bad everything is. Maybe we could start off with quite shit, really, progress to complete fucking shit, and then maybe if it's really-"

Balls is turning away. "Oh, for fuck's sake-"

"Rev it up to ultra complete and _total_ fucking shit-"

"All right-" Stewart has his hands between them while Yvette appears to be slapping Balls on the arm.

"How about dickhead?" Lucy remarks.

Spencer blinks. "What, as one of the levels?"

Lucy arches an eyebrow. "No."

"For God's sake, I'll phone Greg in a minute-" Harriet almost whacks Stewart on the arm. _"He's _meant to be one of the people in charge-"

"Fucking _Andy-"_ Balls almost erupts as he spins round to face Ed. "Andy's still fucking in there against fucking _Hunt_ and he's got to sodding defend us on the NHS after _that."_

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Balls makes an incoherent sound and turns away. It isn't as enjoyable as it should be.

"Ed-" Harriet's got her hand on his arm and Ed almost flinches.

(He can't stop thinking of that smirk at Cameron's mouth and the thought makes his fists clench in something that feels hopeless, something like anger-)

"Ed, we need to get out a defence and stay calm." Stewart meets his eyes. "And we need to find out what's going on in Paris."

_Jesus._ Of course.

Ed squeezes his eyes shut, struggles to order his thoughts. "Paris" he says, because of course, Paris, Paris, because that leaves everything else in the dust as it should do.

Spencer, who's still sulking, grimaces as he reads his phone. "Oh Christ-"

"What?"

"I'll tell you fucking _what."_

Oh God.

Ed turns round slowly, as though that might make the sight that awaits him any more welcome.

Tom storming down the corridor towards them with a face like thunder still remains one of the least welcome sights that Ed has ever seen.

_"Weaponized_ is what. _Weaponized _is what is on every fucking hack's lips. Fucking _weaponized."_ Tom looks as though he might kick something. Ed resists the urge to step back.

"Where's Bob?" Stewart asks, jaw working, mouth tight.

"Briefing." Tom almost stamps his foot. "He told me to come up here. Haven't got a fucking clue why."

"I could take a guess" mutters Lucy.

Tom's eyes narrow.

_"Brilliant."_ Balls throws his hands into the air. If Ed was in a better state of mind, he would note that it is probably a cardinal rule of life never to let Tom and Balls within seven feet of each other.

Yvette smacks Balls' arm again and Harriet tells Stewart to call Greg and Tom's still yelling at Lucy while Lucy yells back and Spencer is staring at his phone and all Ed can think is how much Cameron would love to see this.

The thought makes his fists clench but it also sends another pang through him, something that aches and twists in his chest. Something that hurts.

* * *

David smiles, Angela's hand in his, Twenty hours earlier, his main thought was whether or not he could get Angela to budge even the slightest inch on the EU and free movement.

("No" George had said, when David had bemoaned this to him on the House of Commons terrace a couple of nights before. "Let me break it down for you. No, she's not quite evil, but she's in that dangerous territory."

"The dangerous territory of not being evil?"

"It's an underrated hazard.")

Now, with the cameras flashing and his smile aching a little, David notes with an edge of bitterness that this might be one of the few times he has known for certain that he and Angela are thinking exactly the same thing.

It's when the door closes behind them and Angela turns to look at him and they both speak at once that he knows it again. "MI5-"

"Your security services-"

They share a smile. A very small smile.

It's little comfort that, for once, their priorities are the same.

* * *

Ed heads to Andy's office after hovering for fifteen minutes in the corridor-which pisses him off because he doesn't fucking _hover _and because it meant every five minutes he'd have someone else in his face asking if he thought Miliband actually used the word _weaponized _or not.

Andy's slumped at his desk when Ed walks in. Ed rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on, Burnham. Life could be worse. You could be fucking Miliband right now."

Andy's head flies up. Ed rolls his eyes. "Fucking being an _adjective_, Burnham."

Andy blinks. Ed winces. "Christ, you've made me _think_ of it now."

The slightest hint of a grin appears at Andy's mouth, which spurs Ed on a little. But all too quickly, the smile vanishes and Andy rests his head on his hands.

"Hunt got away with it" is all he says and Ed rolls his eyes, takes a seat across from Andy's desk. "Hunt always gets away with it." He'd known Hunt was going to get away with it from the moment Cameron came out with those sodding figures, that were aimed at Andy.

_Did you?_ he'd asked, turning to Andy quickly, just to be sure, but he'd already been sure. He was always sure, with Andy.

_No_, Andy had said, with a slightly incredulous laugh, their eyes locking as they sat pressed against each other, and that had been enough for Ed.

"It's not _him."_ Andy almost grinds the word out through his teeth. "It's Miliband."

Ed blinks.

Andy lifts his head so he's looking Ed straight in the eyes. "Hunt won because that's all anyone's going to bloody say about us and the NHS for the next three weeks. Because Miliband fucking said _that."_

Ed doesn't bother denying it. "How many were talking about it?"

Andy snorts. "When I left, half the hacks I went past were saying something about _weaponized._ Unless Osborne's said they're going to weaponize the economy in the last hour, I think it's a pretty safe fucking bet it was us they were talking about."

Ed lets his head fall back, and rocks the chair too. "Fucking Miliband" he says, mostly to the ceiling. "What the fuck was he thinking, not picking up on that?"

"What the fuck was he thinking _saying_ it?"

Ed snorts. "You know what he's like-probably one of Stears' stupid phrases. "Oh, _yah_, let's weaponize the NHS-it sounds sophisticated, you know, like a plan of action, yah-"" He shrugs. "I'd have told him if Yvette hadn't basically assaulted me-" Off Andy's look, Ed snorts. "Oh shut up, I've had a hard day."

Andy snorts this time. _"You've_ had a hard day-" He rests his head on his hand again. "God knows how you managed not to punch him when you heard that."

"I was focused on not punching fucking Cameron, actually."

"Why?"

Ed almost chokes. This is quite an achievement, as the only substance present to choke on is air. _"Why?"_

Andy shrugs. "OK, not _why. _More-" He shrugs again, meeting Ed's eyes. "You know we'd have done the same thing."

Ed glares at him. He glares more because Andy's right.

"We're allowed to be fucking pissed off, you know, Burnham-" he says, letting his chair fall forward with a bang. "You know he only used it because he couldn't answer the fucking question-"

"No." Andy's voice is quieter now. "He used it because he knew it would work."

Ed glares again.

"Because it's _bad._ If that's what he said-"

"Yeah, it is pretty fucking bad." Ed resists the temptation to pull out his phone and check just how much utter shit is being rained down upon them from the lofty heights of Twitter profiles.

"Yeah." Andy meets his eyes again. "But not just-bad _electorally._ It's just-" Andy sighs and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, sadder. "Really fucking bad."

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it again, because the fact is, Andy's _right._ It's not just bad for _them-_it's bad that Miliband _said _it, because-

"Do you think he means it?" Andy says quietly and Ed draws in a breath to answer before hesitating, eyes locked with Andy's.

If Miliband said that-well, was unguarded enough to let it slip, even for a moment-

Well-

He meant it on _some-_

Ed sighs, suddenly feeling fucking exhausted and it's only the third day back.

He scrubs a hand across his eyes. "I don't know, Andy" he says quietly and that's all he can say.

He knows from Andy's face immediately that this isn't enough, not nearly fucking enough, and he feels a surge of fury at Miliband, Miliband and his weaponizing-and what a fucking_ poxy_ comment, as well, when you think about it-for managing to make Andy look this fucking-

He looks _crushed._

Ed watches him for a few moments, then takes a deep breath. "Mate" he says, a phrase he picked up from Andy without even knowing it, and he reaches out and tugs at Andy's sleeve. Andy's eyes widen only the slightest bit. "Come on. Let's go and eat."

"I'm not-"

"Come on, Burnham, it's not going to help the NHS if you give them an extra fucking patient, is it?"

Andy stares at him for a moment and then, for the first time, a real hint of a smile breaks across his mouth.

It's when he gets up, reaching for his suit, draped over the back of his chair, that Ed says "I mean, if we had to choose them an extra patient, we could just give them fucking Miliband."

Andy's smile dimples his cheeks and he laughs then-an uneven, smaller laugh, but a laugh all the same.

It encourages Ed. It might not be as strong as it should be, but it's still there.

He only wishes he could apply that kind of hope to other parts of politics and yield similar results.

* * *

"Mum said no cushions" Nancy says, as Flo scrambles onto the couch. Elwen rolls his eyes.

"That was _once_" he says, holding up a hand. "Nearly a_ year_ ago. And it was pillows."

"What was-what was I-" Flo's dangling on and off the couch and Nancy takes her hand, tugging her down gently. "Calm down, Flo-"

Past her little sister's head, she can see the police on the TV screen and she feels as though her stomach is squeezing itself tightly.

Flo doesn't notice, burbling the lyrics to "Let It Go" to herself, ponytail bouncing.

"Flo, you need to be careful-" Elwen grabs his sister under her arms and lifts her back onto the couch. "Ms. Merkel's going to come in, so you have to be good-"

Flo squirms back and forth against Elwen's knee-Elwen isn't quite big enough to hold her, so she slips loose. "What was I-when-where-"

"When where what?"

"When we had-the pillows and-" Flo grabs for a cushion. Nancy grabs it back.

"When we went on holiday to Germany, remember-Flo, be_ careful-"_ Elwen grabs her again as Flo wrestles herself around the couch.

"Why's there loud men?"

"What are you talking about, _loud men-"_ Elwen manoeuvres his sister back onto the couch.

_"Loud men-"_ Flo points at the screen. "Telly-there were _bangs-"_

Elwen's eyes find Nancy's over their sister's head.

"That was just the telly, Flo" Nancy says, and then she says "You know, like Dad's films?"

Flo's eyes widen and she nods. "_Yes-"_ she shrieks, almost launching herself off the couch. "Yes, yes, _films-"_

"Flo-"

"Right, so when Ms. Merkel comes-" Gita walks in, carrying two dresses. "She's going to be greeted by-"

Flo throws herself at Gita's waist, nearly knocking her glass of orange juice everywhere-Elwen rescues it at the last moment.

"Not that-" Gita lifts Flo anyway, passing the dresses to Nancy. Flo burrows her face into her neck, before kissing Gita's cheek happily.

"Where's Mum?" Elwen moves Flo's glass further onto the table, while Nancy reaches up to play with her sister's ponytail.

Gita rolls her eyes. "Emily and Isabel wanted her to try on one more dress. She's counting the seconds until she can come and hug one of you. Any one of you, don't get cocky."

A few minutes later, Florence has had her hair pulled into two neat pigtails and is beaming in her dress, while Elwen's in a white shirt and Mum's brushing Nancy's hair, carefully tugging her dress lower.

"You can take it off later, after the dinner" Mum says, so just Nancy can hear her. "Put on that hoodie of yours'."

Nancy manages to laugh but Mum's hands still at her neck and she says "Are you all right, Nance?"

Nancy doesn't look at her mum. "Yeah" she says, quietly.

Ahead of her, Elsa spins around on the TV screen, blonde hair spinning with her. One of the songs is playing-Nancy isn't sure which. In the back of her head, she thinks she hears another loud bang, but when she looks back at the screen, all there is is the film and Flo laughing.

It's only then that she realises that Mum's still waiting and Nancy could tell her, but she listens to Flo laughing and thinks of Dad downstairs and then hears those gunshots again, echoing at the back of her mind.

"Yeah" she says again, and swallows, and then the door's opening, but Mum still watches her, even when she lets go, Nancy's hair falling over her hands.

When Ms. Merkel comes into the room, Flo opens her mouth and immediately has her hands simultaneously squeezed by Nancy and Elwen.

Dad steps in behind her and Mum hugs him and kisses his cheek while Ms. Merkel looks at Flo. Flo dimples and Ms. Merkel just watches for a moment, before she smiles back slowly, and Nancy feels Flo relax a little, and feels a wave of gratitude herself towards Ms. Merkel for returning the smile.

"And you remember my children-" Dad ruffles Elwen's hair and Flo peeps round her brother's elbow, grinning.

"Of course-"

Ms. Merkel isn't the sort of grown up who ignores kids-she crouches down and holds out her hand so Flo can shake it. "I hear you want to be Elsa, Florence?" Her accent sharpens the words.

Flo's dimples deepen at being remembered. "_Yes, yes, yes-"_ She claps her hands even as one is still being shaken.

Mum laughs and touches her shoulder. "Sorry-"

Ms. Merkel says something but Nancy's too busy tidying Flo's pigtails to hear properly.

"And Elwen-" Ms. Merkel smiles, the way she did when Elwen nearly smashed an ornament with his football and Dad went mad and shoved him on the naughty step for sixteen minutes, which is twice the number of minutes for each year of Elwen's age-

"You still smash things?"

Elwen laughs politely and shakes her hand and Nancy's suddenly struck by the realisation that Elwen actually looks a lot like Dad when he does that.

"We are not stealing you for Bayern Munich?" Ms. Merkel is laughing and Elwen beams, Flo chipping in with "He wants to play for _Chelsea."_

Ms. Merkel, Mum and Dad all laugh and Flo beams at Nancy. Nancy hugs her tightly, feeling a sharp squeeze of affection for her little sister. She thinks of all the noise on the TV and hugs Flo more tightly still.

"And Nancy-" Ms. Merkel's eyes twinkle now, the way they had last time when Mum had been telling them off again about the pillow fight and Nancy had told her that it was a healthy expression of conflict resolution.

"Hello-" Nancy holds out her hand and smiles, the way Dad does.

"You're still writing stories, I hope?"

"I'm writing an opera, now."

"Nance is pretty creative-" Dad squeezes her shoulder and Nancy nestles into his side as he kisses her hair.

"I can see." Ms. Merkel winks at her and then says so just Nancy can hear, "As is her way of resolving conflicts."

Nancy beams. Flo giggles and huddles into her side, the words going over her head. It's only when Dad claps his hands together and starts talking quietly to Ms. Merkel about France and Paris that Nancy glances back at the TV. Elsa's spinning around, singing a song that no one can hear, and Nancy hears those gunshots again, echoing one by one.

* * *

"We're sorry" is all a Prime Minister can say to a President when something like this happens.

"I'm sorry."

"We'll help you."

"We've been briefed."

(Alex and Andrew, telling them the latest death toll. Both him and Angela looking away, so neither has to see the flicker of emotion that the other knows can't help anything anyway. The death toll so far ringing in their ears. _Ten to twelve. Probably higher. Copycat attacks expected._

_And we haven't caught them. We haven't caught them.)_

"We'll do whatever we can to help."

The cracks in Hollande's voice on the other end of the phone. The way his and Angela's eyes catch for a moment, each of them looking at each other, seeing their own expression reflected on the other's face.

Both of them looking away, knowing the same thought is flickering in the other's mind. _Thank God. Thank God it wasn't us._

He knows they're both thinking it later, as they stand side by side, the cameras flashing, each behind their own podium, the British and German flags hanging behind them.

"Obviously, all our thoughts are with the French people, following the barbaric attack this morning-"

_How many are there going to be? How many of them had children? How many of them knew they were going to die before they did?_

"The German Chancellor, Angela, and I have spoken to Francois Hollande this afternoon, and offered our full support-"

_How can we help him when this has happened in his capital city, how can we do anything when he'll know all the time that these were his citizens, they're his, they're his, and he couldn't do anything, he couldn't do anything to stop it-_

"Any assistance our intelligence agencies can give to the French at this vital time-"

_What can't they see? What can't we see? What is there, going on right now-are they thinking of something right this moment? Is there an office? A hospital? A school? Full of people who don't know that they're the ones who've been picked out-who'll be staring at this and not know what's coming-_

"And we stand absolutely united with the French people against terrorism and against this threat to our values, free speech, the rule of democracy and respect, and it's absolutely essential that we defend those values today, and every day."

_How long is it going to be, how do we defend against this, how many others, how many others will be breathing one day and not the next-_

Islam's first question is about the attacks-_Prime Minister, this seems to be a different-horrifying events in Paris-a different type of attack, a different quantum of attack_-and he gives the answers, the terror levels, collaboration, looking at free movement-

But there's no answer, he says. No single answer.

And there isn't, and there isn't and the attacks linger there, under every question, the way it will for God knows how long afterwards, when he looks at his own children's faces over dinner tonight, and sees them for a moment, the way he does in his nightmares, their eyes closed, their bodies sprawled unnaturally still, their little faces smeared with ash and tears and blood.

* * *

Nancy's still awake when the hand pats at her shoulder. She can feel the breathing behind her, the little hand patting at her cheek.

Without turning round, she pulls back the duvet and feels Flo's warm little body scramble up behind her and pat at Nancy's arms, as though reassuring herself that her sister's still there. Nancy doesn't turn round, but pats Flo's hand gently, squeezes once.

Within a few minutes, her sister's breathing has evened out, and Nancy lies still, staring into the dark. When she's sure Flo's asleep, she flops over onto her back so she can stare up at the ceiling.

She thinks about the news again and the way the shots had gone off, one by one.

She tries to picture what it's like to be here one moment, breathing and working and drawing and then to just be-gone. Not there. Wiped away.

Does it hurt? Does someone feel it when they die? Do they know when they're gone that they're gone? Do you know where you're going?

Nancy knows Ivan was asleep when he died, but no one on the news today was asleep.

She doesn't like to think about Ivan at night, but she bunches the duvet up between her hands and looks at Flo, sleeping next to her. Her chubby cheeks are smooth and soft in the glow of the nightlight.

She wonders if any of the people working at the magazine had a little girl.

She wriggles out from under the duvet and gives her sister a quick glance, but Flo's fast asleep.

Nancy crawls down to the end of the bed, rescues her hoodie from the chair, and, bare feet finding the carpet, pads quietly out of her bedroom.

* * *

David doesn't often lie awake at night, but after attacks, he does.

A part of him, a small part, has Merkel's words on a drumbeat in his head-not just about terror-

_We'll need free movement_, he'd said. _If we go for a referendum-_

And they'll have to go for a referendum. He's got at least fifty backbenchers who'll be breathing down his neck, and this is the only way to shut them up.

Angela had looked at him. And shaken her head.

_David, this could be a nightmare for you._

He'd spread his hands. _It's already a nightmare. And with UKIP-_

Angela had shaken her head. _Not just for you. All of us._

_By all of us, you mean-_

_The EU._ Angela had watched him sternly, head on one side. _They will not like this and they will not pretend that they like this._

_I don't need them to like it. I need them to agree to it._

He'd expected another form of _They won't agree to it, _but Angela had just tilted her head to the side, a warning tone entering her voice.

_They might agree to it,_ she'd said. _But agreeing to concessions would be skating on thin ice._

_For them?_

Angela's expression hadn't changed. _For all of us._

And now, lying in bed, that's one conversation he hears.

The rest of his thoughts spin and circle around gunshots.

He thinks of two men with guns, two men who could be heading for the French border even as he lies here, breathing slowly, his mind teeming.

And he thinks of the people lying in the offices. People with pens in hands and sentences half-typed and drawings half-coloured. Lives that had been half-lived or a quarter-lived or not even that, lives that were just barely breathed into.

He thinks of them and he thinks of a hundred questions he'd be advised not to think of.

How long did it take? Did they die straight away? Did their phones ring? Did people ring their phones and wait for them to answer?

Will it be us next?

And the images, the images he can't even tell Samantha about-

A school, crumbling. Desks turned over. An electric whiteboard, riddled with bullet holes. A child's coat strewn across the floor, sleeve trailing in a puddle of blood. Worksheets dotted with red and black with smoke.

Children, in their little school uniforms, spread out on their backs. Matchstick legs. Tears staining their cheeks. Little mouths too silent. Hair dampened with blood, strands sticking to their faces.

And always, his eyes roam to their faces, and his knees will buckle and vomit will twist from his stomach and grab at his throat, the horror slamming into him, emptying him out, everything out of him-

He looks at their faces, their little bodies sprawled out where they'll never move again, too still, too quiet, stained with blood, and he sees them.

Nancy. Elwen. And Florence.

(And still, sometimes, Ivan.)

He's learnt to bury his face in the pillow when he wakes up after an attack now. And he'll always wake up with the sick knowledge lodging itself in his chest that for some of them, it isn't a dream.

He doesn't know whether he hears a noise or just decides to get up-it's the middle of the night, the time when everything feels vaguely unreal anyway, and it's then that, careful not to wake Samantha, as he slides his glasses on and opens the bedroom door, he hears a sound.

He stops, automatically tensing, mind running through the variety of options as to who it could be, reminding himself that they are currently in one of the most secure places on earth, that any security breach is near-impossible, and that-

He hears another noise and this time it's coming from the living room. David sighs, pushes his glasses higher, and heads off to investigate-he'd bet on it being Elwen, if he had to, though he's fairly sure his son has grown out of his nightmares by now.

But when he rounds the corner into the living room, already lowering his voice in preparation to guide his son gently back to bed, he finds himself squinting at a hooded little figure on the couch, which, on closer inspection, is not his son, but definitely bears a decided resemblance to his eldest daughter.

"Nancy?" He frowns, moving to the couch when the name yields no response. "What are you doing-"

Nancy is curled up in the corner of the couch, one of her hoodies pulled up around her. She's got her arms wrapped around her knees, and her hair hangs over her eyes, in a mess, as though she's been running her hands through it.

"Nance, it's past two in the morning-"

Nancy remains silent and for a moment, David wonders if she's asleep. But when he gets closer, he can see her eyes, bright and sharp in the darkness.

"Nance?" David sits beside her, slides an arm around her shoulders. "Are you not feeling well, darling?"

Nancy shakes her head the tiniest bit, but she exhales in a tiny little sigh, and David takes a deep breath, knowing he has to proceed carefully.

"Is that, no, you don't feel sick, or no, you're not feeling well?"

There's a pause, then "No, I'm not feeling sick." Nancy's voice is almost a whisper, but at least, she's speaking.

David looks at her for a moment, then slides his arm further around her shoulders. He can smell her shampoo and he presses a kiss into her hair, partly touching her forehead. He remembers suddenly the day she was born, the way he'd held her tiny, warm, squirming little body and pressed his mouth into her little scalp, breathing in her warm, baby scent and how he'd kissed her little forehead so hard her eyes had opened to stare back at him, even then, he thought, a little knowingly.

"Feel like helping me make some hot chocolate?"

Nancy is silent for a moment, then slowly nods.

David's always found it easy to bake with Nancy. When she's her usual lively self, they use the time to argue back and forth as they pass each other ingredients, and he holds her under the arms while she stands on a chair, stirring the delicious mixture in the bowl, her little hands wrapped tight around the spoon.

When she's quiet or sad, they can pass each other their favourite ingredients silently and he can let her lick out the bowl, tying her hair back carefully, the way he used to do when she was tiny, and her school uniform swam on her, sleeves too long for her little arms.

Now, next to him, Nancy kneels on a chair, while David spoons the chocolate powder into two mugs. Her eyes drift, looking so downcast that David reaches for the whipped cream. "Open wide."

For a moment, he wonders if his daughter actually will, but then Nancy arches an eyebrow, closes her eyes and opens her mouth.

David promptly sprays whipped cream into it.

Nancy's eyes open and for a long moment she just looks at her father. Then, slowly, a smile crinkles her eyes a little for the first time David can remember in a while.

David holds out the whipped cream can and Nancy promptly sprays it half in his mouth and half on his face.

"Right." David almost tackles his daughter for the whipped cream.

It's a silent struggle, in mind of Samantha, Elwen and Flo all currently fast asleep in their beds, in which David makes use of his ability to tickle his daughter and Nancy laughs for the first time that David can remember since the New Year, laughs and giggles as David sprays more whipped cream into her mouth.

It's when David says "All right, all right-", carefully setting the whipped cream down and ripping off some kitchen roll to wipe at her mouth, that he becomes aware that Nancy's holding onto him very tightly.

"All right, Nance-" He chuckles and hugs her back, expecting her to pull away any second, but her arms just tighten a little if anything, and it's then he realises she isn't laughing anymore.

"Nancy-"

David moves one hand to her hair, the food fight forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just strokes his daughter's hair, letting her hug him.

He only realises she's crying into his shirt, when he's been holding her for a while, and then he tucks her hair behind her ears and it feels like his heart is being squeezed slowly into his ribs, the same way it has done every time she's cried in her life, right from when she was a baby and he had to walk her up and down the stairs, shushing her over and over.

He takes a deep breath, then another, because it's his job to be in charge.

(It's always his job to be in charge.)

He bends down and cups his daughter's damp little cheeks in between his hands. He waits until her breath shudders a little, a sign that she's calming down, before he crouches down so that he can look at her and says "Let's go and sit on the couch."

It's not until David has placed a mug of steaming hot chocolate on the table in front of his daughter and sat down next to her that he says quietly "Tell me, sweetheart."

Nancy tugs at her sleeves and scrubs one absently across her face-David reaches for a tissue, meaning to hand it to her, but he ends up wiping her face for her, instead.

Nancy bites her lip and David puts an arm around her, pushing her hoodie down. "If you don't tell me, I can't help, sweetheart." He kisses her hair and Nancy takes in a sharp, shuddering breath.

"Is it about-" David's about to ask if it's about the election, but then remembers that this probably doesn't occupy everyone else's minds as much as it does those in politics, let alone the mind of an almost-eleven-year-old girl.

But then the election _has_ occupied his mind recently, perhaps more than it should.

"Is it me, Nance? Is it-I've been working a lot lately, is it-"

He stops. Nancy had tensed when he'd asked if it was about him, but she'd relaxed the second he'd moved on to working too much.

So it's him.

"You're not-not working too much-" David watches as Nancy leans forward and takes a sip of hot chocolate.

"Careful, you'll burn yourself-"

Nancy sips a little more carefully. David, despite the tear stains on her cheeks, fights a smile as he has to carefully wipe away a whipped-cream moustache from her top lip with his thumb.

David knows he has to tread carefully. "Is it school-"

Nancy tenses again.

David speaks very slowly. "School and-"

Nancy sighs and gives him a fairly impatient look.

David arches an eyebrow. "I won't tell Mum. Or Gita, if you're worried there might be another incident with a parent-"

Nancy smiles the tiniest bit. David presses his advantage.

"Uncle Boris. I could get Uncle Boris-"

He reconsiders. "Then again, only if he doesn't have a stuffed toy with him."

Nancy glances at him. "Has Mr Crosby not given him another kangaroo, then?"

David stares at her for a moment and then laughs. Nancy's mouth twitches in a small smile.

"Nance." David touches her hand, then, and he says it quietly. "I want to know, darling. I want to-"

Nancy takes in a deep, shuddering breath. David's reminded of the first time he persuaded her to let her surfboard go in Cornwall, the way her hands had clenched white-knuckled on the edge of the board, her eyes wide.

The scars under his arm seem to tingle and for a moment, he's ten and his face pressing into the pillow, his hand wedged under his arm, but the burning spreading through his fingers, no matter how hard he presses them into his skin. He's screwing his face up and pressing it into the pillow but the tears come out, hot and stinging, staining his cheeks.

"Dad-" Nancy's voice is quiet. "You know how people-people don't like us?"

* * *

Nancy hadn't known she was going to cry until she was doing it.

It had been the fact Dad was hugging her and she'd thought suddenly that this was just _her_ dad-her dad, who made her hot chocolate in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep.

And this was her dad and they were going to just say-

Now, she's looking at Dad and Dad's got his arm around her. "What do you mean, people don't like you?"

Nancy tugs at her sleeve again. "Not me-as...All of-" She gestures with her finger, like that might make Dad see what she means.

"All of us. Me and Mum and Elwen. Flo. You. Uncle George. Uncle Michael." She swallows. "People don't like us."

She waits for Dad to say something, but he's just looking at her.

"People-" She hates saying it, but Dad'll work it out anyway now, and it's her fault-"People say things about you."

Dad opens his mouth then, like he's going to say something, but instead, he just takes hold of her hand.

"They-"

It's the thought of some of the things on the ipad, some of those Twitter people-real people out there, saying these things, typing things about Dad and Mum, and Uncle George-about things they want to happen to them-

"It's like they _hate_ you." It comes out a little like a shout. It comes out sad and torn.

Dad doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, he looks at her quietly, his voice clearer, the way it always is when Dad's making up his mind about how to do something.

"Nance-" he says and then stops for a moment. "Nance."

Dad squeezes her hand again. "The fact is, Nance-" he says, with a tiny smile. Or it's trying to be a smile, anyway. "A lot of them probably do hate me."

Nancy feels a lump swell in her throat.

Dad puts an arm around her. "Actually-there might be a better way to explain it-" He frowns, pushing his glasses back, the ones he often wears at home with them. Or here, in the pretend home.

"They don't really hate me" Dad says, after a moment, and then looks at her. "Or-well, maybe some of them do-" He smiles a little now, and it's more like Dad's smile. "But most of them-" he says, keeping his eyes on hers'. "It's not me they hate. It's a person they think is me."

Nancy frowns, because maybe Dad's just trying to be profound, but-

"I mean, Nancy-" Dad puts a hand on her shoulder. "That-they only see one side of me. They see me-making decisions. And sometimes-they're decisions they don't like. And they-that's the only-_person _they see." He puts out a hand. "They don't see Uncle Craig or Mr. Crosby or any of the people who help-and they don't see me with you, like this-" He gestures between them. "They just see that one bit that they don't like-and they think that's me. But they don't dislike me. All of me. Do you understand? At all?"

Nancy frowns because Dad's looking at her, and she _does_ understand, but still-

"But it's not-" She's going to say _nice_, but decides that that isn't enough. "Like with Beatrice-" she says and Dad's jaw tenses.

"Yes" he says, slowly. "That was wrong, what happened with Beatrice. But-" and he lifts her hand carefully. "Auntie Sarah talked to the school, remember? And her teacher said sorry? So we can sort things out."

Nancy wriggles. "But it's still-" Her voice bursts out a little angrily. "They act like Labour people are the only good people."

"Who does, Nancy?"

"Anyone. Loads of people." Nancy kicks at the carpet. "And they all act like you and Uncle George are horrible and anyone who likes you is horrible and _they're_ the ones who are stupid."

Dad's mouth twitches a bit. "I hope you don't tell them that."

"Well, no, obviously-"

"Because you might find yourself-well, on the receiving end-"

_"No,_ only because I don't _know _them-" because she doesn't care what Dad says, she _would_ hit anyone who had a go at Dad, and so would Elwen, they made each other promise-so did Beatrice and William-

"Well, Nance-"

"But it's that-they say horrible _things _about you." The words are torn out of her throat and she stares up at Dad, wanting him to understand. "They say horrible things and they're not even _true-"_

"I know, Nancy." Dad's got his hand on her shoulder. "I know. But you know why people have to be allowed to say what they think-"

"I _know_, freedom of speech-" because she did a whole story about it for school, which her teacher said was "gripping"-"But it's not just-they say things about us."

She doesn't want to tell Dad. But she needs him to understand, and-

"They say stuff about me. And Elwen and Flo. Online. How we're. You know. Spoilt and that kind of thing."

Dad takes in a breath and the words come out almost before Nancy can stop them. "And Ivan."

Dad goes very still, then. Nancy bites her lip and pulls up her knees.

Dad doesn't say anything for a few long moments.

"Sorry" Nancy says, though she's not sure what for.

"You don't need to be sorry." Dad's voice is a little lower than usual, but when Nancy glances at him, he doesn't look_ sad_, exactly.

He looks something like sad.

Something like angry.

Nancy's not sure if it makes her feel better to see it or not.

"Nancy." Dad doesn't look at her for a moment, but when he does, his voice is a little stronger, a little louder. "There are some-not many, but some-very sick, very twisted people in the world. And anyone who says things about you or Ivan-" Dad doesn't even hesitate saying his name and Nancy feels herself relax a little. "Or Elwen or Florence, is one of them. And they're not anyone you need to listen to."

Nancy swallows. "They-" She catches sight of her hot chocolate and reaches for it, taking a sip more cautiously this time. "They say that it doesn't matter where people come from" she says slowly, testing out the fragments of knowledge she's gleaned from internet searches and eavesdropping on her father's conversations on whatever it is the Labour Party want. (Dad had kept calling it "the red team" until she told him that she wasn't _deaf _and that she _heard_ him and Uncle George going on and on about the bloody Labour Party and that effing socialist, Miliband. She'd said this at the dinner table one night, which had made Uncle George nearly choke laughing on his glass of wine, so that Auntie Frances kicked him under the table.)

"Yes" Dad says now, looking at her with his head on one side, smiling a bit again. "That's what they say they want, yes."

"But they don't like _us_ because of where _we_ come from-" It comes tumbling out of Nancy's mouth at the same moment as it clicks in her head. "They don't like _us _because you and Mum have money, that's what they say-and they don't like you and Mum because you have money, and that's just as bad." She hears her own voice get louder. "They're just as bad, they're just the other way round-"

"Yes." Dad's smiling a little more now. "I'm inclined to agree with you, there."

Nancy stares at him. "Well, that's just stupid" she decides, firmly. "You and Mum do jobs, and it's got nothing to do with Elwen and Ivan and Flo, anyway-" (She leaves herself out, honouring the fierce protective feeling that's suddenly sprung up in her chest.) "So why should they get to be nasty about it?"

Dad's definitely smiling, now. "Exactly."

"Well, I'm never voting Labour." Nancy takes a decisive gulp of hot chocolate to emphasise the point. _"Ever."_

Dad's smiling more now, so his eyes crinkle. "Glad to hear it."

Nancy thinks of all those people, the ones who think they can say nasty things about Dad-"I _hate _them."

Dad's smile disappears, then. "No, Nance-" His voice is gentle, but a little firmer, lower. "You can't go hating people just because of who they want to vote for."

"Not just because-"

"You know Uncle Daniel, don't you?"

Nancy nods.

"He used to vote Labour. And Auntie Tania-"

"I know _that._ I mean, people who are _nasty."_ Nancy looks up then, another thought occurring to her, one that she's had a few times before, but hasn't really had any real significance until now. "Mr. Ed Miliband runs the Labour Party." It isn't a question.

Dad takes a sip of his own hot chocolate. "Yes, he does."

"So he's going to say things about you before the election, isn't he?" Nancy didn't know how certain she was about this until she said it, and then "He already _has,_ hasn't he?"

Dad doesn't look away from her. "Yes, he has." He takes another sip of hot chocolate.

"Have you said things about him?"

Dad still doesn't look away. "Yes."

Nancy looks away, nods and then looks up as another thought occurs to her. "Uncle Nick, too?"

Dad still looks. "Yeah, Nance."

Nancy nods quietly, and thinks for a moment.

"Isn't that weird?" she asks, reaching for her hot chocolate again.

Dad purses his lips like he's thinking. Nancy likes this about Dad-he doesn't just give her stupid answers or tell her it will be all right and nothing else when she asks questions.

"I suppose so, yes" he says, taking a sip of his own drink. "But that's what we have to do."

Nancy frowns. "Do you stay friends with them?" she asks bluntly, because it's late and she's tired and she wants to know.

Dad takes in a breath, and then stays quiet for a moment. "Honestly, Nance, I don't know" he says quietly, looking straight at her. "We've never had a coalition government-not since World War II-so I don't know."

"What about Mr. Ed Miliband?"

She thinks Dad goes still for a moment, but she can't be sure.

"I'm not sure, Nancy" is what he says and his voice is a little quieter this time.

"But-I mean-they won't be coming round and stuff." Nancy takes another gulp of hot chocolate and chews on a marshmallow reflectively.

Dad smiles, then, but it looks a little sad. "Probably not as much, Nance, no. Not for a while."

Nancy looks at him for a long moment. She wonders if Dad's thinking about Uncle Nick. She is. She's thinking about Flo's bedside cabinet and how Uncle Nick spent ages on the floor of her bedroom with Dad, helping to set it all up.

"It's weird" she says, then shakes her head. "Well-weird, like you said-"

"Like what I said-"

"You know. About people only seeing a bit of you." She chews a marshmallow, half-melted on her tongue. "It's just that-well, you know. When Mr. Ed Miliband says stuff about you-it doesn't seem like the usual him, either."

Dad laughs, sounding almost a little rueful. Nancy's heard that word a few times but she's never really seen it in action before now. "Some people might say it is" he says, almost too quietly for Nancy to hear, and when she frowns, Dad says "I suppose it doesn't, really."

"Not what he's like with us. With you-" She hesitates, because she's seen Mr. Ed Miliband with Dad and with his kids and Flo, and she's seen some of his speeches, ones on TV and things, and he's different up there. Dad is too, of course-their voices go harder, louder, and their eyes are harder too, sharpening their arguments. Their words build up into what would be called shouts anywhere else, but aren't there, somehow.

She remembers when Dad used to not be Prime Minister and Mr. Brown was-she remembers Mr. Brown, because they used to see him sometimes, at parties and things, and she remembers Dad asking her if she wanted to say hello one of the first times she met him, at a wedding, when even Mr. Brown wasn't Prime Minister yet, and she'd ducked her head into Dad's shoulder, but held her hand out and let Mr. Brown shake it.

He'd been nice, Mr. Brown, but his voice was all rough, like it was struggling out of his throat, and she thought he and Daddy didn't maybe like each other as much, though Mrs. Brown ruffled her hair and when she could run around with John and Fraser, they were nice, and John said that their daddies probably liked each other really, and they were just pretending.

It's different when Mr. Ed Miliband's with them, the same way Dad is, but he's different when he's with Dad, too. They look at each other, differently.

"He's different with you" she says, maybe without meaning to, and she thinks Dad goes still for a moment.

"I mean, here" she says and then "Though, Flo said-"

"What did Flo say?" Dad's voice is a little quick but it's late and Nancy grips her mug tighter between her hands to warm them.

"Just that they're not happy. Mr. Ed Miliband's kids. You know, Sam and Daniel."

"Oh." Dad blinks, looking something like surprised, but Nancy can't really see in the dark.

"But-he's different here." Nancy tugs at her sleeve. "Like on Bonfire Night."

Dad's gone very quiet next to her. Nancy frowns suddenly, remembering. "Though he didn't really get it when I tried to tell him."

She trails off, trying to remember what she'd told him when he'd come out of Flo's room. She can't remember if Libbie had gone home or not.

"Tried to tell him what?"

Nancy shakes her head and looks up to find Dad watching her. "Um. About this-" She takes another gulp of hot chocolate. "You know."

Dad's turning round to face her carefully. "What? That you were upset?"

"Yeah. I tried, anyway."

Dad's shaking his head. "And he didn't-"

"What?"

Dad's jaw's clenched tight and Nancy frowns, staring at him.

"He didn't tell me." Dad's voice is calm and level, but Nancy watches his hands slowly curl and uncurl. "He knew you were upset and-"

"Only because I-" Nancy interrupts quickly, because something in her dad's face is different-it's quiet and it's angry, but it's more than angry. A lot more.

But then Dad looks at her and his voice is firm and there's something-well.

Something _sad_ there.

"Yes" is all he says quietly. "Yes, he's different."

Something about the words is a little off and Nancy's just running them through in her head, trying to work out what, when Dad puts his mug down on the table and takes her arm, suddenly. "Nancy, listen."

Nancy swallows another mouthful of hot chocolate and meets her dad's eyes.

Dad doesn't look away from her. "I know there are people who say things-and people who might try and say things to you-but you have to remember, sweetheart-"

Dad tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, looks straight at her. "Those people can't do anything to you. Anything. And they're not right." He strokes her cheek gently. "They're not right, Nancy. You don't have to feel bad about me or Mummy or-the fact you don't live in a bloody box in the middle of the M62." He chucks her under the chin. "You haven't done _anything _wrong."

Nancy nods, then nods again, a little more fiercely.

Dad doesn't look away. "You haven't done anything wrong, and you _don't _need to feel guilty for being privileged." He presses a sudden, fierce kiss to her forehead. "Anyone who tries to tell you you should-_they're_ the ones who are doing something wrong." He strokes her cheek gently. "You and Elwen and Flo-you don't need to apologise to _anybody _for where you come from. OK?"

Nancy meets his eyes, feels something sure and fiery flicker up in her chest. She looks up at Dad-_her _dad, who knows what's good for people and puts up with idiots who say stupid things about him and even having to argue with people he could be friends with-and she feels suddenly, fiercely proud.

She wraps her arms around his neck quickly, in a fierce squeeze. "OK" she says. "OK."

Dad hugs her back-tight, very tight-and then he says quietly into her hair, "I'm sorry, Nance."

Nancy blinks, because Dad shouldn't be sorry. Dad shouldn't be sorry for anything. "Why?"

She keeps her face buried in his neck, and she remembers doing the same thing at Uncle Will's wedding, when she was scared to jump in her new dress and Dad had winked and said Mummy wasn't looking, and he'd catch her, and then she had and he had, and he'd held her tight, his laughter shaking against her shoulder and his arms holding her tight, protecting her from everything.

"Because-" One of Dad's hands is rubbing her back, gently. "I wish you didn't. Have to know about all this. Which doesn't make sense, really, Nance, but I'd rather like a world where you didn't have to worry about anything." Dad laughs a little, or Nancy thinks he does, but he's holding her tight, so she can't see.

"The fact is" and he sounds so sad when he says it that Nancy has to close her eyes for a moment, because her father should never sound so sad, he never should-

"I can't give you that."

She might be imagining it, but she thinks she feels his arms tighten a little around her. And hers' tighten around him.

"It's not your fault" she says-understanding, somehow, and not really understanding why, that she should tell Dad that.

Dad does laugh, then, but he holds her tighter. "I know, but-" He moves her back a little, so he can meet her eyes. "It would be rather nice" he says and his voice is so quiet, Nancy thinks, quiet and like he's smiling, but he's sad, too. "To think that I could protect you from everything."

Their cheeks are pressed together and Dad lets her lean back and press her forehead against his. Nancy presses her hands to both his cheeks, the way she used to when she was little.

"But you can't, right?" is all she says.

Dad looks back at her and he definitely looks sad this time. But all he says is "No, Nance. I'm afraid I can't."

Nancy nods and then nods again.

"Nance?"

Nancy bites her lip. Dad pulls her round then, so she can lean her head against him, like she's little, like she's Florence's age. "Tell me." He tucks her in against him, presses a kiss to her hair.

Nancy sighs and tugs at her sleeve but Dad knows most of it, now, and anyway, maybe he can-

She points at the TV, even though it's switched off, as dark as the rest of the room. She'd been going to switch it on when she first crept out of her bedroom, but she'd frozen at the last minute, thumb pressed to the button. Part of her had wondered about the noise, whether it would wake anyone. Another part had just wondered whether she really wanted to see any more of it.

"Paris-"

Dad cuddles her tighter. "What about Paris?"

"All the shootings and things-"

"Yes?"

Nancy turns round, still safely tucked into his arm, to look up at her dad. "Could that happen here?"

Dad takes a moment to answer this time and pulls her closer. "Well. We've got a lot of protection. A lot of people making sure that those types of people-"

But Paris had that, too, and anyway, Nancy meant-"But what about you?"

Dad frowns a little. "What about me?"

Nancy swallows. "The terrorists did that because they didn't like what the magazine were doing, that's what it said."

"That's right."

"But some people don't like what _you're_ doing." The words spill out of Nancy's mouth a little louder than she means. "You and Uncle George and Uncle Michael and everybody. And they say they want to hurt you."

She stares up at Dad and feels her hands knot in his sleeves, like she can hold onto him. "So what if one of _them-"_

Dad takes hold of her then, lifts her onto his lap like he used to when she was tiny. Nancy remembers that, being lifted onto his knee-one time she was very little and there were cameras there and she'd been scared, and Dad had just put out a hand and told them to stop filming NOW, and then he'd pulled her onto his knee and told her that none of these people with the cameras were going to hurt her and if she didn't want to have her picture taken, she didn't have to and she could have some time to think about it, if she wanted.

"Nancy-" Dad looks straight at her, pulling her round onto his knee. "Listen to me. We are the safest people in the _world_, I promise. You know about all the protection, don't you?"

Nancy nods, because they'd always just been there. Protection teams and people to look after them and she'd known somehow, in some confused way that this was to do with keeping bad people away from them, but now-

She glances at the TV screen.

_They're _the type of bad people the protection teams are there to protect them _from_, and she's never thought about them before. Not really, not properly.

"And all the alarms and the cameras and the guards?" Dad kisses her head gently. "They're protecting us. We're probably the safest people in the country, apart from the Queen."

He smiles but Nancy bites her lip. "What about everyone else? Uncle George and Uncle Michael and Uncle Craig and Chris and-"

"Well, Uncle George lives here, like us." Dad gives her another kiss on the forehead. "And everyone else has their own guards and protection. Everyone's very safe, Nancy. I promise." Dad chucks her under the chin. "Do you really think Mummy would let any of them ever leave if she thought they weren't?" Dad smiles, pushes her hair back behind her ear. "And Mummy. We've got Mummy, remember, Nance-"

Nancy feels a smile push at her mouth a little. Dad gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Can you really see Mummy letting any bad people near any of us?" He raises an eyebrow. "Or Auntie Sarah? Or Auntie Frances and Auntie Marina? Or Isabel? Or Auntie Emily?"

Nancy feels a smile creep out slowly at her mouth.

Dad smiles. "I think Mummy and Auntie Sarah would drop-kick them down the garden path."

Nancy feels a giggle explode out of her mouth and Dad grins back at her.

"And it might be cruel to let Gita get near them."

Nancy laughs, now, and Dad does too, letting her head rest on his chest. She lies there for a moment, laughter still bubbling out of her mouth, and it occurs to her, gradually as her laughter dies down, that for the first time in a long time, she feels completely safe.

Dad lifts her up after a moment, tilts her chin, so that he can look at her properly. "I know that doesn't make everything better" he says quietly. "But does it help a little bit?"

Nancy looks back at him and this time she can nod without feeling like she's lying.

Dad kisses her head again and then says "You've got big shadows under your eyes." He touches them gently with the tip of his finger. "You look like a panda." He presses another kiss to her nose. "Haven't you been sleeping well?"

Nancy shakes her head. Dad looks at her and then he suddenly wraps his arms around her and hugs her tight. "Maybe you should have a day off tomorrow. Have a rest-"

Nancy rubs her eyes and Dad kisses her head. "I'll talk to Mummy. Finish your hot chocolate and we'll go back to bed."

Nancy reaches for her mug, to take a last gulp of her drink. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

She looks at him over the rim of her mug. "Do you get sad about it? When people say things about you?"

Dad looks at her for a long moment and then the corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs a little.

"No" he says, and he's still laughing a little. "Actually, I don't."

He smiles at Nancy, tucks her hair behind her ears. And strangely enough, Nancy actually feels like she believes him.

This time, it's far easier to smile.

* * *

When Dad leads her back into her bedroom, he lifts her up like he did when she was little and tucks her into bed. Flo's still there, chubby cheek pressed into the pillow, lashes brushing her skin in her peaceful, childish slumber.

"Flo migrated again?" Dad whispers as he lays her down, and Nancy nods, feeling sleepier now as Dad's hand strokes her hair. Flo snuggles closer in her sleep.

"Go to sleep, now" Dad whispers. "You can have a lie-in, tomorrow."

Nancy's eyes are closing when she says it, the words slipping out before she can stop herself. "Dad, stay?"

She thinks she shouldn't have said it straight away-Dad always has to be up early and he has work, and he's got that speech with Uncle George tomorrow-

Dad looks at her quietly and then says "Sure." As if it's as easy as anything.

Dad sits down beside her bed, and one hand brushes her forehead. "Close your eyes" he says quietly, and Nancy does, curling into the pillow, the darkness warm around her like a blanket.

Dad's hand stays there, stroking her hair, and he shushes her every few minutes or so, like she's tiny and young, younger even than Flo.

As she drifts off, she remembers it suddenly, that day with the cameras. She'd had a think, sitting on Mummy's knee, while Daddy chased Elwen about and Elwen giggled, running about on his baby legs, and then Nancy had decided, and told Daddy that she didn't mind her picture being taken but "not close in my _face"_ and that she didn't want to have to "stop and smile."

Mummy had said something about "method acting" and everyone had laughed, but smiled at her the way she knew that grown-ups did when she did something right, and Daddy had just picked her up and cuddled her and put her on his knee, and she hadn't minded the cameras then, because Daddy had whispered in her ear that he'd keep any cameras she didn't like away from her, and then she'd been able to eat her breakfast.

Daddy had tickled her, then, under the chin, and she'd lain back against him, laughter shaking them both, and she'd felt safe, that's what she remembers now, as she drifts off, with her dad's arms around her.

* * *

_Misery Business-Paramore-"Well, I never meant to brag/But I got him where I want him now/Well, it was never my intention to brag/To steal it all away from you now/But God, does it feel so good/'Cos I got him where I want him right now/And if you could then you know you would/'Cos God, it just feels so good"_

_ The Intro-The XX _

_Avalanches-A Fine Frenzy-"Well, don't be scared of avalanches/Tucked up in my snowy branches/I will/Oh I will/Oh I will/I will keep you safe"_

_Sunday Bloody Sunday-U2-"I can't believe the news today/Oh, I can't close my eyes and make it go away/How long, how long must we sing this song/How long, how long..../And the battle's just begun/There's many lost, but tell me who has won/The trench is dug within our hearts/And mothers, children, brothers, sisters torn apart"_

_Disarm-The Civil Wars-"Cut that little child/Inside of me and such a part of you/Oh, the years burn....I used to be a little boy/So old in my shoes/And what I choose is my choice/...The killer in me is the killer in you/My love/I send this smile over to you"_

_Holocene-Bon Iver-"And at once I knew I was not magnificent...And I could see for miles, miles, miles"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David comforting Nancy as they leave Downing Street in 2016:https://goo.gl/images/vXtUyK  
https://goo.gl/images/eWKhar  
https://bit.ly/2TXmeEG  
Nancy is very protective of her dad:https://bit.ly/2U3fogW  
The Camerons would be subject to an attempted assassination in 2020:https://bit.ly/2IJlBcJ  
http://dailym.ai/2IIoR8g  
Nick did help David with Florence's bedside cabinet:https://bit.ly/38z6M7e  
http://dailym.ai/335ZsyG  
The PMQs depicted https://bit.ly/337GRCj  
There is a short news documentary on the Charlie Hebdo attacks here (TW obviously):https://bit.ly/2UvK77Z  
Cameron greeting Merkel at Downing Street and their press conference: https://bit.ly/2v7EIdk  
https://bit.ly/2W4h78u  
The first wedding mentioned was Cameron family friend Alan Parker's, which Gordon Brown also attended: https://bit.ly/2IDCbLi  
You can see the album of photos of Nancy with her parents at the wedding here:https://bit.ly/338j2KC  
https://bit.ly/336Ok4I  
She had insisted on wearing the dress on a visit to the park as part of David's environmental work, which can be seen here:https://bit.ly/2vbtZ1H  
The wedding where Nancy remembers jumping into David's arms was at her uncle Will's wedding (Samantha's brother), seen here:http://dailym.ai/3cQoaaG  
You can see the two albums of photos of the Camerons at the wedding here:https://bit.ly/2wNM1Y4  
https://shutr.bz/339h50H  
David catching Nancy and Elwen:https://shutr.bz/2TPvc76  
https://shutr.bz/39GBdcT  
https://shutr.bz/33e1SLN  
https://shutr.bz/39BAOZj  
https://shutr.bz/2WdsPhp  
https://shutr.bz/2vMhJ8g  
https://shutr.bz/38BRLSd  
https://shutr.bz/3aHuNuc  
https://shutr.bz/3cKOaEt  
https://shutr.bz/2PZ6v79  
https://shutr.bz/2veNhTS  
These photos show Nancy and Elwen with their cousin Perry and others at the wedding:https://shutr.bz/2TTUl0z  
https://shutr.bz/2vaJarQ  
https://shutr.bz/38G5mrJ  
https://shutr.bz/2TSA4Zi  
https://shutr.bz/2vgxBQ4  
https://shutr.bz/38EImco  
https://shutr.bz/2TUxba7  
The "Danny" mentioned is Danny Finkelstein, a close friend of both David and especially George:https://bit.ly/2THm59H  
https://bit.ly/3aIlWZi  
https://bit.ly/335Voyu  
Ed's "weaponise the NHS" comments:https://bit.ly/33cfIhF  
John and Fraser are Gordon Brown's sons-they can be seen here, leaving Downing Street with their parents: https://bit.ly/3aCgI1c  
The filming Nancy remembers was one of the only times David allowed his children to be filmed, at home in 2008 when he was Leader Of The Opposition: https://bit.ly/33c1cqq  
https://bit.ly/33iLeed  
You can see some of the clips in the second episode of The Cameron Years: https://bit.ly/39GLhTo  
David and Michael's children attended the same primary school and Bea and Nancy attend the same secondary school:https://bit.ly/2Q3jaWI  
https://bit.ly/33cg1ZR  
One of the factors Cameron would later ask for Merkel's support in-and fail to obtain it-was in renegotiating the terms of free movement as he tried to renegotiate Britain's terms for remaining in the European Union. He later considered this one of the key factors in Britain's vote to leave:https://bit.ly/3cLPpDq  
David and Nancy's baking contests are real, and the pillow fight at Merkel's house took place in 2013 when David and his family were invited to stay with her:http://dailym.ai/39F4IM9  
https://bit.ly/2VYIpND  
https://bit.ly/3aJH29x  
https://bit.ly/2TXHoT9  
https://bit.ly/2VXDUmu  
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/cameron-and-family-head-to-berlin-for-first-diplomatic-visit-pxwb5lntwpq  
Nancy does put on amateur operas with her friends:http://dailym.ai/3cK3iSC  
David did use the "naughty step":https://bbc.in/2TEhp4e  
Bea did once see her teacher on the news with a "Gove Out" banner:https://bit.ly/3cMD3uT  
https://bit.ly/39HNaz3  
Gove's reaction to Ed's comments is partly because he was Ivan's godfather:https://politi.co/2TGaqrR  
Gabby's is due to the fact she also had a severely disabled sibling who died young:http://dailym.ai/2IAkWdH  
The Camerons' London home, which they lived in before and after Downing Street:https://goo.gl/images/e3XdU1  
https://bit.ly/2xkkoGn  
https://bit.ly/2vYNhaK  
George showing off his mimicry:https://bit.ly/2WiG3JF


	3. A Hassle Of Headlines, Maternal Musings And A Cumulative Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Daniel thinks islands can be happier than homes and David and Ed don't know whether to fight or not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
The reference quotes for this chapter (there are a lot this time) are mainly to do with the differences between David and Samantha, the friendship between the Camerons and the Goves, and the day Dave became Prime Minister.  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_This is now a high-stakes poker game. Do the broadcasters risk **"empty-chairing"** him (David Cameron)-in other words, threatening to go ahead without him? Does another organization fix a debate that includes Cameron and the Greens and threaten to empty-chair the other leaders if they refuse to show up?_

_Miliband calls to ask what I think is going on and to urge the BBC not to lose its nerve. I explain that this is a matter above my pay grade. I report on the negotiations, I don't participate in them. My hunch is that Cameron will probably end up doing at least one debate, but at a time and with a cast of his own choosing. It would be a brave broadcaster who empty-chairs a sitting prime minister.-Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_That was what I felt in my heart. Love is love, commitment is commitment-whoever you are and whatever your sexuality. My commitment to equal marriage was the next logical step-though it would take a few people to convince me. There were many chats with Sam. For a long time she'd been saying, **"A civil partnership is really a marriage, so why don't you call it a marriage, and then it's properly equal? It's not going to make me feel any less married if two gay people want to get married."**_

_Many of the people around me-particularly George, Kate, Danny, Nick Boles, and Michael Salter, my head of broadcast-continued to push on this. We had taken important steps as a Conservative Party on these issues. The next big thing we could do for gay people-indeed, the missing piece of the equality jigsaw-was to allow them to get married...As Michael Salter-now Michael Salter-Church, having married his boyfriend Rob-put it, it is about more than the legislation or even marriage: it is about the message it sends out. In the year I was born, homosexuality was still illegal in Britain. But today, all people growing up in this country know that they are equal in the eyes of the law and society, whoever they are, and whoever they love.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_David Cameron arrived at Number 10 in the twilight, a consequence of Gordon Brown's determination to be photographed leaving his office in daylight. Nick Clegg, still trying to lever concessions from the Tories, begged Gordon Brown not to end negotiations. Labour's prime minister, however, was persuaded to salvage a little pride with a dignified exit in the company of his family and in the afternoon sun._

_Consequently, Cameron received a call from Sir Gus O'Donnell saying he should be ready to go to Buckingham Palace at any moment. He called Samantha at King North Street (the family's London home) where she was helping Nancy with her homework. **"Well, you'd better get your frock on as we're going to the Palace."** Samantha at first thought he was joking: the previous night, deflated, he had told her over supper that he doubted the coalition could be agreed.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Cameron's wife Samantha is caught off-guard by the fast-flowing action. She is called in the early evening by Kate Fall, Cameron's gatekeeper and senior female aide, at the family's London home in Notting Hill: "**You're going to have to come down soon. David is about to form a government." "I don't have to get dressed up, do I? I'm at home with the kids." "Er, not yet"** Fall replies. Minutes later, Fall calls her back. **"Get ready. You'll need to put your dress on quickly." W**ith moments to spare, Samantha arrives at Cameron's office._

_David and Samantha are bundled into a car to Buckingham Palace for the Queen to invite him to become prime minister, Britain's youngest for nearly 200 years. Their hands touch in the back of the car. Their lives are about to change forever, but the short journey gives them final moments of peace. The car sweeps through the open gates. Cameron, still calm, ascends the wide stairs to where Her Majesty awaits him. He listens with barely-concealed pride as she invites him to form a government. Audience over, and now in the official prime minister's car under police escort, they are driven the half-mile to Downing Street.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Although he later spoke of his despair on Monday evening-returning home to tell Samantha that he would most likely be in opposition for several more years-the pendulum had by now swung decisively in his favour. The following day he would be on his way to Buckingham Palace, to be asked to form a government._

_Samantha was at home in north Kensington doing homework with Nancy when the call finally came. **"You'd better get a dress on because we're about to go and see the Queen"** Cameron told her._

_Her first reaction was panic about what to wear. She was five months pregnant, that awkward stage where ordinary clothes are too tight but maternity clothes can look baggy. Pulling a suitable-looking frock from her closet, she gave herself a quick once-over, checking to make sure the tattoo on her ankle couldn't be seen through her tights. Then they zoomed off to the palace. After years of waiting for this moment it was, in her words, **"so surreal."** Her husband was about to become the youngest Prime Minister in 198 years.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_In the early afternoon Samantha calls me from the Camerons' home in west London. **"What do you think?"** she says. "**Should I get ready?" "David thinks you'll be fine for today"** I reply. We haven't yet finalised the deal and Brown is supposed to stay put until an alternative government is in place._

_But as afternoon draws into evening, things start to feel different. We are hearing things-from the most reliable grapevine in political London, the detectives. Brown's protection team have told David's that things are moving swiftly at No.10 and to be prepared. At first we are dismissive. We are still some way off forming a viable government and it would be unconstitutional for Brown to step down pre-emptively. It is also getting very late in the day for these sorts of fireworks. I think the concert will be fine, I tell my daughter, but I put my husband on standby just in case. _

_Then it all happens. Gordon Brown announces he is finally stepping down as prime minister with immediate effect. We are in shock. David rings Samantha to tell her to put on her dress and get over here as fast as she can. _

_It is evening when Gordon and Sarah appear outside No.10 with their boys to say their goodbye before making their way to the palace to take leave of the Queen. We can hear the helicopters circling overhead. David's speech is tweaked, printed, and then changed one last time. A smart tie is tracked down. And although this is what we have been waiting for, for days, it still feels surprising. My daughter heads off to see Rihanna without me._

_We gather round the television and watch David and Samantha make their way to the palace, driving slowly up the Mall live on TV. It feels incredibly emotional, a culmination of years of hard work for us all. But it is most especially a moment of deep personal pride in David, who at 43 is set to become the youngest prime minister for nearly 200 years.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_Things moved fast. That afternoon I was in my Commons office thrashing out the details with Clegg. We were still trying to establish how we'd reconcile our parties' very different approaches to Britain's nuclear deterrent, Trident. Then word came from the cabinet secretary that Brown wasn't leaving No.10 tomorrow, he was going right now. Before the sun went down-he hadn't wanted to leave in the dark-Brown resigned. I watched him addressing the cameras in Downing Street on the TV in my office, knowing that the time had come._

_As I left Parliament for the final time as leader of the opposition, it wasn't my car waiting outside to take me to Buckingham Palace, but the prime ministerial Jaguar. **"You've worked so hard"** Sam said as she and I got in. We were both emotional. I was trying to savour the moment when my phone rang. It was Gwen Hoare, my childhood nanny. Now eighty-nine, Gwen remained very much part of the family. **"How are you getting on, dear?"** she asked. **"Well" **I said. **"I'm actually on my way to see the Queen."** Sam and I burst out laughing at the wonderful timing of it all._

_I'd been to the palace in the past, but its splendour seemed brighter than ever as I arrived for this moment. I had met the Queen, too, and this time I was as awestruck as ever. However, she put me at ease immediately. Then came the formalities. I said I'd like to form a government, but I wasn't entirely sure what type of government it would be. I hoped, I added, that it would be a coalition. She had seen it all during her fifty-eight year reign-wars, crises, scandals, new dawns. But she had never seen the sort of five-day delay that had preceded her twelfth prime minister's entrance to this ceremony of "kissing hands" (no hands are actually kissed.) I promised to report back on the true nature of the new government as soon as I could._

_As the car pulled into Downing Street the sky was getting dark, but the street was lit up by camera flashes. A rainbow formed over us-welcoming not a rainbow coalition but the first Conservative-led government for thirteen years, and the first coalition government in seventy years.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Not only was he (Michael) one of my best friends, his wife Sarah Vine, a journalist on The Times, got on brilliantly with Sam. Our children were at the same school, they had lived a few streets away from us in North Kensington, and we still met up for dinner and they would often come to stay at Chequers.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_He's particularly pained because of the very close personal and family relationship that exists between the Goves and the Camerons, including between Samantha and Gove's journalist wife, Sarah Vine, a friendship that has protected Gove for several difficult months when the knives were out for him. Sarah had looked after Cameron's children on election night in 2010 and had even been tipped to join the Number 10 team. Close foursomes are rare at the top of politics and rarely last: the Blairs with Alastair Campbell and his partner, Fiona Millar was one such, till breaking apart spectacularly.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon,_

_For the Cameroon inner circle, this day of patronage and power distribution was tinged with a sense of irrevocable change. All political cohorts are_ _ gangs, with a social face as well as an ideological purpose: the architects of New Labour had gone on holiday together and plotted in French and Tuscan villas. But the Cameroons existed as a social set even before they had acquired a clear political purpose. Cameron, (Steve) Hilton, Kate Fall, (Michael) Gove, Ed Vaizey (who would shortly be appointed Culture Minister), Nicholas Boles (the leading moderniser and newly elected MP for Grantham and Stamford) and a handful of others had been a gang first, a caucus second. They went on holiday together, were godparents to one another’s children and-that greatest of social bonds-shared childcare._

_The gang was porous: some lost touch, others were recruited to its social round. Osborne, a few years younger than the core Cameroons, was a natural addition. His (then) wife, the author Frances Osborne, was close to Simone Finn (nee Kubes), Gove’s girlfriend at Oxford and for several years thereafter. Finn would soon be advising Francis Maude at the Cabinet Office. She was also good friends with Gove’s wife, Sarah Vine, the Times journalist, who, in turn, was close to Samantha Cameron, helping to look after her children on election night…_

_Like the comprehensive-educated (William) Hague, Gove was sometimes a much-needed ambassador from outside the west London Tory demi-monde. Like Hilton, he enjoyed dual citizenship, firmly rooted in his past but happily assimilated to the world that the late Frank Johnson, former editor of The Spectator and Telegraph sketch writer, had christened **“the Hill.”** He had stepped out for several years with Simone Kubes (later Finn), who became a Special Adviser to Francis Maude, was a longtime friend of Kate Fall and had known Frances Howell long before George Osborne met and proposed to her. Gove’s wife, Sarah Vine, whom he had met at The Times, was independently close to Kubes/Finn and to Sam Cameron. Three degrees of separation were rarely necessary, let alone six…Gove and his wife performed a function in the Coalition as a couple that was completely distinct from their individual roles as a Cabinet minister and a newspaper columnist.** “Michael and Sarah are the couple the Camerons can hang out with and talk shop or not talk shop with. They help out with the kids, they are great company.”**-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_The Camerons follow the example set by the Blairs, who lived here with four children, and move into the flat above No.11, not the one above No.10, which is traditionally used for the prime minister. The No.11 flat is much larger-a house within a house, with lovely views. Here Samantha erects a fence around the family, while...also fulfilling her range of duties as wife to the prime minister...Samantha carefully carves out a life for herself and her family that hits the right balance-supporting David when he needs her, but focusing primarily on her children and her interests. Right from the start, Samantha sets down her rules. This is not going to turn into a 24/7, Clinton-style, pizza-eating, "meeting-a-thon." The minute David walks through the door of the flat, it is family time or red boxes. Unless we absolutely have to, we mostly don't intrude. We already operate on eleven-or-twelve-hour days. Out of hours we do as much as we can on our official No.10 Blackberries from home. Of course I am on email and take calls late into the evening, but I am at home. If there is an emergency we all come back in. This is important. There is a time at night when I know I can return to be with my own children....The wife of the British Prime Minister is in an interesting position. Her role is very much in the public eye, but it is a far cry from the role of FLOTUS-the First Lady Of The United States-who, as official consort to the US head of state, is required to be more high-profile and perform a set of ceremonial duties. In the UK, we have a royal family who does that job excellently for us. Samantha decides very early on to keep quite a low profile, which seems to both fit in with what is expected from her and works for her and her family. Other prime ministers' spouses have attempted more prominent roles-and they have not always been well-received. There is a balance. As a rule of thumb, being supportive and seen to care-advisable. Being seen to meddle or in any way take advantage of your position-not advisable. Samantha has her own ambitions, of course, but they are not in politics...The difference between what is expected of Samantha and how things are done on the other side of the Atlantic draws my attention when I join her for tea with Michelle Obama and a close advisor. It is a private chat-just the four of us. The stunningly attractive and beautiful Michelle Obama is adept at steering the conversation: much of it is about how to manage the role of a leader's wife while bringing up a family, about how to set boundaries. This supporting role could become all-consuming. You need to be careful to protect what is your own. I was always proud of Samantha for standing by David but not forgetting to be herself.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Samantha is feeling much happier in Number 10 than she had expected, though she is still painfully shy. She has redesigned the flat (largely at their own expense) to look elegant but homely, like all the places they had lived in: **"She had properly nested in it" **says an aide. **"She was feeling much more settled, and her state of mind soothes him. They have a home upstairs in Downing Street to escape to, which she likes, and that helps him too."** When Samantha is happy, so is he...If Ivan and Ian were the greatest influences on him, Samantha is the sheet anchor of his life and premiership. She brings him down to earth. **"She is so creative and supportive. The key thing for me is sanity at home. Samantha is absolutely amazing at it"** he says. **"Take our first summer in 2010. We'd been living in the flat above Downing Street and then we went off to Cornwall, and she had our baby and somehow or other she manages to completely redesign our flat and make it a home for us all."** He cannot fathom how she manages to bring up the family, maintain her own work as a creative consultant at the luxury leather goods firm Smythson, and be extensively involved in charity without courting personal publicity._

_Her head is not turned by the glamour of her role; indeed, a criticism is that she is too retiring in her role as ""**First Lady" a**nd does not attend as many official events as might a more ambitious consort. Equally, no PM's wife in the modern era, with the exception of Cherie Blair, has simultaneously managed to cope with having a child while bringing up a family in Number 10. Samantha takes care not to express her views in public, and only rarely to her husband in private. Although from a privileged background herself, her down-to-earth approach to life has helped smooth away some of his more privileged attitudes and opinions, epitomised by his membership of the much-ridiculed upper-class Bullingdon Club when at Oxford from 1985-8. She has become content enough at Downing Street, but she looks forward to the day when the commotion of their lives there is over...Cameron is the linchpin, the steadying presence, who holds his whole family together. These formative experiences draw him even closer to Samantha, to his brother Alex, to his mother Mary, and to his three surviving children, as well as to his close circle, above all Llewellyn, Fall, Hilton, Osborne and Coulson.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Though Cameron himself has never been known to attend a rave...he was now dating a bohemian art student named _ _Samantha Sheffield who loved to let her hair down at such events. Blue-blooded, beautiful, and much cooler than he could ever hope to be, she was an incredible catch...By the end of the (Italy) trip, they were an item. In the months and years that followed, they managed to make their relationship work despite very different lifestyles. While he lived in a swanky flat in London and worked at the heart of government, she was an art student in Bristol living in downmarket student digs. When he stayed with her, he would have to **"shove coins into a payphone"** if he needed to talk to the boss. Having no particular interest in politics, she was underwhelmed by his political connections, apparently once light-heartedly instructing him to tell Norman Lamont to **"fuck off." T**o some friends, they seemed an odd match. Bruce Anderson remembers meeting Samantha for the first time on a deer-stalking expedition soon after they started dating. The special adviser's new girlfriend was not what he had expected. **"Sam didn't make much of an impression on me, but she did have a stonking cold-it might even have been mild flu. I thought she was really quiet. I thought David was keen, and I was surprised."**_

_However, another member of Cameron's social set, who joined the young couple on another group holiday to Tuscany, was impressed. On this occasion, the party comprised various high-flying Oxbirdge friends of Cameron who holidayed together several times in the 1990s. Veterans of the trips include Ed Vaizey; Michael Gove and his then girlfriend Simone Finn (who went on to become a Cabinet Office aide in the coalition); Chris Lockwood (who would work for Cameron in No.10); the journalists Matthew d'Ancona and Robert Hardman; Jane Hardman (no relative, she later married Alan Parker, founder of the Brunswick PR group; documentary maker Marcus Kiggell; and Lizzie Noel (who would become a coalition education adviser.) Most were older and more intellectual than Samantha, but according to one member of the group, she more than held her own: **"Samantha was new to me. She was younger and at Bristol. I was expecting a sort of hippy chick, but in fact we spent a lot of time talking about literature, and she rather impressed me. I certainly had more conversations with her than I did with Dave, who was certainly very self-possessed and definitely the leader of the group. Dave had his tail up-he was clearly delighted to be with Samantha."...**Though Cameron had organised the trip and the daily routine followed the pattern he preferred, the friend says Samantha was "not in the least the little woman with him on that holiday." The source adds: **"I'm not saying she could take or leave Dave, but it was definitely a partnership. She didn't feel: "Oh gosh, how wonderful he's chosen me!"-**Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Cameron's choice of bride is fascinating, not least because their personalities are so different. On the face of it, she is highly improbable material for the spouse of a Tory politician. She sports a tattoo on her ankle, used to be a **"Goth",** and likes to holiday in Ibiza for the sunshine and clubbing scenes. Her extended family is full of colourful and racy characters, from her father, a traditional Tory toff, to her exotic cross-dressing half-brother Robert, who works at the auctioneer Christie's-not to mention various relatives with a druggie past. (Her sister Emily was kicked out of school after cannabis was found in her dormitory during a police raid.) As an art student, she could be found hanging out playing snooker with a thief and alleged small-time drug dealer in downtrodden pubs, and had no interest in politics. All that was long ago, but she never entirely shook off her rebellious streak. This was never more apparent than when, aged forty-three, she became the first prime ministerial spouse in history to stage an event that could credibly be described as a "**rave"** at Chequers, hiring a Radio 1 DJ known as **"Sarah HB"** (for "**Hard Bitch")** to spin discs. These days, she shares food, fashion and travel tips on Pinterest and uses a smartphone app called Shazam to identify obscure dance tracks, while her radio station of choice remains the indie rock outlet 6 Music._

_All this makes her a most unlikely fit with the uber-conventional son of a Home Counties stockbroker and a magistrate, yet the relationship more than works. One very close personal friend describes the marriage as **"the strongest"** she knows. It has survived not only the intense pressure of what Cherie Blair calls **"life in the goldfish bowl"** in Downing Street but also the appalling tragedy of the death of a child..Until the age of sixteen Samantha went to a private girls' school in Oxfordshire called St Helen and St Katharine. She was not particularly academic and cheerfully admits she was in the bottom set for maths, though she did better at English. But she was creative and went to Marlborough for sixth form on an art scholarship...Another former pupil describes her as "**a pretty good sport"** and and has vague recollections of **"getting her on stage in her underwear."..**Bristol also had a lively street art and music scene and was close to Glastonbury, ideal for a young woman who loved clubbing. Somehow she acquired the nickname** "Snowy"** or **"Snow Queen."** Though there is no proof that she took recreational drugs, a number of those who know her have privately suggested that this was the case, not only at university but in later years. Either way, it did not affect her studies; teachers remember her as an excellent student...Throughout her twenties Samantha consistently downplayed her wealth, class and connections. In Bristol she made a point of slumming it, hanging out with a DJ and small-time criminal named Tricky in the backstreets of Montpelier and St Pauls. These were rough parts of the city, typically avoided by the student population. She and Tricky-real name Adrian Thaws-used to play snooker in dodgy pubs. He had no idea of her background, and thought she was **"quiet, polite and humble."** When she started dating Cameron, she continued to suggest her father was simply** "a farmer."-**Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Exactly what cool, bohemian Samantha saw in crashingly conventional Dave is a question that still exercises some political observers. When the couple started dating, he was fond of wearing red braces and smoking cigars, while she was more likely to be wearing a velvet jacket, gold hoop earrings, and smoking a roll-up cigarette. One Tory MP who moved in the same social circles when they were younger said: **"Those sisters were very cool, very moneyed, very hip. Everybody talked about them. They were rich girls with titles and palaces who adopted Estuary accents. Dave did very well to get her.".**..At the same time, Cameron was good-looking, self-assured and made Samantha laugh. She has said his sense of humour was the primary attraction when they first met..The fact that she is not a political anorak would prove an asset: she helps keep him real. Anderson recalls a conversation over dinner with the couple, when Cameron first became an MP, during which she refused to be patronised about her lack of political expertise. **"It was in Witney, and Sam said at the dinner table that she was fed up with William Hague's fascist rhetoric. Dave and I said "What fascist rhetoric?" She said "All this talk of One Nation." We laughed and explained the genesis of One Nation, Disraeli and so on; that it was usually a left-wing Tory slogan. Sam said, not at all abashed, "Well, I may not have been educated at Oxford, but I know as much about politics as most people, and it means nothing to me." I suddenly thought she was dead right (about) a lot of the language politicians use."**_

_Cameron himself has described her as **"unconventional and challenging",** suggesting she keeps him on his toes. Away from the cameras, she is not averse to telling him to stop being **"boring"** when he gets too intense. He has said she stops him from **"being too straight down the line.".**.Their marriage is central to understanding the way Cameron approaches his job. His commitment to their relationship and family unit accounts for his determination to spend **"quality time"** with her and his children whatever else is going on in the world. In practice, this means regularly finishing work at a reasonable time, setting aside "date nights" and taking frequent family holidays. He talks about **"Sam's rules",** under which they must have **"plenty of time together, plenty of time with the children",** and, twice a week, he must be home from work early enough for the children's supper and bath time. It led to criticism while he was in Downing Street that he was too relaxed about his job, but if he wanted to keep her happy-and give their family life any normality-he almost certainly had no choice. Friends say that behind closed doors, she calls the shots. **"I've no doubt at all that she wears the trousers"** says a friend who has known them both since their twenties. **"If she said "Jump!", he'd say "How high?" I wouldn't mess with Sam. Not that she's bossy or bad-tempered, but she definitely knows her own mind."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_She (Samantha) made sure she enjoyed Marlborough to the full, often dressing up as a Goth and left her sister Emily with something to live up to. (Emily succeeded: she was expelled from Marlborough when drugs were found in her dormitory.)...Socially, she seems to have immersed herself in some of the wilder shores of Bristol life. According to rap star Tricky, she was, for example, a regular at the Montpelier pub, where they would play pool together. It was...a place where **"bikers mixed with drug dealers, hippies, students, and guys from the ghetto. It was a cool place, but...there were always fights. Samantha was an art student and she'd come in with friends. We'd all hang out, drink some beers, and play pool. You could smoke weed in there without being hassled, smoke hashish, take psychedelic mushrooms. It was cool. I can't remember her smoking anything, though."** Tricky and Sam (she was known to some as "Snowy") were "**unlikely mates",** he agrees. "**I was robbing houses, robbing stores, selling weed by the time I was 15. But I was a good pool player and so we often played together. I'd show her a few tips and tricks, how to hit a few shots. Sometimes it could get violet. I've seen girls knocked out in there. Students would get robbed. Ghetto kids might mug them as they left the pub. I'd watch out for her. From the Montpelier, we'd walk across the road to the Cadbury, another pub. Samantha was safe with me."**_

_Tricky knew nothing about her upbringing. She "**never mentioned that she was a baronet's daughter. I'd never have known. If she had told me that I would have assumed, because of her privileged background, that she was a bit of a bitch. But I guess you can be a baronet's daughter and still want to have street credibility. She was mousy blonde with a cute face and a good little body, though her eyes always looked a little sleepy. She was quiet, polite, humble. She wasn't innocent, but she was sweet."** Someone who knew them both at the time has been quoted as saying:** "She belonged to a crowd we liked to call the trustafarians. Rich types who liked to slum it a little. But she was all right. She stood out somehow. There were rumours about them, of course. A nice posh girl mixed up with a bloke like him. But I don't think they ever got together. I bet he'd have liked to, though."-**Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_ **Samantha is regarded as a glamorous asset, both inside and outside the party.** _

_She's an incredible woman. To be as successful as she is in business is great, and I'm really proud of what she's achieved. From a standing start, to design handbags and then sell them in such vast numbers around the world is a huge achievement. I've never achieved anything like that. She's very, very good in business, she's a brilliant mum...I mean, some people say she's not interested in politics but she is; she likes to know what I'm up to and we talk about policy stuff, but she has a distance from it, which I think is very healthy. And as a result, instead of always being on your shoulder, saying what about this, what about that, every now and then she'll take me to task over something and that is very helpful. She'll say, can you explain to me why you're voting this way or why you're doing that or why the hell can't the Tories sort out this...? And that's more powerful because it's from the perspective of a businesswoman and a mother rather than another politician._

_ **When did you realise Samantha was the one for you?** _

_Quite early on. We went on this holiday that my parents had organised to celebrate their wedding anniversary. And their children were allowed to take a couple of friends, and my sister Clare took Samantha. That was in 1992 and that's when it all started. Because there was quite a big age gap, I don't know, I just began being more and more certain about it. I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I thought, that's it, it just became the right thing to do. I fell in love with her._

_ **What do you and Samantha row about?** _

_We sometimes row about politics, but I'd say the most common thing we row about is arrangements. Why have you organized this? Well, because it's time we did that, etc. Normally we row over the things that need to get done. Why haven't you fixed the car? Why haven't you done this or that? And that could be me saying that to her, or the other way round. It's very even._

_ **What are the main similarities between you?** _

_We're not that similar, in fact we're quite different in many respects. She is very artistic, and we have different outlooks in some ways. The age gap (five years) becomes less important as you get older, but when we first started going out she was one of my sister's friends, who were a lot different and a lot younger than mine, but those sorts of differences fall away as you start having friends who are both your friends. We now have many more things we like doing together._

_ **Do you bounce policy ideas off Samantha?** _

_Yes, I do bounce policy ideas off Samantha and because she doesn't think like another politician it's very refreshing. She'll say, why do you want to do that, or what's the point of that? And also she doesn't read all the newspapers so she's not part of the Westminster bubble. She's very good at saying, it's all very well saying this but then what about this that's happening right on your doorstep?-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_ **Were there rules about what you could and couldn't do, about what she would and wouldn't allow (being leader)?** _

_Yes there were. If you don't have some rules in a very demanding job like this it just runs away with you._

_ **So what are the rules?** _

_That we have plenty of time together, plenty of time with the children. And for two nights a week, I come home early enough to be with Sam: one I should be back for suppertime and the other I should be back to do bath time with the children. And on the whole I stick to that. On a Wednesday and Thursday I always try and get back at a reasonable time. I do masses of constituency stuff on a Friday but I try and keep Saturday nights and Sundays free. You can do it, but it just needs very strict diary control and means me saying no to a lot of things. But I think Sam has been absolutely right by saying, let's try and make this work, because what looked like a couple of years as Leader of the Opposition now looks more like four, and that's quite a long period of your life, especially when the children are growing up. And so it's good to have some rules. And, at the morning meeting it's chaired by William Hague, and if William Hague's not there it's chaired by David Davis. I also have a very strong private office. If you get exhausted you make bad decisions. If you're away from your family all the time you get fractious, and that's not good. You've got to try and keep your character and personality together and not let the job change you too much. Because if it does, then all the things you thought you were going to bring to it aren't there any more.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_His wife, never keen to discuss such matters in public, muttered **"kind of"** when asked by an interviewer if it had been love at first sight. Cameron later described the coupling of "**a cool art student"** and a **"stiff"** special adviser as **"weird",** but that he (peaceably) **"beat her into submission...I wore her down."** Back in London, they went on their first date at Kensington Place restaurant before the art student headed back to her earthier existence in Bristol. Sometimes she would come for weekends in London, at other times he would go down to her flat in one of the rougher parts of Bristol. If she had difficulty with this bifurcated lifestyle, he must have found it even harder, not least when having to jam coins into the student digs payphone when speaking to the Chancellor. He was regarded in Westminster as someone with a really top-rank career ahead of him. But in Bristol, he was a nobody, or even less (although he was the first of Samantha's boyfriends to have a car, an elderly BMW, or even to invite her out for dinner.) **"Sam's friends were unimpressed by the Tory Boy"** says (Dom) Loehnis. **"There were lots of Tories saying "Oooh, look, a rising star", but Sam's friends just didn't think what he did was very cool. Some of us gave him a hard time about politics, but he just hadn't had that exposure to attack from people who thought it absurd to be a Tory."** On one occasion Cameron went out in the car and got lost trying to find his way back to Samantha's flat. He wound down his window to ask directions. **"It was a prostitute"** he recalled later, a little abashed. Cameron, the Home Counties boy, was overjoyed by his catch..._

_After leaving university, Cameron had shared a flat in South Kensington with the heir to the de Walden millions. Four years on, he was back spending half his weekend in student digs. But did they want the same things? Cameron always made it clear that he wanted to go into politics. Samantha has told an interviewer: **"When we started going out seriously he was very up front and said "I want to be an MP. If you think you would hate it, you have to say so." It certainly wasn't my natural inclination." "She wasn't in the mould of his girlfriends at all"** says James Fergusson. **"She was an art student, "hey man" type, but he saw the toughness in her very quickly. She is terrific, and was not a natural politician's wife, but she has adapted to it so much" t**o the extent of defying the sneers from some in her family who, finding him earnest, referred to him as "Boring Dave."_

_**"At the outset, she didn't challenge him at all"** says another friend. **"At the start, she was only twenty-one and he was "my best friend's elder brother", and he would have seemed a lot older. She was young and giggly, but matured very quickly. He was already being challenged plenty, and she hardwired it into his private life."** Dom Loehnis agrees. **"By being prepared to stand up to him and always challenging him and saying "You're being pompous" even when he wasn't, she managed to make sure that if he ever had a tendency that way, it wasn't going to get very far."** One friend calls Samantha "**a hippy at heart."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_In late 1992, Norman Lamont's precocious adviser was enjoying a quiet Sunday morning in his sunny Lansdowne Crescent flat with his new girlfriend. They had been going out for just a couple of months. At last, at the end of a busy week, she in Bristol, he at the Treasury, they were able to spend some time together. Then came an unwelcome intrusion. The phone rang. From the bed, Samantha, just twenty-one, called out: **"If that's Norman Lamont, tell him to fuck off!"** David Cameron, just turned twenty-six, has never been in any doubt about what sort of woman he was getting involved with, and this story, while not typical, shows that she is more than willing to stand her ground. Some of his friends thought her a little too far-removed from the mould of his usual girlfriends to be a long-term proposition, but he had seen something in his sister Clare's best friend. Samantha was the woman for him. _

_She was quite shy of her friend's brother, fully five years older than her. Neither had shown much interest in the other beyond mere courtesies in the past. Samantha Sheffield and Clare Cameron had known each other for years, but had not become close until their teens. They shared a mischievous sense of humour and a teenage taste for adventure. Samantha, in particular, seems to have gone to some lengths to avoid being typecast by her background.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_I realise that what is meant to follow is a story about love at first sight. Neither of us being in any doubt. An instant recognition that we were partners for life. The truth is that neither of us felt like that. We had a lovely, romantic holiday amidst sunshine, friends, laughter and free-flowing cocktails. But when we got home neither of us was quite sure what would happen next. Of course we were similar in some ways: brought up only twenty miles apart, with parents who, while of slightly different ages, moved in similar social circles. But our friends on both sides didn't really understand what we were up to.I was the ambitious Tory apparatchik. She was the hippie-like art student. I was working in the Treasury for Norman Lamont. She was living in a Bristol flat with people who would have happily wrung his neck. I was trying to get invited to highbrow political dinner parties in Westminster. She was playing pool with the rapper Tricky in the trendiest part of Bristol._

_Norman would frequently ring up early on a Saturday morning wanting to know what was in the papers. On more than one occasion Samantha, used to a student-style lie-in, would shout from under her pillow,** "If that's Norman asking about the newspapers, tell him to fuck off and buy them himself."** I would call him back, ramming 20p pieces into the student payphone to avoid being cut off. _

_Our courtship was a long one. Our first New Year was spent driving around Morocco in a battered Renault 5. The first night in Marrakesh was so cold and damp we slept with our clothes on. While there was a bit of an age gap, as well as the contrasts in our friends and our politics, there was something that kept bringing us together and helping us get to know and love each other more...Did we ever argue about politics? Yes, of course. My friends would say she helped to turn a pretty traditional Home Counties Tory boy into someone a bit more rounded, more questioning and more open-minded. But many of the arguments we had about politics were actually about logistics, rather than issues. Samantha worried hugely about how it would affect our life. Where would we live? How would we stay together? How much would we see of each other? She was right to ask all these questions: politics has been a destroyer of many strong marriages. For one person in the relationship it can become an obsession; for the other a duty, or even a burden..I had Samantha, who humanised and rounded me.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_David knows it falls on him to sort things out. Michael (Gove) is his friend; their families are friends...Michael is in touch with George; Sarah with me. Sarah has also been close to Samantha for some time, volunteering to play a strong, supportive role; over the years, I have watched her ferrying the Cameron children around, or attending to Samantha, and wondered if she might grow weary of it...David suggests that I find out if we can make one of the Admiralty House flats available to them (the Goves.) This way they can rent their house in west London and have more time as a family when Michael is busy working late nights in the Commons. Sarah comes by to have a look around but decides against the move....Older, wiser people have warned that political friendships don't last. I thought, **You just don't understand these ones. They are different. **And some were.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_A subject that cropped up constantly between the two was whether to try for more children. Was there a genetic problem that might be replicated? Ohtahara syndrome is a convenient but imprecise term, and belongs to the wider family of epilepsy-related conditions. Surprisingly little is known of the causes, although in Ivan’s case the circumstances of his birth were not thought to have been at fault, as can be the case. Samantha has said that in a way she was relieved that the explanation seems to have been an “**act of God”** rather than a birth problem, which would be more difficult to take. Beyond that, the doctors couldn’t be sure. If the cause was genetic, they were told, the chances of it recurring were said to be one in four. If it wasn’t, then they were one in several thousand. All in all, their genetic counsellor put the chances at about one in twenty. **“I remember them being worried when they heard that there was one couple to whom it had happened twice”** remembers a friend, which made them think the cause was genetic. But Cameron’s optimism was beginning to reassert itself: they decided that yes, they would take the chance. A few weeks after Ivan’s first birthday, when the couple were near their lowest ebb, at last came some good news. Samantha was pregnant. The worries that went with that were undeniable, but the tests during her pregnancy were reassuring. On 19 January 2004, Nancy Cameron was born. She was thoroughly healthy, a triumphant vindication of the couple’s decision. Samantha Cameron felt the relief even more acutely than her husband. **“She was a different person until she had Nancy”** says a friend. **“Sam is so happy-go-lucky and giggly normally, but there is a deep-down sadness which will never completely go away. She has recovered to an enormous degree, though, since Nancy arrived.”**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Wanting to know whether we could have other children, we signed up for “genetic counselling”, which in 2003 was very much in its infancy. This was another field in we discovered how little is actually known. To start with, no one had any idea whether Ivan’s condition was inherited or not. If it was, there might be a one in four chance of it happening again. If it wasn’t, it was one in many thousands. So we were offered a sort of “blended probability” of one in twenty. Remembering how few of my father’s 20-1 shots ever came in at the races, we decided to risk it._

_It was one of the best decisions we’ve ever taken. Nancy arrived in 2004. We were so worried something might be wrong that every movement she made was carefully watched and analysed. We needn’t have worried: she was the easiest of babies, and hit every milestone on time.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_And one of the greatest advantages of the set-up was having my closest colleague living next door. The Osbornes started off staying at their home in Notting Hill, but in August 2011 they decided to move into the No.10 flat. Not only were George and I good friends, but Samantha and Frances were close, and our children became close too. Nancy (George's goddaughter) and Liberty Osborne (my goddaughter) would take it in turns to make unbelievable messes in either of our kitchens through their cooking experiments. And Elwen (George's godson) and Luke Osborne would play various sports in the garden. On Monday nights they would have art classes together, something we have continued with since we all left Downing Street._

_Did the dads ever argue? Often, but never with anger. Together, we found Downing Street a happy place to live and work.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_Adele: He's not the problem. I'm all mixed-up. I'm crazy._

_-Blue Is The Warmest Colour (2014)_

_I have forgot why I did call thee back_

_Let me stand here 'til thou remember it._

_I shall forget, to have thee stand still there_

_Remembering how I love thy company..._

_-Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2, William Shakespeare_

_""I'm jealous of you" said Carys._

_"What? Why?"_

_"How'd you just....slide through life like that? Friends, school, family..." She shook her head."How'd you just slide through it all without fucking up."_

_I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out._

_"You've got so much more power than you think you do" she says. "But you just waste it. You just do whatever anyone else says.""-Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

* * *

"I'm going to kill him."

"Who?" George glances up with some interest at David, who's barely managed to muster up a polite smile for the make-up artists.

"Lynton?" he inquires, faltering a little at the sight of the rather harassed looks on both Graeme and Craig's faces. "Not fed up of the kangaroos already, are you, you've got a lot of them ahead-"

David shakes his head, and the smile vanishes from George's face. "What's happened?"

"Miliband." David almost grinds out the name, even as Graeme hands him a bottle of water. "Miliband is what's happened."

David doesn't need to look to know George is frowning. "Miliband? What's he done? I mean-" David can tell his friend's already reaching for his phone. "All he's done that I know of is make some comment-or we should be preparing for him to make some comments about you not doing TV debates, after your little BBC thing this morning-"

David glances about, but there are no journalists back here. He lowers his voice anyway. "It's not-" he manages and the ache of his jaw informs him that he's speaking through gritted teeth. "Political."

He looks up to see George frowning. David sighs and leans closer. "It's Nancy."

George's brow furrows. "Nancy? Is she all right-what's that got to do with-" His face darkens.

"What's he done?" he spits out suddenly, and David feels an almost painful wave of affection at the fury on George's face, the immediate, utterly unwavering pitching of himself on David's side, the protectiveness that had reared itself the moment David had mentioned Nancy's name.

"It's not so much what he's_ done_, it's-" He sighs and beckons George a little closer. "What happened-it was last night-"

It takes a few minutes for him to recount the whole saga of everything that had occurred the night before, but at least David can know George won't spread it around. By the time he reaches the end, George is wincing. "Jesus. Poor kid-"

"That summarises things, yes." David rubs a hand over his face. "She's off school today. She hasn't been sleeping well. Sam and I talked about it this morning, and Sam's said she'll stay at home."

He doesn't include the way Sam's face had crumpled, the way she'd let her head slump into her hands for a few moments and cried, tears pressing themselves against her fingers, as David kissed her hair.

"How come I didn't see it?" she'd asked, suddenly, peering at David through her fingers. "I'm her mum."

David had shaken his head, leapt in with a hundred fierce reassurances, but he'd known, horribly and certainly, that the worry would embed itself in Sam's head and it could take far too long to dig it out, if they ever manage to.

It's just another thing he could murder Miliband for.

George leans back in the chair, puts a hand on David's arm. "Christ. Sorry, Dave-" George looks as troubled as David feels, and another pang of affection wells fiercely in his chest.

"But-" George's brow furrows. "What about Miliband-"

"He knew."

George blinks. "What?"

"He knew. Nancy told him. Well-not in so many words." David's jaw tightens. "But he knew she was upset. He saw her on Bonfire Night and he didn't fucking _tell me."_ The last two words are ground out through gritted teeth.

There's a moment of silence, then, "That bastard." David takes fierce comfort that the fury on George's face reflects his own. "That fucking-" George's dark eyes are narrowed."What kind of fucking father is he?"

David shakes his head, picturing Miliband's sons, scrambling into his own lap.

His stomach curls. He'd been there, giving him a present, the two of them talking, almost-

Almost like they were_ friends_, for fuck's sake, and now-

David feels sick and cold and furious, furious in a way that leaves him trembling, his hands shaking.

He remembers Sam's little voice-_Daniel right-we do have to eat in the basement-_and he hears himself bark out, harsh and loud, "Perhaps we_ should_ fucking use that birth certificate thing Lynton wanted to bring up. Maybe that's just how he thinks of children."

George's hand squeezes his arm. "If he did this deliberately-"

That's as far as he gets before David lifts his head and meets George's eyes, something cold and icy gripping his chest-

It's beyond fury.

It almost frightens him.

Anyone else would look away from him but George just leans closer, his eyes darkening.

It takes David a long moment before he can speak. "If he has done this deliberately-" He says the words very slowly and carefully, carving out each one. "I will physically kill him."

In that moment, he means every word of it.

With Nancy's pale little face, those awful dark shadows under her eyes, hovering before him, he means every word of it.

The image dissipates and before him is George's face, paler than usual, dark eyes glittering.

"Good" George breathes, and David sees Nancy's christening suddenly, George's eyes earnest and quiet, but blazingly intense on David's little daughter, bending to drop a kiss on her head, as he promised to fulfil the duties of being this child's godfather, to protect and love her always.

David lets his head fall forward. "Am I a terrible father?" he asks George quietly, far too similar to the question Sam asked him this morning.

Because he didn't see this.

There's no escaping the fact. He hadn't noticed his own daughter-

"No." George's answer is simple, immediate and direct.

David raises his head to look at him.

George grins. "You're one degree _above _terrible. Maybe not 100% awful-"

David elbows him. They both laugh, too shortly.

It's when their laughter dies down that George meets his eyes, and says, without a hint of embarrassment, "You're the best dad in the world."

Something swells in David's throat, and all he can manage is a small smile. But George knows and squeezes his arm.

Then, he frowns for an instant, before his face clears. "Of course, that isn't counting me. As, according to Libbie, as of last night,_ I_ am the best dad in the world, courtesy of the successful procurement of some Taylor Swift tickets."

There's a moment of silence before David bursts out laughing. The sound's a little shakier than usual.

"Nancy's welcome to come, by the way" George tells him, a few moments later, as they regain some control of themselves.

David nods, and then, abruptly, his laughter trails off, and his eyes meet George's. "I'm going to deal with it" he says quietly, and George nods. "Good."

David shakes his head and George grips his arm. "Out there" he says, jerking his head towards the door leading to the podiums where they'll be standing for the next hour. "We'll fucking crush him, all right?"

David meets George's eyes and for the first time since last night, it's easy to smile.

He extends a hand. George grins. They shake on it.

"And then-" George leans back, smile still hovering, though David reads the fury in the tautness of his lips, the glimmering of his eyes. "You can crush him again, later."

David feels his hands curl into fists. He forces himself to take a deep breath.

Later. That's for later.

He forces the anger down, forces it into the words he'll be spitting out soon enough, that will send cracks filtering through Miliband's election campaign-and David thinks of that weaponizing comment that's still buzzing out there, that's crept into the headlines, and feels an almost sickening jab of triumph.

He pushes down the jab of something that leaves him aching underneath, something that feels almost like hurt.

"By the way-" George says, in a tone anyone who didn't know him so well might take as casual. "Did you tell Sam about Miliband?"

David snorts. "No."

George glances at him, the slightest smile twitching at his mouth. "Why not?"

David meets his eyes. "Because" he says, feeling a smile creep a little easier to his mouth this time. "I'd rather like to sort Miliband out myself. I don't fancy having to dig him up from wherever Sam's buried him first."

George's laughter is sharper this time, louder, and David relishes it, the sound jabbing sharply like the thought that right now, the idea of not keeping his hands off Miliband is suddenly, viciously appealing.

* * *

They corner him and demand an answer, and Nick just gropes for the one they've rehearsed briefly, only just drafted out the second they heard the news this morning, and he trips over the words a little.

"It's-it's-well, it's almost_ comical_ this-ah-this idea that suddenly out of-"

There's no way to get out of sending that letter now, it hits him suddenly.

There's no way back from it now.

"Suddenly, that out of-er, out of _nowhere_, there's this-" He laughs a little. "Great-ah-_alliance _between the Greens and the Conservative Party about this-"

_Coalition. We're aiming for a second coalition._

It might not be his best response, but, the thought strikes Nick grimly, maybe no one's expecting the best from him anymore.

* * *

Ed is still rubbing his eyes as he clutches his phone between his shoulder and his ear. "Yes, I know he's said he won't do the fucking debates-" He's still struggling to fasten his shirt and, glancing at his watch, the thought flashes into his head: _For God's sake, Daniel-_

His son had shaken him awake at 5:30, little voice bleating: "Daddy, feel _sick-"_

He could have pulled the pillow back over his head happily, even as he'd managed to ask "Well,_ how_ do you feel sick-I've _told _you about this-"

Now, Justine's currently on her phone while Sam sits on the stairs, swinging his legs, pulling at one of his nursery shirts, while Daniel stands there, half in, half out of his school clothes, still saying "I feel sick-"

"For God's sake, this is some kind of blow to us-" Tom's bellow down the phone makes Ed wince and he turns away, clapping a hand to his other ear. "This is some kind of plan-Cameron wouldn't wreck his own credibility for no reason. This is because he wants us to look like fucking Tory-lite-"

"I _get_ that-"

"The sooner you get that bloody letter out the better-" Tom's voice lowers a little. "Have you thought any more about-"

"You only asked last night."

"I don't mean a decision. I mean, have you talked to Justine about it-you know, put it on the table-"

Ed winces, remembering Tom's words. _Soft-focus special. Just a video of you and her. But we'll need the kids. They'll add an extra touch._

_Humanise you. People want to know who they're voting for._

Ed swallows. "Not yet. She was home late, but I will-"

"Well, make sure you fucking do because-"

"Ed-"

Ed turns, wedging the phone between his neck and his shoulder, in time to see Justine kneeling in front of Daniel. "Do you really not feel well-"

Daniel sobs something unintelligible-Ed's only just realised he's half-crying-and Justine glances up at Ed. "Do you think we can ask Zia to stay? If we keep him off-"

Ed is torn between the phone, Tom's voice gabbling away, and Justine crouched in front of him, one hand on Daniel's shoulder like she's not sure quite what to do with it.

"Ah-I don't know. Probably-I mean, she's here Monday to Friday, that's the job, if you go down and ask-"

Sam's curled up on the stairs and Ed has the strange feeling that no four-year-old should be that quiet. That's the only thought he gets to have for his younger son, before he's turning back to Justine. "And my mum can come round if there's no-one else-"

Daniel looks small and pale and sick and sad, and Ed glances at Justine. "How long's he been feeling ill?"

Justine is already staring at her phone and she shakes her head. "I don't know-he-" She raises a hand, shakes her head again. "He said he was feeling ill last night, but I thought if he got a good night's sleep he'd be-"

"Well, he isn't, is he?" Ed hears the words bite out a little sharper than usual and he glances over her shoulder at his son.

"Is there no way you could take a day off-" he manages in a whisper, but Justine's eyes widen anyway, as she stares at him askance. "Ed, I can't just _take _a day off-"

"You're-" He throws up a hand. "You're self-employed, for God's sake-you could take a day off to see them in that bloody Nativity-"

"That was _one afternoon, _and I had to go back to work afterwards-I can't just abuse the privilege, Ed or the work wouldn't get done-"

"This isn't just _abusing the-_it's not just _taking a day off-"_ Ed almost grabs her arm, jerking his head in Daniel's direction. _"Look_ at him-this isn't just-"

"Ed, this is an important stage of the case-"

"Yeah, and everything's a bloody important stage of the bloody case." It comes out before he even thinks twice about it.

Justine's brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean, Ed-"

"Are you still fucking _there-"_ Tom's voice gabbles out of the phone.

Ed closes his eyes, unable to deal with all three at once. "For God's sake, other people at 39 Essex muth-st have kids-" He doesn't even care about the lisp, he's so focused on getting the conversation over with.

"Yeah, and other people don't abuse the privilege, they turn up to work-"

_"You_ turn up to bloody work-"

"Ed, it's _not possible-"_

There's a retching sound and Ed springs forward to no avail. Daniel looks up from where he's managed to throw up over most of his shirt, tears crumpling his eyes._ "Told you-"_

Ed stares at him.

"Oh, for God's _sake-"_ Justine pushes her face into her hands, trying to take stock of the situation.

Sam pokes his face round the bannisters. "Daniel sick-"

"I can th-see, Sam-" Ed heads towards Daniel, since it looks like no-one else is going to do it. "Daniel, come here-"

One of Justine's hands had been running through her brown bob, tidying it back into place, as if it had never been rumpled. "Right, we're going to have to-if you go down and ask her to do his clothes as well, they'll have to be rinsed-"

"Daniel _sick-"_

"I _know,_ th-Sam-"

Tom's voice had jabbered furiously on the other end of the phone-"Ed? Ed, are you fucking ignoring me? _Ed?"_

A couple of frazzled hours later, Ed finds himself sitting, looking at Nick Robinson.

He's wondering whom he should channel the roiling wave of resentment in his chest towards, and knows deep down that it shouldn't be for Nick, that Nick's just doing his job and that he'd have done the same if it was Cameron who had told him-

But it wasn't Cameron. It was him.

It was him and today, it's every headline.

But Nick's asking him about Cameron and election debates and this is a chance, a chance to get Cameron on the back foot-

And he remembers Cameron's look yesterday across the chamber, that hint of triumph under that fury and the outrage and-

Ed isn't sure which of them was worse.

But now, he looks at Nick and says-

And some of that resentment grabs hold of his voice before he can stop it, strengthens it-

"This is a Prime Minister who is _running scared_ from these TV debates-"

Because he is, he _is_, but it's worse than that-

_He wants it to be free season on us_, Bob had said succinctly, an hour before. _Get a couple of left-wing parties in there. Have them batter you for anything of his you've agreed with-_

_Make it free season on you._

Perhaps that's what makes his voice stronger, as he forces it out-

"He's trying to _chicken out_ of these debates, and he _shouldn't be doing it-"_

He can feel the fury again, rising higher in his chest, and he tries to think it's just for this, because then it's far easier to think of it as justified.

It's after the interview when they're shaking hands that Nick brings it up. "I think I rather got you in trouble at PMQs yesterday."

Ed takes a deep breath, reminds himself. It's not Nick's fault.

He tries to smile. It's not a forced smile, but it's rather more difficult than usual. "Maybe a little-"

Nick clicks his teeth. "Part of the job, I'm afraid."

Of course it is. It's a job.

Ed nods. "I know." He keeps a smile on, stretched drumskin tight over the angry, betrayed feeling roiling and prickling in his chest.

Nick shrugs and gives a grin. A _What can you do?_ sort of grin. A _This is the way it is_ sort of grin.

Ed can't really object to the grin, which is even more annoying, and he can't even really be annoyed at Nick, which consequently leaves him even more annoyed.

So he leaves the conversation, irritation still grating in his chest, and finds himself checking his phone over and over throughout the day, unable to determine if he wants to see Cameron's name or not.

* * *

Nancy isn't sure what time it is when she opens her eyes a crack and peers at the winter sunlight that brushes her bedroom ceiling. She does know, however, that she's tucked up in bed, that she can hear none of Flo's early-morning chatter or laughter, which means she's probably not there, and that she feels far less tired than usual.

She turns over and feels a piece of paper crumple under her cheek. Frowning, she sits up and turns the paper over.

I LOVE YOU, FLO stares back up at her in wobbly letters. Next to her little sister's careful printing is a small stick figure with blue scribbled over it, and a yellow plait.

ELSA, the caption reads.

Nancy smiles and presses a kiss to the piece of paper. She then tucks it safely under her pillow, only to look up and find one of Elwen's toy cars sitting on her bedside table.

She runs her finger over the toy and it's then that the door opens very quietly.

Mum's face appears in the crack, peering in at Nancy.

"Are you awake?" she says, with a smile, and then she comes in, carrying a cup of tea.

Nancy nods, scrubs at her eyes a bit more. "Yeah-"

Mum puts the tea on her bedside table and pushes Nancy's hair behind her ears, smiling at her.

"How come you didn't have to go to work?"

Mum kisses her head, curls up on the bed next to her and cuddles her, like she did when Nancy was little. "I took the day off."

"Oh." Nancy bites her lip, reaches for her mug. "Sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry, sweetheart."

Mum hugs her tight then, presses a kiss into her hair.

Nancy isn't sure why she starts to cry again. But Mum hugs her tight, nearly sloshing her tea over them both. "Shh, sweetheart, it's all right, shhh-"

Mum doesn't make her speak about anything. She just holds Nancy tight and strokes her hair, kissing her head.

When Nancy stops crying and sips her tea quietly, Mum just sits there for a few more minutes and cuddles her. When Nancy looks up at her, Mum tucks her hair behind her ears and presses a kiss to her cheek.

"Come on." Mum kisses her head and cuddles her tight. "Why don't we have a cuddle in our bed?"

Mum and Dad's bed in Downing Street is lovely and big, with a mattress that Nancy feels like she can sink into.

Mum gets in next to her, wraps her arms around her like Nancy's tiny, as little as Flo.

Nancy peers at her, tucking Flo's piece of paper tight in her hand and running Elwen's car over the pillow. "Did Dad tell you?"

Mum nods and strokes her hair.

Nancy shrugs. "Sorry" she says, since it's the only thing that comes to mind.

Mum kisses her head. "You don't need to be sorry, sweetheart."

She slides an arm around Nancy's shoulders, playing with her hair. "We've been thinking about talking to you a bit more about that side of things. You know, with the election coming up-" She brushes Nancy's hair off her forehead. "We don't want you to think there's anything you can't ask, Nance."

Nancy bites her lip, but if Mum knows anyway-

She props herself up on one elbow. "Do you get angry?" she asks Mum, looking right at her. "When people say things about Dad?" The words catch in her throat. "And Ivan?"

Mum doesn't look away from her, and she just tucks a strand of hair behind Nancy's ear. "I get angry, Nance" she says, very simply. "And it's all right if you want to get angry, too."

For some reason, Nancy feels immediately as though something's settled in her chest-something comforting and that makes her breath come easier, her shoulders relax a little. It's a little easier. A little better.

Mum keeps stroking her hair. "It's completely fine-" she says, still with an arm tight around Nancy's shoulders. "To be very, very angry at these people because, if any of them said those things face-to-face in real life, I'd hurt them."

Nancy's heart is beating hard against her ribs, but she feels better, stronger, looking at Mum like this. Mum's hand is soft and gentle on her cheek, but her eyes are bright. They're bright and crackling and fierce and Nancy feels a surge of love in her chest so strong that she presses herself closer to Mum, feeling her own fierce pride crackling too, underneath, like an electric current.

"Remember, Nance-" Mum's looking straight at her now. "Whoever is saying things about your dad, about me, about Ivan-they are _nothing."_ Mum almost spits the word out. "They are pathetic people with pathetic lives who want to take their jealousy out on children they've never met, because they're too scared of anyone else. They're too frightened to say it to anyone else, except anonymously, or to other people who are insecure enough to agree with them."

Nancy nods. "Dad said we don't have to be ashamed-"

"And you don't." And Mum has hold of her hand now, one finger rubbing the back of her knuckles. "This is very important, Nance. You don't have to be ashamed of where you come from. The same way someone who comes from a council estate shouldn't be ashamed of where they come from. You wouldn't ignore them, because of how much money their parents earn?" Nancy shakes her head fiercely. "Then why should they treat you any differently? You don't have to apologise to anyone, poor or rich, for where you come from." Mum kisses her forehead then, so hard that it feels like her lips are trying to press the kiss through Nancy's skin, into her blood to take with her.

"And Nance-" Mum catches her hand and meets her eyes. "Please don't look at that stuff anymore. I know you're curious, but don't. It's making you ill." Her mum traces under her eyes carefully. "It's not your job to worry, or to feel bad. Don't look at what people say, all right?"

Nancy swallows. Mum and Dad rarely make her promise anything. Whenever they do, she knows they're serious about something.

She looks her mum in the eye and thinks of Dad, hugging her tight last night, like when she was a little girl. "I promise."

Mum kisses her head in response. "We'll talk about the election, sweet pea" she says, pressing her forehead to Nancy's. "I promise. We'll always tell you what's going on. And if you need to ask anything, you ask me or Dad." Mum kisses her hand, then. "Don't be afraid of upsetting us, Nance. We're a little bit tougher than that."

Nancy feels herself smile a little.

"And we can get Uncle George and Uncle Craig and everybody to talk to you when the election starts, if you're confused about anything." Mum hugs her, reaching for the TV control. "If there's anything they find easier to answer."

Nancy nods, and feels herself smile a little more.

Mum kisses her head. "Now-" She winks. "Let's see if there's a film we can watch together, while someone brings us some breakfast."

Nancy snuggles in, as Mum switches on the TV, flicking through the channels.

"Dad said I shouldn't worry."

"Well, Dad was right." Mum grins at her. "And don't worry about what anyone says about us, Nance. They've got me and Auntie Emily and Granny to deal with."

Nancy feels her smile broaden a little.

Mum raises an eyebrow. "I'd drop-kick them down the garden path."

Nancy bursts out laughing, the sound crashing into the air, and as Mum pulls her closer into her shoulder with a kiss, for the first time in what seems like a while, Nancy feels like she can relax.

* * *

Daniel is bored. His head hurts and he feels empty and sick and his mouth tastes _horrible_, even though their nanny's already brushed his teeth for him three times.

He's down here, now, in her flat, with the telly on. She's in the kitchen-it's nicer than their kitchen, but Daniel likes the one upstairs better, because when he's allowed in there, it means Mummy and Daddy are both at home.

It's been ages since Daniel was allowed in the upstairs kitchen.

Now, he sits back on the couch and curls up, hugging his hand nice and tight against his chest. He likes to do that sometimes, when nobody's there. It can feel like somebody hugging him, if he closes his eyes.

Not Mummy or Daddy. When Daddy hugs him, it sometimes feels _strange, _like Daddy doesn't know what to do with his arms, or like he's always smiling at someone else, even when Daniel's trying to _talk _to him.

Mummy's hugs, he doesn't really_ like_, because they're always a bit too hard or quick, whilst she's walking off to do something else, or something that just feels bad and empty.

Daniel doesn't know how to say it but when all his friends' mummies hug them, that's not what_ his_ mummy hugging _him_ feels like. They all look _happy _when they're being hugged by their mummies.

Mummy _sometimes _hugs him when she makes him and Sam go on scooters with her and deliver leaflets, but that's only when people are talking to her, and then she always says that they're having a good time, but they're not, they're _not_, Daniel doesn't_ like _pushing in leaflets, he wants to go _home-_

Daniel pushes the blanket back, then pulls it up again. He's hot and bored. He's even bored of _Octonauts_, because he's watched _five shows_ of them.

Maybe Zia will give him a hug in a minute. She's given him _lots _of hugs in the morning, since Mummy told her to take his clothes off and wash them, and she put him in pyjamas that feel clean and nice. Mummy had _sort-of kissed_ the back of his head before she went to work, but it had been _fast_, like she wanted to get _out_, and Daniel hadn't looked round because he _told_ Mummy he was feeling sick, and she didn't _listen_, she didn't even stop _smiling _last night, stupid _smile-_

Daniel rolls over and sniffs. He glares at the telly and then shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to look at it. He pulls the blanket right over his head and hangs onto his Peso toy.

Out of everyone at home, Daniel thinks he likes Zia and Sam the best. Once at school, they had to draw their family, and he drew Mummy and Daddy way off at the side of the page working somewhere, and he and Sam holding hands tight with Zia, and Mummy's brows had gone all creased when she saw it, while Daddy had bitten at his lip, though he tells _them _not to do that, and his eyes had gone all big.

They'd shouted at each other later, Daniel had_ heard _them, and Mummy hadn't kept the picture, though she never does. He'd thought Daddy might take it to put in his office, because that's what Daddy sometimes does with pictures he and Sam do, but when he'd asked Daddy, Daddy hadn't really _answered_, just sort of scratched at his head and asked Daniel if he wanted an ice cream, though Mummy never lets them have any.

Daniel thinks that Zia will come in a minute and give him a cuddle. He thinks that if he had to choose, maybe he and Sam could stay down here and live with Zia. Mummy and Daddy would stay living upstairs and Daniel and Sam could just go up and see them at weekends, like all the people at school who have parents who get _divorced,_ which is a big word. Their teacher says it means when a Mummy and a Daddy don't want to live together any more. Some other people say that it's when a Mummy and a Daddy start shouting, really _shouting_ at each other, and then one of them has to go away.

Mummy and Daddy don't shout at each other-well, they _do_, _sometimes-_but they don't talk to each other very much. Sometimes, they watch grown-up programmes together, but then they don't _talk _to each other. But Mummy doesn't talk to Daniel or Sam very much, either. She just talks lots and lots to people at work.

Mummy and Daddy _do_ smile at each other when all the cameras are there and lights are going off, but then they stop when the cameras go away. Daniel doesn't like the cameras. He _hates _it when Mummy tells him to look at them. He doesn't like Mummy, then.

Daniel likes Sam, though. Sam doesn't like the cameras, either, but Sam just goes quiet, very quiet, when he doesn't want to do something. Sometimes, he'll just sit down _right_ where he is and not _move,_ not even when Daddy or Mummy try to lift him.

He doesn't do it with Zia, but she always nods and_ listens _when they tell her things, and it's nice when she hugs them, nice, proper hugs.

Daniel likes shouting, likes to make Mummy and Daddy's faces go all crumpled like paper, and like they don't know what to do when they're _mean _and don't _talk _to them, but Sam goes quiet.

Sam's not quiet with Daniel, but he is with lots of other people. But if he's quiet with Daniel, it's a _nice_ kind of quiet, that feels nice and happy and like Daniel can _say _things to Sam.

Daniel thinks it would be nice if he could take Sam away. Zia could come, too, and Flo, Sam's friend, Mr. Cameron's little girl. Maybe her big brother and sister too, but they like their mummy and daddy, and their mummy and daddy like them _lots._ Daniel and Sam's mummy and daddy like work better than them.

Daniel thinks about how some of the people at school say that _their_ mummies stay with them when they're sick and off school_-and_ one of their daddies-and suddenly, he feels very sad.

He cuddles up under the blanket and clutches Peso tight, so Peso can have a hug. "It's all right" Daniel tells him. "I'm here. I'll look after you."

He pulls Pinto up too and kisses both their beaks. He'll keep them both safe. They'll never be frightened or on their own. Daniel tells them a little story about how he and Sam will go off somewhere nice with Zia and they'll take Peso and Pinto with them and they'll always be happy. They'll always be happy and with the Octonauts, and they'll always get hugged, no matter what, and there'll be no_ cameras_, and Daniel will keep them all safe.

He keeps whispering under the blankets and holds them very carefully in his hands, until their beaks dig in and leave little marks, red, red little marks on his hands. He wraps his arms round his chest and tries to hum the Octonauts tune. If he closes his eyes and hugs very tightly, it feels like he's not on his own, like there's some nice grown-up person giving him a cuddle. His eyes feel wet and he chews at his lip and holds his thumb. He tries _very hard_ to think that there's a nice person there cuddling him, a nice grown-up person who doesn't like work more, just likes _him._

He can pretend a bit but his arms aren't quite big enough to hug himself properly. And he feels very sad then, and pushes his face into the cushion. He feels very sad because he can't hug himself tightly enough. So he just sucks at his thumb and peeks out at the screen under the blanket and wants and wants somebody to cuddle him.

Daniel would like to be an Octonaut. Everybody would like him there.

He stares at the screen, with the water and the music and the nice, bright colours, and hugs himself tight and tries to pretend it's real, and that they'd be people who'd really, really like him.

He just tries to hug himself tightly and pretend that there's someone there, but he feels very sad because he's on his own on the couch and there isn't any grown-up person who likes him best and wants to hug him.

* * *

Nancy likes spending the day with Mum.

They lie in bed together and watch films and she's even allowed to eat sweets in bed if she's careful. Mum plays with her hair and Nancy tells her how she's going to make her and El and Flo's costumes for World Book Day this year, and Mum says she'll hunt out some material and they can have a go on the sewing machine. Nancy tells Mum how she'd quite like to write a proper opera one day, a long one, and Mum says that next time there's one at the theatre she might like, they can go, just her and Mum, because Elwen and Dad hate that sort of thing, and Flo's too little for it, anyway.

They talk a bit more about _it_, as well. "Is Dad angry?" Nancy asks, and Mum kisses her head. "Not at you."

Gita comes in at some point too, and sits on the bed with them, cuddling Nancy from the other side.

"Sometimes, I can't stop thinking about them" Nancy says at one point, when another episode of _Modern Family_ comes to an end. "The people who say things." She picks at her hoodie sleeves and Mum kisses her cheek.

"That's normal, Nancy. Just remember not to let them ruin the things you enjoy." Mum chucks her under the chin. "Let's not let them win, OK?"

"Yeah" Gita says, cheerfully. "And if you really can't stop thinking about them, just think about my fist slamming into their face."

Nancy bursts out laughing, and Mummy rolls her eyes, but Nancy's sure when she turns away that she sees Mummy's shoulders shaking.

It's Gita who goes to get El and Flo from school today, and when they're on their own, Mum kisses Nancy's hair. "Feeling any better?"

Nancy shrugs. "A bit."

Mummy hugs her. "We'll see how you feel tomorrow." Nancy huddles in and Mum turns over to a repeat of _Top Gear._ Nancy smiles at the sight of Mr. Clarkson-he lives near them in Oxfordshire, and whenever they see him, he ruffles Nancy's hair, and sometimes listens to her talking about whatever she's writing with a serious look, not looking away or thinking about work or looking at his phone, like some grown-ups do when kids are talking.

"Do Elwen and Flo know?" she asks suddenly, the thought only just occurring to her.

"Elwen knows you've been worried." Mum gives her another kiss in the hair. "But Flo just thinks you're sick. Did you get her card?"

Nancy pulls it out from under her pillow in answer. Mum smiles, tracing the letters.

Nancy props her head up on her elbow. "What did you tell Elwen?"

Mum strokes a strand of Nancy's hair back. "Just that you didn't like some of the things people said about Dad, and it meant you weren't getting enough sleep."

Nancy supposes that's all right. She nestles into Mummy's shoulder and stays there until there's the sound of a door opening and the clatter of footsteps down the corridor, and Flo's voice, raised into almost a shout-_"Hello, Nancy!"_

Nancy and Mum exchange looks as Gita promptly hisses _"Shhh."_

_"Sorry-"_ Flo whispers, and then loudly enough to be heard through the closed door, hisses _"HELLO, NANCY."_

A second later, the door is slowly pushed open, and Gita's face appears with a questioning look.

Nancy nods immediately, and Gita pushes the door open, at which point Flo promptly dives into the room.

_"Nancy-"_ Flo scrambles onto the bed, ponytail already coming loose. Elwen follows at a slightly more steady pace, pulling his school jumper over his head as he does so.

"Hey."

"Did you like my _card?"_

Nancy pulls it out to show her. Flo squeals, then catches her mother's eye, and shushes herself with a stern look down at her own hands.

Nancy runs Elwen's toy car over his arm in silent thanks. He glances at her, already distracted by the TV. "Oh-yeah-"

But he gives her a grin, and then flops down on the bed next to her and Mum. Flo's already curling up in Mum's arms, showing off a new sticker on her school jumper.

_"Jeremy-"_ Flo points at the screen. "Mr. _Clarkson-"_

"Yes, it is Mr. Clarkson-"

_"Top Gear-"_ Elwen pumps a fist in the air.

Nancy nestles between them. Elwen flops against her on one side and Flo cuddles up on the other. Mum's brushing Flo's hair with her fingers, and a few moments later, Gita appears with a tray of tea and milk, and promptly joins them.

Elwen elbows Nancy, then. "Yeah, so, you shouldn't worry about anything" he says quickly, in an undertone, taking advantage of their younger sister's momentary distraction by her sticker. "I mean, you know. Like Dad said. They're all stupid."

Elwen keeps his eyes on the screen as he says this, but he gives his sister a quick glance, and then pats Nancy's arm rather awkwardly.

Nancy pats his shoulder quickly, and in rather the same style. "Thanks, El."

They both stare at the screen for a moment, but then each turns to the other at the same time and they exchange a small smile.

They huddle against each other, Flo's head falling between them, and Mum's arm around their shoulders. They stay like that, curled up on the bed together, watching the TV, and for the first time in a while, Nancy feels like she doesn't have to worry about anything.

* * *

"Anything new?" David asks Craig, as he tidies documents away, handing some off to Gavin.

"From Lynton? No" Craig says, waving his phone. "Just the same thing, keep repeating the message you got out on the BBC and to Bradby-we're not doing any debates unless the Greens are involved."

David nods once, his mind already on the phone call he's been planning to make all day.

"You are sure that's possible, aren't you, Michael?" he asks, reassuring himself one more time.

Michael-_this _Michael, not _their_ Michael, and a great deal calmer for it-nods without looking up from his phone. "Easily" he says, thumbs moving like lightning over the screen. "It's a valid argument. Plus, the very potential of a seven-way debate has the potential of pulling in a higher viewership, simply because it's never been done before."

David can see the wisdom of that-and even if he couldn't, he can't see Lynton being moved, anyway. And he has to trust Lynton.

It's not as if Lynton has ever let them down before, he reminds himself.

Michael spares them the briefest glance over his phone. "Don't worry" he says, with the ghost of a grin. "You've got a legitimate reason for refusing to go ahead with them. And it will be better in the long run."

David glances at his phone.

It's George who gives him a gentle shove. "Go and phone him" he says, and usually, his eyes would be glimmering, but today, his smile is grimmer, his jaw set. "Go on."

David glances around, not wanting to be rude, but then his daughter's face, pale and with shadows under her eyes, flickers again, and he hears that word, a whisper sour enough to curl his thoughts: _weaponized._

He _knew._

David gets up, excusing himself quietly from the room. Darkness has already fallen outside the windows as he glances briefly out at the late-winter sky. He turns back at the door to find George watching him.

For a moment, they return each other's gaze, a silent conversation passing between them. George doesn't look away, as a corner of his mouth twitches in a smaller, grimmer smile.

"Give him hell" is all he says quietly, and David feels an identical smile emerge at his own mouth, something cold and grim and furious curling into a fist in his chest that's so tight it aches.

He nods once at George, and walks out into the corridor, already scrolling for Miliband's number.

* * *

It's an unusual step for anyone to call Robinson at home. Certainly any political leader.

But, Ed reminds himself firmly, it's the people who do unusual things that win.

That's the way things end.

You have to break the mould. Be authentic.

So he calls Robinson.

It's after the greetings-Robinson's voice polite, cheerful, as if it's nothing out of the ordinary for Ed to call him on a Thursday night, when it's dark and any normal person would probably be sitting down with a cup of tea and the telly-

Ed shakes his head. He can't _be _a normal person, he reminds himself sternly. The country needs him not to be a normal person. He has to push himself.

So he shakes himself and forces himself to lighten his own tone. "Actually-ah-I was calling about Cameron. And these TV debates-"

Nick chuckles cheerfully on the other end of the phone. "Yes, he's rather reluctant, isn't he?" It's not really a question.

Ed laughs a little too loudly. "Yes-well-" He thinks of Cameron's face yesterday, spitting out the word w_eaponized_ and he feels his fingers curl a little tighter around the phone. "I felt as though-almost as though I should a-apologithe for him really-"

He winces because it's come out heavier than he meant to, and God, why does it always come out _wrong-_

Nick laughs. "Oh, I'm sure you don't need to do that."

The trouble with Nick's voice, Ed thinks, is that his tone is so light it's almost impossible to tell what he's thinking.

"No, I th-uppose, but-" Ed takes in a breath. Tom would tell him to do this. And Bob.

He's got to be daring, Marc says. More radical.

"Just-don't let him get his own way-" he blurts out.

He winces immediately.

Nick's voice has a hint of confusion creeping in now. "Well, I don't think-"

"No-no, I mean, don't just give into him-I mean-make sure the BBC don't just give him what he wants-"

Because Cameron always_ does_-the thought lances into Ed sharply, bitterly. He always _does_ get what he wants, somehow, even when it looks like he isn't going to. He just wriggles away, wriggles and twists and-

"That's a little above my pay grade." Nick's laughing a little now. "Though it's rather complimentary-"

Ed swallows. "Yes-I mean, I know-but-"

Nick sighs, and the next words are a little lower. "I don't make the decision on this, Ed" he says, his voice suddenly a little too understanding. "I've got no power over what the BBC decide to do."

Ed swallows. "No. No, of course. I juth-just thought I'd-"

He hates the lisp that creeps through.

"Of course" Nick says easily, his tone light again. There's a pause and then, a bit lighter this time-"If it helps, I rather think the Prime Minister might find it a little difficult to sway the BBC this time. I can tell any of you that."

A little difficult.

Nick doesn't say they won't listen to him.

He doesn't say _He won't be able to._

In fact, Ed reflects as he ends the call, Nick might have said what he just said to any of them, but it doesn't actually tell Ed or anyone else anything. Which might, suitably enough, have made it a classic politician's answer.

This doesn't make Ed feel any better.

He tries to tell himself it doesn't tell anyone else much either, but he's not really sure why that should mean anything.

It occurs to him that he hasn't heard either of his sons since he walked into the house and their nanny had told him the boys were in bed, and that Daniel should probably stay at home again tomorrow, since he was still pretty sick.

Ed wonders now if he should go up and check on them, but glancing at the clock, he decides they're most likely both asleep, and he doesn't want to risk waking them up.

Justine isn't home and Ed's just debating whether he should call her and trying to remember whether she said she was going to be in a meeting or not when his phone rings in his hand, and nearly gives him a heart attack.

It's Cameron.

Ed debates whether or not to answer. All he can picture is Cameron's mouth, spitting the words across the dispatch box. _And I think that is disgraceful-_

The fury pulls tight in his chest.

_But he said it,_ whispers the voice in his brain.

But _weaponized_ was every headline today and Tom's phone hadn't stopped ringing. Ed suspects they stopped telling him about the calls at some point and considering how many he was aware of, it's hardly a cheering thought.

And Cameron _did _that-

(And Ed helped him do that.)

(Which makes it worse.)

But now he's staring at Cameron's name and he's noticing slowly that he hasn't spoken to Cameron since they came back to work. Not even texts.

Yesterday, he'd thought, maybe-

But then PMQs and Paris had happened.

Ed feels strange, almost a little empty. As though he's constantly waiting to hear Cameron saying something. Like seeing a shadow without a person

That irritates even more, but somehow-

Ed stares at the name, and then, before he can answer the call, the phone stops ringing abruptly.

In the few seconds of silence that follow, Ed stares at his phone and notes vaguely that Cameron hasn't even texted before ringing.

That's all he has time to note before the house phone starts ringing, and Ed's heart picks up then, worry twitching into life as though the sound is a shove in the back.

A terrorist attack-what if there's been another, a copycat after Paris-

He knows even before he reaches the phone that it can't be, that his phone would be going wild if that was the case, but something of the fear lingers, sharpens his voice as he snatches up the phone. "Hello?"

There's a moment of silence, then "Miliband."

It's Cameron's voice, rounded and level-but a little lower than usual. A little firmer.

Angrier.

Irritation surges, along with something else, something that could be trepidation, but-

"We need to talk. Tonight."

The words are brisk, snapped out one by one. Ed blinks at the lack of greeting, lack of even preamble-

"What?"

"I need to speak to you. Tonight. It can't wait."

"What-I'm at _home_, and-" Ed can't help but feel aggrieved, especially given _he's _the one who's got the right to be _furious _with Cameron right now-

"Face to face. Tonight. It's non-negotiable."

Ed's eyes fly wide open and his own voice hardens. A shiver runs down his spine, a strange shiver at the_ command_ in Cameron's voice-the utter-utter _expectation_ of being obeyed and Ed wants to take that expectation and crack it in two-

"It's non-negotiable?" He tries to laugh, but he's too _angry_ suddenly, anger welling in his chest and curling his fingers tighter around the phone. And something-something else. Something that's made his heart rapid and his hand shake a little, that leaves him suddenly off-balance, his stomach dropping as though he's missed a step going downstairs. He feels a little breathless.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" He almost spits the words out, that anger gripping them, sharpening them, and he waits for Cameron's answer, and it's only then he realises his heart's pounding.

He waits and a part of him almost expects Cameron to say _The Prime Minister._

It would be a Cameronish remark to make, but-

But-

The thought sends a strange shudder through him, something incredulous, something like fury, but-but-

Then Cameron's voice snaps in his ear, and the words are so tight, spat out so viciously, that they almost sting. "It's about my _daughter, _Miliband."

Ed blinks, the words hovering there for a moment. Like yesterday, in PMQs.

What?

Cameron's _daught-_

Nancy? Flo?

"Your daughter-"

"Yes, _my daughter."_ Cameron's voice isn't level any more-it's shaking and all the more unsettling for that. "I swear to God, Miliband-"

"What's she-which-what's happened-"

"Ten tonight. The Commons. Portcullis House. Be there."

Cameron's voice is tighter, shorter again, as if not wasting any more time on Ed than he needs to.

It's only then that Ed realises he's shaking. Not just trembling-his whole body physically shaking. "What-what are you _talking_ about, Cameron-"

There's a sound then, on the other end of the phone, a sound that stops Ed in his tracks. It could be a simple furious noise, an inarticulate hushed yell. But it comes out as a laugh, and something about that makes the hairs stand up on the back of Ed's neck, because that sound isn't Cameron. That sound isn't Cameron at all.

He swallows. He tries to say Cameron's name again, but his mouth is suddenly intensely dry.

"If you did this deliberately-" and Cameron sounds almost calm for a moment.

He might sound calm, to someone who wasn't Ed.

"If you did-"

"If I did what deliberately?" Panic is sharp now in Ed's chest, choking the words in his throat, twisting his stomach. He wants to pace, but he can't trust his feet to move.

There's a pause and then "If you did a single bit of this deliberately, Miliband, I swear I'll kill you."

The words are soft, low. They could sound calm.

Ed feels his stomach drop, as if it's trying to crawl out of him. Cold is suddenly prickling all over his body.

He tries to make his mouth work, fruitlessly. "C-Cameron, what-"

"Ten o'clock. Portcullis House. Be there or-" And it's only then that Cameron's voice cracks, and the sound sends something through Ed, something worse than panic.

Cameron's voice is soft. "If you did this deliberately..."

Ed feels his breath catch in his throat.

There's a click and the sound of the dialling tone. It takes Ed a long moment to lower the phone, his fingers slipping on the buttons.

He stands there, alone in the hall, with only his own breathing and the hum of the kitchen light for any sound to hold onto. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. His heart's pounding so hard it hurts now, a dull ache in his chest, or maybe that's just panic, a panic that's seeping through him, clouding his thoughts.

Ed stands very still in the hallway and focuses on breathing. In and out, as though counting his breaths. He stands there and he knows somehow he's going.

He can't explain it. There are a hundred reasons to refuse. The boys, Justine, the time, the fact Cameron sounds like he's just _snapped-_

He's never heard Cameron like that before.

There are a hundred reasons why not. He just can't think of one why.

But he's going and maybe it's the jolt that had gone through him when he'd seen Cameron's name on his phone screen and maybe it's the panic that's tightening his chest, sharpening his breath, and maybe it's that crack that was in Cameron's voice, that crack of something so raw and threatened and furious that it didn't know what it might do, or maybe it's all of it.

Maybe it's all of it.

* * *

Sam always likes to watch the moment when Dave steps through the door.

The truth is, there aren't as many differences between that Dave and the other one as people would like to think. That David is still her Dave, just with more polished words, with sentences that don't falter and scramble like everyone else's.

But there isn't as much difference as some of them might think between their dad, her Dave, and their David, their Cameron, their Prime Minister.

Sam loves that, the same way she loves that the Dave from their holiday still bleeds into the David today, the Dad to the kids, all of the Davids somehow the same and as true as each other.

But the moment he steps through the door, his arms open for their children, something completely open in his face when he sees them.

That's what Sam loves seeing. It's one of the things she loves about all of them.

Tonight, when David comes through the door, the kids scatter to him in pyjamas-ready for bed, Nancy changed into fresh ones, hair washed and dried.

And he hugs them tight, before he wraps his arms around Nancy and just holds her for a long moment, as if reassuring himself that she's still there. Sam feels a pang of love so strong she has to cover her chest with her hand and turn away before it twists her inside out.

The children and Sam have already eaten, so David joins them all in Flo's room, taking turns reading out pages, while Flo's eyes flicker until she's almost asleep.

Sam kisses her head and tucks her in gently, before they lead Elwen to his room and tuck him into bed. It's then that David touches Sam's arm and nods towards Nancy; and Sam understands without words, and leaves David to put Nancy to bed, to talk with her alone for a while.

Sam retreats to the living room, where she sits on the sofa and thinks for a while, tucking her hair behind her ears.

She still remembers that day, nearly five years ago now: sitting at the kitchen table, her stomach heavy with the baby that was Florence kicking every few moments, like little heartbeats. Nancy's legs kicking back and forth, as she wrote out sentences carefully, chatter spilling out bright as a ribbon. Gita had been sitting with them too, holding Elwen, winking at Nancy, pretending to mouth the correct answers to her.

Sam had known Dave was locked into discussions, was struggling to piece together a coalition with Nick Clegg, and they'd been waiting for what felt like much longer than a few days. The waiting was _there_, locked into the air between them tight and knotted around every word.

Sam had focused the way she always did and does; on the children. The children, and the next hour in front of them.

Because no matter what happened next, Nancy still had school tomorrow and Elwen still had nursery and this baby was still going to be kicking in Sam's stomach, waiting to be born in a few months, whether David ran the country or not.

And so she'd pushed down the knots in her stomach, and she'd filled her mind with Nancy's sentences, adjectives, verbs.

When the phone had rung loudly, Gita had answered it, even as Nancy continued kicking her legs, babbling her way through a correctly spelt sentence.

Gita had handed the phone to her and Sam had heard Kate's voice in her ear. "Samantha?"

"Yes?" Sam had given Nancy a big smile as Nancy curled into her arms, pressing one hand over her stomach to feel the baby kick.

"Are you busy?"

"Well-not particularly."

"That's good." Kate's voice would have been calm to anyone else, and they might have thought this was any other day, any other message. "You're going to have to come down soon. David is about to form a government."

Sam had heard those words with Nancy on her knee, Elwen snuggling against Gita across the table, and Florence, whose name she didn't yet know, kicking away in her belly.

It was ten minutes later, ten minutes of a subtle wink at Gita, and Gita's arms tightening momentarily around Elwen, and a fierce refocusing on Nancy's homework, deliberately not changing her grip on her daughter at all, with three more sentences spelled out neatly, every tick of the clock like a heartbeat to Sam.

Then the phone had rung, Gita had almost dropped it as she passed it across the table, and Sam had reached for it, her voice tight with the effort of keeping her "Hello?" as quiet as possible.

"Samantha" and the tremble of excitement in Kate's voice might have been noticeable to anyone this time, and Sam's fingers had clenched tightly around the phone, waiting, waiting. "Get ready. You'll need to put your dress on quickly."

"Right-"

That was all she'd said and then there'd been the sound of the phone being passed over and then it had been David's voice on the other end and the words had crackled down the phone line, falling into her ear, one at first, and then the rest.

"Sam-" and then quicker, the excitement swelling in the words. "Sam, what are you doing?"

"Nancy's homework-"

"Sam, we've done it, we're in government."

The words had hung there and Sam had sat there, phone pressed to her ear, Nancy turning to look at her, the words sinking into her slowly, into her heart.

"You've done it" was what she'd said, quietly but she'd known David would hear it, the pride underneath the words, filling her up until she'd thought it would overflow out of her eyes, her mouth, drowning her. He'd done it.

"Yes." And his voice had been wavering with excitement. "You'd-ah-you'd better get a dress on, we might be going to the Palace."

Sam had covered her mouth for a moment and Nancy had frowned. "Mummy?"

Sam had taken a deep breath. The children. The children. She'd bent and kissed Nancy's head. "It's all right, sweetie-Daddy's just on the phone." She gives Nancy a big smile. "Something very good's happened, sweetheart-"

Nancy had been blinking, turning round to look up at her. "Daddy?"

"We're about to go and see the Queen" and those had been the words that had Sam sitting up straight, the words really sinking in and it had been her who said it to David then, the words quiet, falling between him and her and Gita and Nancy and Elwen and Florence, still kicking away, utterly oblivious to everything going on outside, in the world she was getting ready to come into. "You're the Prime Minister."

There'd been a pause, then "I'm the Prime Minister."

He'd laughed and in that split second before Nancy had squealed, knowing something had happened but not what and Elwen had clapped his hands and gurgled, knowing everyone was happy and Gita had hugged him tight and reached across and squeezed Sam's hand, and Florence had kicked and kicked away, Sam had just said "Well done", almost a breath down the phone, "Well done", just for him, just for them.

Now, she sits, curling her feet up underneath her on the couch, in their Downing Street flat, and she thinks of how Dave had cuddled Nancy tight as they all sat on Flo's bed together and suggested they all go out tomorrow since it was Friday, and he'd have to go to France on Saturday, and how Flo had bounced on the bed happily, clapping until they'd had to shush her back into sleepiness again.

David appears in the doorway and Sam feels some of the tension seep out of her shoulders at the sight of him.

"Is she all right?" she asks immediately, tugging at his sleeve a little as he sits down next to her.

David nods. "She's asleep. I've said she can have one more day off, but it's back to school on Monday."

"Cheek."

David takes her hand then."She looks better" he says, and Sam can hear the crack in his voice.

She still remembers the look on his face when each of their children was born; the way he'd cradled Nancy against his chest, the way he'd stroked Elwen's cheek very gently with the tip of his finger, the way he'd pressed a kiss to the tip of Flo's nose. The way he'd cuddled Ivan so gently, wrapping his arms around him as they'd stared at their first baby, wrapped comfortably in a blanket, peacefully asleep, and David had whispered about how he was going to be the happiest little boy in the world.

They hadn't known, for six days, and David had cradled him even more tightly when they knew.

Now, their hands curl around one another, and squeeze tightly, fingers intertwining.

"I think she's feeling a little brighter" she says, after a few moments, leaning her head against his shoulder. "We've had a few chats today, so hopefully-"

"I think we'll have to do more."

"Yeah- I think we do need to have more conversations with-I mean, with the kids, but with Nance, especially-"

"Well, she's older now." David presses a kiss to her hair. "If she feels she's in the dark-"

"I think she does, a bit." Sam just hopes they can rectify it. The thought of her daughter worrying herself into silent knots and not telling either of them is enough to leave her leaning forward again, closing her eyes as her forehead rests on steepled fingers. "I should have noticed how quiet she was-"

David's hand's on her shoulder, one on her arm. "You didn't know-you didn't do anything wrong. If Nancy didn't want to talk to us-you know she's clever-"

"We've always known she was clever." Sam hears herself laugh. It sounds like it could be a sob, but it's a laugh, just. "We shoved a book in front of her when she was two for a laugh, and ten minutes later she'd read it."

She feels David shake too, laughter vibrating through his chest as he holds her, and Sam lifts her head, his arm sliding further around her. But his eyes linger on the middle distance for just a moment. His jaw tenses. Sam can read David's looks as easily as she reads her own in the mirror.

"What is it?" She's already pulling herself round to meet his eyes. "Is it Nancy? Has she said something else?"

David looks past her and for a moment, Sam thinks he's going to attempt a denial. But then he shakes his head and meets her eyes. "Yes. Well. Sort of-"

Sam feels her stomach turn over. "What is it?" An idea flickers into life in the back of her mind. "Is it school? Is that why she wants another day off, people have been saying things-" Sam's already half-up off the couch. She'd been joking, earlier, about what she'd do to anyone who made comments to the children. Or she'd let Nancy think she was joking.

David clutches her hand, in a well-worn dance they've been performing since they met, almost. "No, no, nothing like that-" He takes a deep breath. "Just-let me explain a moment."

Sam sinks slowly back down, reminding herself that Nancy is safely asleep in her bedroom and does not need the vital hand of motherly revenge to be extended in the next few minutes, at least.

David bites his lip for a moment-a move he only ever does when he's concerned about one of the children. "The thing is, and I should have told you this earlier, I need to go out."

Sam blinks. "What-"

David sighs. "It's about Nancy."

"Nancy?"

"And Miliband."

Samantha simply stares at him for a long moment. "Ed Miliband?"

Sam doesn't quite remember her first meeting with Ed Miliband-not their first proper conversation, anyway. She remembers vaguely meeting him a few times at events, get-togethers, but he'd usually been one of a few MPs who she'd said hi to quickly, with smiles, maybe a shake of the hand or perhaps a quick press of lips to the cheek. She doesn't remember her first conversation with his brother, either, but there'd been more conversations with David Miliband, smiles and sometimes a few swapped stories about the kids. That was between her and Louise, too, at cross-party events, barbecues on occasion. Dave hadn't minded the elder Miliband-_He can see through Brown_, he'd remarked on one occasion. _He can see he's a dead weight round the party's neck, which is more than can be said for the rest of them_-and the first few times he'd mentioned Ed, it had been over climate change discussions. _Oh, yeah, we've been speaking with Miliband's little brother-_

The first time she'd met Ed Miliband as Dave's opposition, the new Labour leader-and that had been a strange enough thought at the time that she'd kept clinging onto and tucking into her pocket and taking out and examining with a shiver of delight, _Labour are in opposition again_-might have been on Remembrance Sunday or maybe a couple of weeks earlier, there might have been some event-but she remembers taking Florence from Isabel, who'd been watching her, Nancy and Elwen standing quietly at her feet, slightly awed into good behaviour by the cameras, despite the fact that they were firmly kept out of sight-and then suddenly, Dave had been introducing her.

He'd shaken her hand and Sam's first thought had been that he looked far too young to be leader. Of course, everyone had said that about Dave, too, but it was a different type of youth, somehow. It was something in Ed Miliband's overlarge eyes, in the way he sometimes overemphasised his words as though trying to make sure they came out correctly, the lisp that had crept in.

He'd glanced at David a few times, then, Sam remembers, and there'd been a smile almost hovering at his mouth, as though he wasn't quite able to make up his mind whether he liked Dave or not.

Or whether he should like him or not.

Now, David's jaw is tensed and his fingers almost curl into a fist, a quick flicker of movement before he forces them to uncurl. Sam feels herself go still, recognizing the look, and her thoughts immediately sharpen.

"Yes, Ed Miliband" is all Dave says, but his voice is tight and Sam's heartbeat is suddenly audible.

"What's he got to do with-"

"Nancy told me-"

They speak at the same time and then stare at each other for a moment. David's words sink in slowly and Sam feels herself move before she knows she's doing it, scrambling upright.

"What's he done?" She doesn't realise that her voice has risen almost to a shout, until David shushes her, gesturing urgently in the direction of the childrens' bedrooms. Sam takes a deep breath, already forcing her voice lower, her thoughts into order, the way she's become used to. The way she's had to become used to.

"What has he _done?"_ The word is almost spat out, almost takes Sam herself aback with the way it trembles in the air. But she's seeing those shadows under her daughter's eyes and her own hands are curling into fists, because if he's touched her, if he's touched a hair on her head, _I'll kill him, I swear I'll kill him-_

David holds out a hand, calming her. "Nothing. He hasn't done anything. Not _to_ her. It's that-"

Sam breathes in, then out, holding onto this, this nugget of knowledge, that it's all right, it's all right, nothing's happened to Nancy, nothing like-

"She told him."

"What?"

David meets her eyes. "Nancy told Miliband she was upset" he says simply. But Sam knows the tone too well, knows there's something brewing, something she isn't going to like.

"When?" is all she says, her heart beating fast now, her own fingers flexing.

"In November. On Bonfire Night."

Sam almost chokes. _"What?"_

"I know-" and she knows from David's clenched jaw, his narrowed eyes that he does know, he does, and that sends a fierce rush of something through her, something like love, something like pride that they both know this, are both in utter agreement in their fury.

"She was sitting outside Flo's room" David says now, his voice firm and horribly level. "And she said she was upset-she asked him about his brother and-because she was worried about me-and he knew she was upset and-he didn't _tell us."_

David's voice cracks on the last words and then he grinds them out again, a little differently, the words shuddering with something dark and furious and fiercely primal and protective. "He didn't tell _me."_

Sam sits very still for a moment. Then, she scrambles upright. "Where are you meeting him?"

"Portcullis House_-no-"_

"I'm going to kill him."

"Sam-look,_ I_ want to fucking kill him-"

"I'm going with you." She's already looking for her coat, eyes darting about the room-it will be in the cloakroom, of course-"We'll get-Gita will watch the kids, I want to see him-"

"No, Sam-_Sam-"_ Dave's got a hand on her arm, the way he did that time in Bristol, when he'd been staying in her flat when she was still studying and they'd only been dating a few months, and one of the guys in there, a friend of a friend, had made some crack after one too many beers over the pool table of _think you could beat us all, don't you-fucking posh twat-_

David's face had barely changed-just tensed for a moment, before it had relaxed into the grin Samantha could already have traced in her sleep. _Well. So much for making a good first impres-_

Dave had never managed to finish the sentence, because Sam had promptly reached out, grabbed someone's glass of beer, stormed over to the pool table, and poured it over the guy's head.

Dave had grabbed her arm, then, in the aftermath of the smashed glass and the guy spluttering while his friend collapsed in laughter next to him, and she'd looked up at her boyfriend with a raised eyebrow, daring him to challenge her, but something fiercely protective already unfurling in her chest, leaving her heart rapid, her eyes brighter. She could feel them, when she looked at him.

All Dave had said was "That was bloody impressive."

Sam had grinned, just a little. "Because I'm a girl?"

Dave had cocked an eyebrow. "No. Just impressive."

His hand had still been on her arm, and she'd stepped closer to him, sliding her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. She liked being here, she'd thought. In his arms, against his chest. Mouth to mouth with him.

Now they're standing in the flat above Downing Street, and her voice is lower, with the children in mind, always, always the children in mind.

"He knew this" she says, and then again, reminding herself. "He knew this."

"He-"

_"He did this to my fucking daughter-" _The words shake in the air.

"He didn't _do-"_

"He might as well have done." You don't have to actually do something-reach out, perform the action-to worsen the damage. Sam knows only too well. They both do, really.

David is holding her now. "I should have told you" he says, and he's holding her tighter now.

"Yes, you should have bloody told me." She spits the words out too harshly, because it's not Dave she wants to grab hold of, it's not Dave she wants to grab hold of at all-

Dave meets her eyes, his own wide, face free from guile and polish. "I'm sorry."

The words cling there, taking the wind out of Sam's sails. She puts her hand to her hair, grips once, twice.

"I should have told you" Dave's saying and Sam raises her eyes to look at him. "I know, I was trying to think of how I should tackle him. But I should have told you and I'm sorry."

Sam looks at him and then nods. She nods and nods and nods.

David slides his arms around her, and she nestles into his chest. She rests her head against his heart, listening to it, the strong, steady drumbeat, one of the soundtracks of their marriage, along with the children's laughter, hands slipping into theirs', and David's voice in her ear, saying "Ready?", as he slides his hand into hers', ready to walk out in front of whomever they need to walk out in front of, their fingers intertwining, as though tying themselves together, a shield against all the flashes and shutters and questions.

"It's not that I don't want you to scream at him" Dave says, quietly, into her hair. "I just don't want the kids to wake up and find neither of us there."

Sam takes in a deep breath.

"It's not that I don't want you to kill him." She can hear the smile in Dave's voice, as he hugs her tighter, burying his hands in her hair. "It's that I'd like to get some bloody answers out of him before you kill him."

Sam laughs. It's shaky, but it is a laugh. She holds onto Dave for another moment, soaking in the feeling of him, the scent of him.

Dave holds her tight and then pulls back a little to look at her. "I'm sorry. I should have told you. I just didn't want to upset you more than-"

Sam shakes her head, because her fury of a few minutes ago wasn't at Dave, and his words make sense.

They make sense and the children can't wake up to find one of them gone. They can't.

Sam takes a deep breath. She still remembers when she used to pick up a glass, storm across a bar, and throw it over the head of someone who criticised her boyfriend without a second thought.

When Ivan was born, she'd become an expert at _wait a moment._ Pulling in, taking a breath.

_Don't start screaming. Don't tear at your hair. Don't curl up and sob._

_Want to, but don't._

_Ivan needs you._

_The children need you_.

Everything changed with them. They live and breathe around them.

Someone has to be here.

Sam takes a deep breath, breathes in how angry she is, the part of her that wants to wrap her hands around Ed Miliband's throat and not let go.

She pulls back, so she can meet David's eyes, and nods. "Make sure you murder him for us" is what she says, and the slightest smile twitches at the corner of David's mouth, as she feels him relax against her.

They stand there for another moment, his arms tight around her. "Murder him for us" she whispers again, and he nods, the movement rocking both of them, arms wrapped around each other, both of them together.

* * *

Ed has been in the House of Commons at night before-an MP's pass is a valuable tool-but this time his heart is rapid, and there's a faint sickness at the back of his throat. He doesn't know whether he hopes to find anyone else here or not.

He shouldn't have shown up, he'd thought the whole way here on the Tube, the electric lights harsh and too bright. He shouldn't, he'd been thinking, even as he called Zia back upstairs, asked her to keep an eye on the boys, and left Justine a quick note that was perhaps curter than it needed to be.

He shouldn't have, but he'd known, maybe the moment Cameron told him, that he was going to.

_It's about my daughter,_ the words harsh and furious.

Ed feels that panic rise horribly in his chest again and he wraps his arms tightly around himself, struggling to clamp it down, to _keep calm, keep calm, you don't even know what she's said-_

But what _could_ she have said?

And whatever she's said, will Cameron even believe him?

Ed shakes his head hard, as if answering himself. Cameron-Ed wraps his arms tighter around himself-

Whatever he thinks of Ed, Cameron surely can't believe for a second that Ed would-

_Hurt_ one of his children-

But what if it was the other way round? What if Daniel or Sam had told him that Cameron had-

Cameron had _what?_

He doesn't even know what Cameron's so furious _about._

A vaguely paranoid part of Ed's brain wonders not for the first time, if this is all some kind of trick. But he reasons, as he has been the whole way here, that Cameron, no matter what they're fighting over, is very unlikely to lure him to Portcullis House to batter him unconscious. If nothing else, there's too much CCTV.

Plus, Ed can't really picture Cameron cleaning up blood.

Maybe ordering some minion to do it.

But then, even that thought isn't as entertaining as it should be because the fact is, it's harder and harder to shove Cameron into that shape in his mind. _Stereotypical, public-school, spoilt-_

It's harder than it should be, and it worries Ed a little.

He's standing here, chewing his lip, checking the time on his phone, thinking these things as a way to avoid counting down the seconds, until Cameron turns up and tells him what he's so furious about.

God, and _he's_ the one who's meant to be furious with _Cameron-_

Or he thinks he should be, really-

The door opens behind him and Ed turns to see Cameron standing there, watching him.

Ed's still in his suit from earlier in the day-he hadn't had a chance to change before he'd heard Cameron's message, and after, there'd seemed little point.

Cameron hasn't changed, either. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, his tie looser, and his suit slung over one arm. Ed pulls at his own self-consciously.

For a moment, they just look at each other. Ed can't make out David's expression in the dark. But he can tell from the tilt of his head that Cameron's scrutinizing him just as carefully as he's scrutinizing Cameron. It flashes across Ed's mind to wonder just what Cameron's looking for.

It's Ed who speaks first and he hates himself for it. "I'm here."

The words hang stupidly between them.

Cameron doesn't say anything. Instead, he just walks closer, until they're standing only a foot apart.

He pushes open the door to Portcullis House so hard the door bounces and Ed has to catch it with his hand to prevent it hitting him in the face as he follows Cameron into the dining hall.

It's a ghostly sight, the Portcullis Hall at night. Empty tables stand silently, ringed across the room. Half-darkness fills the place, so Ed can barely make out Cameron's face. He can see his eyes though, glimmering in the dark, and Ed's own roam back to them again and again.

"Do you-"

Ed almost laughs at his own voice, at the way his hand gestures hopelessly at one of the tables. He's not even sure why he asks the question-only, well-

Cameron _did_ suggest coming here.

Or maybe Ed just doesn't want to hear whatever Cameron's going to say.

Cameron's mouth twitches slightly into what could be a smile-could be-

(It isn't. It's the furthest thing from it.)

Cameron steps closer, so they're only an inch away from each other. Ed's thoughts reel at the sudden closeness.

"You say you want me to give you straight answers."

Ed blinks, unsure if he's somehow missed part of the conversation.

"I-"

Cameron's eyes meet his and Ed flinches.

"You always want me to give you a clearer answer."

Ed wants to argue, to object, but instead he feels himself nod silently. His heart's pounding and he's suddenly very aware of how close they are.

Cameron's lips tauten and then flatten, as though he's barely holding something back. Ed wonders madly if his own pulse is audible.

"Then perhaps you'll afford me the same courtesy" is all Cameron says and the words are somehow both more polished and more raw than usual.

Any other time, Ed would want to laugh at the words. Maybe any other time, he would laugh.

But now, he's staring at Cameron, and it's then he realises that Cameron's shaking. He can see it, just barely, but he can feel it almost against him, and Cameron never-

"What?" He almost doesn't recognize his own words. "What is it?"

Cameron takes in a breath, and for a moment-

For a moment, his eyes just go wide and he looks so _vulnerable._ So-

His eyes are big enough to climb into, Ed thinks stupidly.

And Cameron just shouldn't-shouldn't look like that-and Ed-

Ed wants to-

Reach up and just-

Brush that look off his face-just the tiniest, just-

And then Cameron's mouth tightens and his eyes narrow, and then he spits out so furiously the words hit Ed in the face. "Perhaps you can tell me why my daughter has been terrified for two bloody months, then."

For a moment, Ed blinks. The words twist and turn, refusing to make sense.

"Your-daughter-"

"Yes, _my daughter."_ Cameron's eyes are bright now, dangerously bright.

"Well-I don't know-" Something about the panic that's been rising in his chest slices into his voice, fans his own anger, so his words come out a little louder. "What the hell are you _talking_ about-which-"

Cameron leans in then, and his voice is a hiss. "Is there a reason you didn't bloody tell me what my daughter said to you on Bonfire Night?"

Ed blinks. "What?"

His mind scrabbles, trying to drag itself back to November, nearly two months-

"What-" He remembers tucking Flo into bed, but Sam had been there-and she hadn't told him-

"Nancy-"

Outside Flo's room-is that what-is that what Cameron's talking about-

"Yes, _Nancy."_ Cameron's voice is low, and Ed becomes aware that they've leant in towards each other, their breath harsh, audible.

"I-" Ed's thoughts are climbing over each other. "You mean-what she told me-when you were with Flo and Sam-"

"Fantastic. You remember."

Ed bites his lip to prevent himself spitting out sarcasm in response. "What do you-I didn't think, I-"

"Oh well, wonderful. My daughter's in bed sick because you didn't _think-"_

Cameron's sarcasm is the type that usually has Ed wanting to fasten his hands into Cameron's collar, and just-wipe the smug look off his face-

But tonight, Cameron doesn't look smug and Ed might want to grab him, but he isn't sure why.

He isn't even sure if he _should_ be sure why-

"What do you mean, she's sick-"

"She hasn't been fucking _sleeping_, Miliband." Cameron's voice is suddenly louder, raw, and he's so close. Ed just stares at him, trying to recall exactly what Nancy said to him.

"She hasn't been sleeping because she's _worried."_

Now, he remembers-remembers vaguely-thinking he should mention something to David, but-

He hadn't-

It had just...slipped his mind.

He'd-

He can feel the colour rising to his cheeks.

"I-"

Cameron's standing there, staring at him.

"I forgot-"

The words hang stupidly in the air between them.

"You _forgot?"_

Ed winces.

"So it was so unimportant to you, you just _forgot?"_

_"No-"_ Ed's surprised at the vehemence in his own voice, and for a moment, Cameron's eyes widen, as if he might be, too. Ed doesn't feel the usual stab of triumph that comes with surprising Cameron.

"I didn't-it wasn't that it was _unimportant-"_

"Just not important enough?"

Ed swallows. "You're twisting it-"

Cameron laughs, but the sound is harsh. As quickly as it began, it fades and then, before Ed can move away, one of Cameron's hands fastens in his sleeve.

"My daughter's not in_ school_ because she's too tired to go out." The words twist themselves out of Cameron's mouth and Ed's stomach lurches. "I swear to god, Miliband, if you tell me I'm _twisting _this-"

"I meant it's not ath-as though-" Ed bites his lip hard because there's a sudden surge of emotion in his chest and he can't let hot liquid prickle at his eyes, he can't-

"It wath a mith-stake-" and his lisp is breaking through, his voice thickening with the words. "A mith-stake-"

Cameron's lip curls and something snaps in Ed's chest. "Th-top it."

Cameron's head almost snaps round to look at him. "I'm sorry, _what?"_

"Th-top acting like I don't care about your children-" Ed doesn't even know he's going to say it until they're out of his mouth. "Or like it-" There's a painful spike of worry in his chest, and it flounders. "Or like it-I want her to be OK." It's got to be one of the most inarticulate explanations he's ever tried to give Cameron, but then this is different.

This is about their children, and that changes everything.

Cameron's staring at him, and again, the words come out before Ed can stop them. "How is she?"

Cameron blinks. Actually cocks his head to the side and blinks. "What?"

"How is she?" Ed swallows. "Nancy."

"As if you care." The words come out far more quickly, far more ragged than usual, and far more childish, and Cameron must know it, because he turns away a little too quickly, and so his fingers open a little too quickly, letting go of Ed's sleeve, which is when Ed notices just how long he's been holding onto it.

And then he's reaching for Cameron's sleeve, before he's even quite realised , and he's caught hold of it. "Don't say that-"

The words were meant to come out loud. They come out quiet.

Cameron's eyes meet his. Ed's fingers tighten on his sleeve.

And then Cameron laughs. "Why not? It's not as if _you're_ particularly fond of _me."_

A hollowness sinks into Ed's chest. He's hollow and aching and he has to swallow hard, past a throat that's suddenly swollen.

It's stupid, because of course that's what Cameron thinks. It's not as though they're_ friends_, after all.

For God's sake, he _despises _the things Cameron believes in. So why shouldn't Cameron-

The words hover unspoken. _And I'm not particularly fond of you, either._

Ed opens his mouth, and closes it. Because he can't say _That's not true_, because-

He can't say-

_You're not particularly fond of me._

Ed swallows hard and what comes out is "Is she all right-"

"Did you do it deliberately?" Cameron speaks before Ed's finished.

Ed just stares at him. _"What?"_ His hand tightens on Cameron's sleeve.

Cameron's eyes flicker up to his and they stare at each other. "Did you do it deliberately?"

For a moment, Ed's mind flails around the words, because he can't grasp them or doesn't want to.

And then he's staring at Cameron and his hand loosens and then tightens, because he, he-

How _dare-_

And then he's stepped closer and he's _dragging-_

His mouth's almost at Cameron's chin when he says "That's actually what you think of me?"

The words come out cracked. They quiver a little.

Cameron doesn't look away. Neither does Ed.

Neither of them speaks.

Cameron takes in a breath, but Ed hears his own voice, far smaller than usual. "Right, then-"

His hand loosens around Cameron's sleeve, but he doesn't let go.

Cameron takes in a deeper breath. "I didn't say that, Miliband."

"You didn't have to." Ed's surprised his voice is steady. He can't find it in him to be proud.

But Cameron takes in a breath and laughs, then. "Only you could do this." It comes out as almost an aside, as if to himself.

"What?"

_"This-"_ And Cameron's closer now, so Ed can almost feel his chest rising and falling. "Turn it _round-"_

"Turn_ what_ round-

Cameron's mouth quirks. For a moment, Ed thinks he's going to say something else, but then all he says is something that ends in"...should've known."

Ed wants to ask what. _What should you have known?_

But he doesn't, because Cameron wants him to, and he knows that somehow.

And he's still got hold of Cameron's sleeve.

Neither of them has stepped back and there's a strange ache in Ed's chest as he breathes Cameron in. His voice is low and Cameron smells good and _That's what he thinks of me_, Ed thinks dully. _That's what he thinks-_

The silence is too heavy and too long, and Ed isn't sure if he speaks out of desperation or not.

"Tell Nancy I hope she get-th better th-soon-"

Cameron's head snaps up then, and he looks-

Well, he looks-

His eyes are huge for a moment and he looks as though Ed has _punched_ him. He looks_ shocked._

But when he speaks, his voice is low and level. "That's really all you have to say?"

_No_, Ed thinks.

Instead, his mouth opens and closes and a part of him-the part braided with indignation and fury and that look on Cameron's face across the chamber-

Cameron laughs, and then he tears his sleeve free of Ed's hand, turns away. "Well." His voice is low, and spiked with that jibe under the smoothness that Cameron always seems to stroke over the words he knows will be the cruellest.

"I suppose we know your general opinion on childrens' welfare."

Ed freezes and in that moment, of all the things he can think of, it's Daniel's face, crumpled with tears, vomit staining the front of his school jumper, that he sees.

When he speaks, his own voice is louder. "What did you juth-st say?"

* * *

David has hung onto his conversation with Nancy tonight, ever since he'd walked in and seen Miliband standing there, waiting for him.

For a moment, he had to just watch him, to prove it to himself that yes, Miliband could stand there, Miliband could turn round to look at David and not tell him-

It had been different, looking at him. Now that he'd known-

_Right, then_ is all Miliband had said, before David could answer, and his voice had been so quiet that David had wanted to _grab_ him, grab him and_ shake_ him and-

Because Miliband has no bloody_ right_ to look like that.

Maybe that's what made him say it, and now Miliband's staring at him.

He shouldn't be able to see Miliband's eyes so clearly, David thinks. They're too dark for that. But they're bright enough for him to see.

"What did you th-say to me?" Miliband's asking him again, and something in his voice makes David's chest tight.

He turns back, and meets Miliband's eyes. "I said that we got rather a fair idea of your opinions on children's welfare yesterday" he says, lightly, casually, the way he always does whenever he's tossing out words that he's sharpened into a barb, that he knows are going to cut.

He learnt it all too many years ago, when he was biting down on his sleeve, tears leaking out of his eyes, the skin stinging and too hot to touch, when he thought he'd die to stop the pain.

And their voices, smooth and polite and polished above him.

Now, he meets Miliband's eyes and forces himself to keep looking at him. "Then again, maybe children are only useful to you when they're some kind of_ weapon."_

Miliband's lips part a little and his eyes narrow. David stares at him, those words in his head once again,_ weaponize the NHS_, seething in his chest.

And then Miliband moves. He's a few furious steps forward before the words crack out of his mouth. "Don't you _dare-"_

David laughs, because was Miliband actually about to _run _at him, and because that all-too-earnest fury is there and because this is typical Miliband, to wrestle _himself _back into the role of the victim.

The victim, the hero, the fairytale victor.

He's got a fair idea how Miliband sees himself. A David to a Goliath.

A David, ironically enough.

He laughs because that's better than thinking of how fragile his little girl had felt in his arms as he lay next to her tonight, watching until she fell asleep, the way he sometimes used to watch her sleep as a toddler, her eyelashes fluttering against her baby-chubby cheeks in peaceful slumber, and how he'd barely dare to trace her tiny hand with the tip of his finger, because she had to be a dream, this beautiful, miraculous little creature, she couldn't be his.

Nancy had looked at him earlier, as he tucked her into bed, and then just put her arms around his neck, the way she used to when she was tiny.

He'd hugged her back, as though he could hide her in his chest. Keep her safe forever.

He laughs, and then somehow Miliband's in front of him, and he's hissing at him, "Don't you _dare_ th-say that-"

And something about that feels good, because this is what he _does _with Miliband, this is what they _do_ to each other-

"Why?" he says, and he keeps his voice smooth, level, the way he knows will infuriate Miliband the most, and he needs that because seeing Miliband like this feels as though it's drawing some of the bile from his own chest. "That's all you see the NHS as, isn't it?" He leans closer, not wanting to miss any of Miliband's reaction. "That's all people's lives are worth to you, isn't it? I suppose it's rather nice when you live in Dar-"

Miliband's hands fasten in David's shirt. His face contorts, wrecked and furious. "Don't you fucking _dare-"_ The words gash themselves into the air. "Th-say that to me-"

David becomes aware that his heart is pounding. That he can smell Miliband's toothpaste or aftershave or whatever it is.

And they're so close.

They-

"I'll say what I like to you-" and he hisses the words out, because their hearts are pounding almost against each other, and Miliband's cheeks are as flushed as his own feel. "So much for you being the party of the NHS-"

"You _know_ I didn't mean that it-" The words are bitten out and David's hands are suddenly gripping Miliband's suit.

"Do I?"

It's meant to be scathing. It's meant to be defiant. It comes out as more of a question than it should. Miliband blinks and he looks wrong-footed. "I-" and his voice is softer and it shouldn't be and his hands shouldn't be gripping Miliband's suit the way they are-

And it really should be easier to hate Miliband right now.

And Miliband's voice is too uncertain and so David hisses the words out again. "Then again, it shouldn't be a shock. Very easy to care about people when they're_ useful_ to you." His hands clench and twist and Miliband's so _close_ and-

"Ithn't that your prerogative?" Miliband hisses back and David can see that his lips are chapped and he's seized suddenly by the bizarre thought of running his finger over them-

David feels his lip curl. "I would have thought that champagne socialists do it better than anyone else."

Miliband laughs, and Miliband shouldn't laugh like that. That kind of laugh, harsh and furious and desperate, is for him and them, not Miliband.

Then again, and he's laughing a little himself now, what makes him think he knows Miliband at all?

Miliband's laughter dies away suddenly, and he blinks at David. He seems to be scrabbling for words and one of his fingers brushes David's wrist. David almost shudders at the odd warmth of it, but then Miliband's pressing his lips together and his voice is oddly forced, as though he's trying to sound like his usual self, but isn't quite sure _how_ to. "The fact you say that juth-st _proves _that-"

And that's it because David can't listen another moment, not to Miliband talk like that, as if this is another debate, another disagreement they're having, instead of something-

Something about them.

And David's hands twist in Miliband's suit and then he says "Shut up."

Miliband's eyes widen. "I-"

And then David's seeing Ivan's little face again, those little rasps for breath.

"Shut up" and his voice is low and fierce. "Just shut up, Miliband-" and it comes out a low, fierce warning. "I swear, _shut up."_

Miliband's eyes are far too wide.

_Weaponize the NHS._

"It is not your weapon-" and then, almost pulling Miliband closer. "He is _not _your weapon."

Miliband's brow furrows, and David doesn't care if he understands or not.

"They are not your weapon-" and the words come out broken and furious and wet. "They are not your weapon. They are-"

Miliband's eyes are on his, but he's not saying anything now.

_He was my son._

"You-" and David's breathing hard. "You don't understand."

Miliband is quiet, and then "David-"

"Don't speak-" David almost throws him away, but he can't quite. "Don't _speak_ to me-" His hands knit tighter in Miliband's suit. "You do_ not_ understand."

Miliband's mouth opens and closes and because he needs Miliband to hurt as much as this ripped-open, raw feeling in his chest does, he spits out "And yes. Maybe that's exactly what I think of you."

Miliband's breathing is harsh and ragged between them. David's chest is aching, an ache so big that it's crushing his lungs. It's choking him and his fingers throb from being twisted into Miliband's suit.

He's holding Miliband's suit-

And then Miliband bursts out _"You-"_ and they're breathing together and David's heart's pounding and Miliband's dragging air into his lungs like it might crumble away otherwise, and-

And Miliband's forehead almost brushes his and David stares at him.

"Should've known" he says again, but it comes out small and crumbling, and he can't bear any more than that, so he just holds onto Miliband.

Holds onto him like it's the same as throwing him away.

What-

What are they-

Miliband's _holding onto_ him.

They're holding onto each other and it bloody _hurts_ and Miliband's grip is bloody_ tight_ and there's an eyelash that's loose on Miliband's cheek that's just visible in the moonlight. David could brush it away if he wanted to.

He blinks. He feels oddly off-kilter, and then he realises that he's looking into Miliband's eyes and that his heart's pounding and there's a swooping sensation, a jolt in his midriff and he almost feels sick.

"I-" Miliband's voice is almost a whisper and then his hands tighten in David's shirt and David stiffens, waiting for whatever comes next-

"I'm going to go now." Miliband's voice is almost a whisper, and David's hands tighten in his suit because no, don't-

"I'm going to go now." Miliband says it again, as if telling himself. His hands clench and unclench in David's shirt.

They stare at each other as Miliband uncurls his fingers slowly.

"Go, then." David's voice is a whisper and something like a flinch crosses Miliband's face.

David can't breathe. He can't. And it's only when Miliband's hands brush his own that he lets go.

He lets go almost too quickly, and then Miliband's walking backwards, away from him.

David's taking deep, gasping breaths. They hurt. He hurts.

"I'm th-sorry about Nancy." Miliband's voice is low and quavers a little. "I didn't mean to make thing-th-s worth-se."

The words sound odd, as though they're coming out of somebody else's mouth. David isn't sure if he nods or not. His heart's pounding so hard that David has the irrational thought that it's going to break through his ribs.

Ed looks at him for barely a second and his eyes look so large and dark and almost wet. They ache in David's chest.

"Well" is all Ed says, and then he's backing away and his eyes are leaving David's and then he's staring at the floor and then he's turned away and he's leaving.

Miliband's going, and then he's gone.

David stands there and his heart pounds. His hands open and close and he feels Miliband's suit between his fingers.

He closes his eyes tight and tries to swallow past the swelling lump in his throat.

He shouldn't be shaking, is all he knows, but he is.

He shouldn't be trying not to move, because the ache in his chest shouldn't make him feel as though hot liquid's prickling at his eyes, but he is.

He shouldn't be wondering if he got what he wanted and still feeling Miliband's chest almost rising and falling against his own, but he is.

David takes a deep breath, then another. For a moment, he's sure those scars tingle. His hands grope and grip at the back of a chair in front of him, too hard and cold between his fingers.

He holds on and almost closes his eyes and stares numbly at the table, trying to focus his gaze, and all he sees are Miliband's chapped lips and his dark eyes and the moonlight that's just like a touch on that eyelash on his cheek.

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Let The Flames Begin-Paramore-"Somewhere weakness is our strength/And I'll die searching for it/ I can't let myself regret such selfishness/My pain and all the trouble caused"_

_Innocent-Taylor Swift-"Wasn't it easier in your lunchbox days/Always a bigger bed to crawl into?/Wasn't it beautiful when you believed in everything/And everybody believed in you?...Wasn't it easier in your firefly-catchin' days/When everything out of reach, someone bigger brought down to you?/Wasn't it beautiful running wild 'til you fell asleep/Before the monsters caught up to you?"_

_Is There Somebody Who Can Watch You?-The 1975-"I know it's me that's supposed to love you/And when I'm home you know I got you/Is there somebody who can watch you?/I know it's me that's supposed to love you/And when I'm home you know I got you/Is there somebody who can love you?"_

_We Are Broken-Paramore-"Lock the doors/'Cos I'd like to capture this voice/That came to me tonight/So everyone will have a choice/And under red lights/I'll show myself it wasn't forged/We're at war/We live like this...'Cos we are broken/What must we do to restore/Our innocence, and oh, the promise we adored"_

_How To Be Dead-Snow Patrol-"Please don't go crazy if I tell you the truth/No, you don't know what's happened/And you never will, if/You don't listen to me while I talk to the wall...So just say yes or no/Why can't you shoulder the blame/'Cos both my shoulders are heavy with the weight of us both....It seems I've stepped over lines/You've drawn again and again/But if the ecstasy's in, the wit is definitely out/Dr. Jekyll is wrestling Hyde for my pride"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The BBC interview George mentions David doing: https://bit.ly/38O6hGF  
The conversation with Bradby: https://bit.ly/2Q5GuDh  
A good documentary about the formation of the coalition government, "Five Days That Changed Britain", can be found here:https://bit.ly/2xnRchI  
David calling Ed a champagne socialist at PMQs:https://bit.ly/2wNarRK  
Ed and Nick talking about the TV debates:https://bbc.in/2IATFYG  
Justine mentioned taking time off to see the kids in a school play, but also that their nanny and Ed's mother often looked after them:https://bit.ly/33eLj2u  
https://bit.ly/38I1mXt  
Daniel insisting he doesn't enjoy passing out leaflets when Justine says he does, can be seen here at 02:20: https://bit.ly/2wPSfGS  
Some of the descriptions of Ed's family life:https://bit.ly/2TIVmtx  
https://bit.ly/3cOEZmx  
George did buy Liberty Taylor Swift tickets:http://dailym.ai/3cTldWS  
Nancy did make the costumes for her, Elwen and Florence for World Book Day, which they can be seen discussing here at 01:00: https://bit.ly/2TGqbyM  
George is godfather to Nancy and Elwen, while David is godfather to Liberty: https://bit.ly/2W6f2sE  
https://bit.ly/3aM6Sd5  
https://bit.ly/2xnSxFg  
Nancy has put on operas with her friends:http://dailym.ai/2xwvdW3  
https://bit.ly/38JIesj  
The Cameron children are Modern Family fans and Top Gear fans-Jeremy Clarkson is a family friend and neighbour in Chipping Norton. Nancy went on a five-minute hunger strike to protest him being fired:https://bit.ly/2Q5yGRM  
http://dailym.ai/2IER3sK  
https://bit.ly/38Hi49z  
You can see them discussing the "hunger strike" at 03:25 here:https://bit.ly/2W4iQuz  
https://bbc.in/3aKP6Hc  
https://bit.ly/3aOqFJ2  
Gordon Brown resigning as Prime Minister:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaecADNkWLY  
https://bit.ly/2TKAjXw  
https://bit.ly/338Sxoq  
https://bit.ly/2W3sVrx  
https://bit.ly/38JNex5  
https://bit.ly/2U40B62  
https://bit.ly/338OPLA  
https://bit.ly/338Ya60  
https://bit.ly/3cWaDPh  
https://bit.ly/39I1449  
https://bit.ly/2TYQxes  
https://bit.ly/38MLbIl  
https://bit.ly/338j5Gw  
David Cameron becomes Prime Minister: https://bit.ly/33eSFmC  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOG6jzcjoZM  
https://bit.ly/3aMdbxf  
https://bit.ly/3cMP6Zf  
https://bit.ly/2Q8h8o4  
https://bit.ly/39In3YZ  
https://bit.ly/3cQASGF  
https://bit.ly/39MwyWQ  
https://bit.ly/3aOceV8  
https://bit.ly/2Q7bxyq  
https://bit.ly/2xvUyzs  
https://bit.ly/2TGH1gU  
https://bit.ly/2TIJzet  
https://bit.ly/39IH9Cr  
Sam and Kate's conversation and Sam doing Nancy's homework with her on the day he became Prime Minister:https://bit.ly/2xq4aeU  
http://dailym.ai/3cQcJQm  
A lot of Sam's friends were bemused when she started David, when he was working in the Treasury, as she was an art student in Bristol who played pool with rappers:https://bit.ly/2vY2xor  
https://bit.ly/2IGm5AA  
https://bit.ly/2Q8wtFb  
https://bit.ly/33biW53  
https://bit.ly/2TK3hXc  
Nancy was reading by her second birthday:https://bit.ly/33b5cXX


	4. Painful Perspectives, Caring Conundrums And The Anatomical Irrelevance Of Lemurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which analysing clouds' chemical content is not a positive use of time and David is uninterested in lemurs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask%22) .  
The reference notes in this chapter refer to David in the 1992 campaign, and David and Sam's holiday in Morocco.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

** _BBC Westminster_ **

_(Nigel) Farage has blamed the Paris killings on what he calls **"a really rather gross policy of multiculturalism"** which has created a **"fifth column"** of murderous jihadists in the U.K. as well as in France. His opponents unite to condemn him and the media aren't biting. _

_In part, this is because all eyes are still on events across the Channel where the gruesome drama continues with live coverage of two sieges. The Charlie Hebdo gunmen have taken a hostage in a printing works south-east of Paris. An ally has taken many more in a kosher supermarket in the Vincennes district of the capital. Farage knows exactly what he's doing. Once this crisis is over, it will be replaced by the political debate about how to prevent more attacks. Perhaps someone will point out to him that Britain and France have taken very different approaches to their Muslim minorities. France has pursued a much more integrationist policy, including bans on burkas and Muslim schools, than the one followed in the UK. Neither has prevented isolated acts of murderous madness._

_ **Home** _

_I watch the sieges end live on TV. I see the explosions, hear the bullets, feel the relief as reporters tell us the attackers have all been killed. Until news emerges that four of the hostages in that Jewish supermarket have also died. They came for the cartoonists first, and then for the Jews, but few will see that as noteworthy. The only offence caused by these victims, like the millions who perished in Nazi concentration camps, was to be born at all. I search Twitter for messages declaring **"Je suis juif"** or **"I am Jewish." **There are a few, but not nearly enough.-"Friday 9th January 2015" Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_When she feels as if she is in safe company, Samantha herself can be extraordinarily indiscreet, once regaling guests at a private party with a colourful account of how she and Cameron became so intoxicated on holiday in Morocco that they vomited.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_Our courtship was a long one. Our first New Year was spent driving around Morocco in a battered Renault 5. The first night in Marrakesh was so cold and damp we slept with our clothes on. While there was a bit of an age gap, as well as the contrasts in our friends and politics, there was something that kept bringing us together and helping us get to know and love each other more.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_In fact the Conservatives' successful election campaign of 1992 strengthened his self-belief as well as his most important political bond. During the campaign Cameron and (Steve) Hilton shared lodgings in Gayfere Street, a smart Westminster road leading directly on to Smith Square. The house belonged to Alan Duncan, who had made millions in the oil industry before becoming an MP. It had already served as the campaign headquarters for (John) Major's leadership campaign two years earlier. Now it was the **"bunker"** to which Cameron and Hilton retired for a few hours' sleep when they could._

_It was a frenetic existence, as one of Cameron's colleagues recalls. Maurice Fraser worked in the Foreign Office and moved on the eve of the election to take a role briefing the Tory leader. "**At 4.30 David and I would get into Central Office and pick out the stories that were likely to come up at that morning's press conference. We'd provide a one-side briefing note with a "line to take" on twenty to thirty subjects. David managed the exercise and did all the domestic issues, I did foreign. His briefing notes and mine would then go to the PM or whoever was doing the presser." ** At 7.30am, Cameron briefed (John) Major himself at Central Office, preparing him for the daily press conference , at a meeting that included Tim Collins and Shaun Woodward, two more youthful Tory aides. Once on the road, Major was kept informed about events back at base by Ed Llewellyn, who travelled with him. The youth of Major's backroom staff did not go unnoticed at the time. The press dubbed them the **"brat pack"-**noting that Hilton was too young to have voted in a previous election...The initial battery had to be fast, it had to be slick, and it had to be accurate-or at least not provably inaccurate. Above all, it had to be capable of adapting to Labour's counter-attacks and the news of the day. **"We were quite literally working late into the evening and we would deliver a text to Saatchis at midnight"** says Andrew Lansley, then Cameron's boss as director of the Conservative Research Department. Waiting for the text at the ad agency was Hilton and his team, who then produced effective, punchy documents overnight. "**They would have printed and bound copies for the press conference at 11am.".**..It made for a very long day. **"We are expected to work anything from a twelve to a twenty-four-hour day. As the campaign progresses it will probably get worse"** a newspaper quoted one female party worker as saying in mid-March.** "Small wonder that the "brats" have been spotted taking mid-afternoon naps at their desks"** noted the paper.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_The (Conservative) majority was just twenty-one seats, but given that the (1992) election had been held in the teeth of a serious economic recession it was an impressive victory. The only black spot was the defeat of Chris Patten, who lost his seat in Bath and agreed only with great reluctance to appear in celebration photographs. As the results came in, Cameron and his friends opened the champagne. After several bottles he led a posse of **"brats",** including (Steve) Hilton, across Smith Square to Transport House, the union headquarters used by Labour during the campaign, to chant and jeer at the defeated enemy. Later they headed off to Maurice Saatchi's house for more drunken revels long into the morning._

_The following day Cameron could not resist a dig at his internal detractors, telling Andrew Pierce of The Times: **"The brat pack hits back."** During the campaign (Andrew) Lansley had forbidden Cameron to talk to the press-but now he was determined to put the record straight. **"Whatever people say about us, we got the campaign right"** he went on. **"Not being battle-hardened veterans, we had to learn to take the flak on the chin. But after the first two weeks we just got our heads down and decided to listen to what we were being told by our workers on the ground rather than the opinion pollsters and especially newspaper reporters."** Cameron also said that Hilton, no longer an electoral virgin, had phoned him from his polling booth, excitedly telling him, **"I have done it. I have finally voted. They can't write that about me any more." P**resciently Pierce finished his despatch by saying that although the **"young guns"** had made enemies among the old guard, they **"could be calling the shots for a long time to come."-**Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_In terms of personality, Cameron and Hilton could hardly have been more different, but they made a good team. Together with (Ed) Llewellyn, (Ed) Vaizey, and (Rachel) Whetstone, they formed a tight clique. The press began referring to them as **"the Brat Pack."** They started hanging out together in the evenings and at weekends, sometimes at the Old Rectory (Cameron's childhood home) in Peasemore, or at the country home of the parents of another CRD staffer, William Wellesley, in the Weald. If the house party was in Peasemore, Cameron would set off from London on the Friday night to prepare for the arrival of his guests the following day. The weekend would be a mix of country walks, fine food and wine, and politics. Derek Laud, who was at some of these get-togethers, recalls Cameron being an excellent host. **"He was very boyish, always smoking a cigarette like people did when they were fourteen or fifteen, when they were learning to smoke; always making rings with it. Always in a woolly jumper and forever picking up the dogs. He is a very good cook and loves a decent claret-we all did. There was always a bit of competition as to who could produce the best vintage, because William Wellesley is a great wine snob, so there was always a great rivalry between the Weald and the South Downs, as to who could produce the best wines."** Occasionally, one of the guests would present a **"paper"** on a topical political issue, such as privatisation, and everybody would chew it over. The debate could be long and heated-especially after a few drinks. Remarkably, Laud, who was close to Cameron for more than a decade, does not recall him ever giving a view on any issue discussed. "**He has rarely expressed any strong views in his life"** he says. Instead, Laud says Cameron would focus on how the party should position itself. "**What he was very good at doing was talking about the mechanics of something, rather than the principle"** he recalls._

_Some found the Brat Pack's youth and chutzpah threatening-Hilton was not even old enough to have voted in a general election. (Michael) Portillo and (Michael) Heseltine were among those reportedly uneasy at the combination of their inexperience and increasing influence with the party leadership. Yet (Chris) Patten, who had taken over as Tory chairman, found the young bloods life-enhancing. **"They were a bit indulged, but I don't think (they were) ever bumptious"** he says.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_So many of the team that worked together at the CRD all those years ago ended up, twenty years later, in prominent positions in my government, including Ed Llewellyn, Kate Fall, Steve Hilton, Ed Vaizey and Jonathan Caine. All of us worked for (Margaret) Thatcher and then John Major. The late 1980s and early 1990s shaped us and our thinking. First we were labelled "the brat pack", because of our age. Later "the Notting Hill set", even though most of us didn't live there. Inasmuch as there was a clique-and I would argue that every successful politician needs a team-it was a CRD clique...Election night (1992), when predictions of Labour victory turned to the reality of a Conservative majority, was a moment of pure political joy. While I would experience the excitement of getting elected to Parliament in 2001, and the topsy-turvy night of 2010, the exhilaration of 1992 wouldn't really be matched until May 2015, twenty-three years later.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_What (Nigel) Farage lacked in working-class credentials he made up for in charisma and an instinctive understanding of his audience. He was also willing to show an unpleasant side. His dog whistles-more like foghorns on occasion-on TB or HIV sufferers coming into the country seemed designed to stir up anger rather than to solve a problem...They (the Leave Campaign) may have had (Michael) Gove and Boris (Johnson), but they were also a cauldron of toxicity, including figures like Nigel Farage, Dominic Cummings and businessman Arron Banks. There was something of the night about them that would, we hoped, put off many voters.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Labour were desperate for the debates to take place: they saw them as a chance to build up Ed Miliband's role and character, and to cut through some of the misunderstandings about him (**"to see the real Ed Miliband.") P**rivately, though, they were not optimistic about them taking place: at the first meeting with the broadcasters, one of Labour's team declared that there was not **"a cat in hell's chance of this happening."** He added: **"If I was one of Cameron's advisors, I'd not let him do it and nor will they."** This was a view the Conservatives shared. In late 2014, one of Cameron's team admitted that they were especially keen to avoid debating with (Nigel) Farage: **"We don't want UKIP but if we have to have Farage then we will insist that all minor parties take part."** He added that **"this will kill it as a spectacle."** This view was endorsed by Jim Messina, and Cameron's team also expected Sturgeon to do more damage to Miliband than Sturgeon could inflict on Cameron...For the three largest parties , the plan was mostly to focus their fire almost entirely on each other. As one of the Labour team who had helped Miliband prepare for the debates put it: "**We didn't want to be in any fucking 5-and-7-way debates in the first place, so we had to make them into something else."** Labour's plan was therefore to attempt to draw the contrast with David Cameron, summed up as: **"There's a big fundamental choice in this election. These other people are lovely, but it's me or him. Who do you want?"** The Lib Dems, similarly, wanted to turn the debate into an ersatz three-way: Cameron versus Miliband versus Clegg. "**We didn't want to engage directly with the others"** said one of those working with Clegg. "**We didn't want to spend the time fighting with them." ** During the only formal seven-person rehearsal they held, the Lib Dems stood Clegg directly between (Leanne) Wood and (Natalie) Bennett deliberately in order to work out how best to avoid getting sucked into debate with the minor parties. The Conservatives' goal was to try to remain aloof, to bracket all the opposition parties together, and to present Cameron as Prime Ministerial and a cut above.-The British General Election Of 2015, Philip Cowley and Dennis Kavanagh_

_ Nick Clegg tried another approach: warning that if the Conservative leader was seen to be running away from the debates, he might suffer a public backlash. But the PM wouldn't budge. He responded that he wasn't bothered if people accused him of "**chickening out".** He pointed out that Nick Clegg had taken on Nigel Farage in the debates on Europe in 2014 and had come off worst. David Cameron was clear that it wasn't possible for government parties to safely take on the "anti-politics movement" in election debates: **"One powerful line from the Greens or UKIP could sink you or me. The debates can only help Farage, Miliband and the others. I have to be hardnosed about this. I will get a bit of criticism, but I can live with that."-**Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_ When Samantha was two, her sister Emily was born, but for their mother (Annabel) marriage to Reggie (Sheffield) was not all plain sailing. He started having an affair with Annabel's friend Victoria and divorce followed. However, their relationship remained comparatively friendly-as did relations between Victoria and Annabel. Friends have spoken admiringly of how Annabel never held a grudge against Reggie, but then infidelity was far from being an unknown concept to the Jones family. When Annabel's grandmother Enid (Bagnold), something of a snob, confided in Diana Cooper that she was upset by her husband's philandering, Diana-who had put up with a good deal of cuckolding herself-told her not to be upset. **"Darling, it's so common to mind" s**aid Cooper. Within a decade or so of the divorce, all the dramatis personae were spending Christmases together.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_On her marriage certificate, Samantha listed her father Reggie's occupation as **"farmer",** a description that is laughable in its modesty, as was Cameron's characterisation of her property assets as a **"field in Scunthorpe."** The truth is that her family is stupendously rich, and Sir Reginald Sheffield does not spend his time pootling around in a tractor or herding sheep. He is the eighth holder of a baronetcy that dates back to 1755, and in his own words, lives off "unearned income garnished by the occasional planning consent." His property portfolio, which includes 3,000 acres of arable land, and a £5 million stately home near York called Sutton Park, is worth upwards of £20m. One of his cousins, Davina, was an early girlfriend of Prince Charles, while another was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen's late sister Princess Margaret...The Sheffield family seat is Normanby Hall, a large Regency mansion in 300 acres of beautiful parkland open to the public. In 1964, the family leased the house and grounds for ninety-nine years to what was then Scunthorpe Borough Council. Samantha's half-brother Robert helps run the estate company, and members of the family still stay in a flat there at the weekends, exercising their dogs in the woods, although their main residence is Thealby Hall, another impressive property with formal gardens twenty minutes' walk away. Like all grand families, they also have somewhere in London: a place in a smart block of flats in Bayswater. It was bought for £1,415,000 in 2011....When she started dating Cameron, she continued to suggest her father was simply "a farmer." A friend recalls her making a clumsy attempt to bond with a working-class Labour spin doctor on the basis that they both came from the north. **"It was at a dinner party. She and I were among other guests, including Derek Draper, who came from Lancashire, and he made much of this. Sam said, rather sweetly, "My parents live just outside Sheffield." Of course they live in this fantastic stately home. I remember being a bit gobsmacked that she would introduce the fact that she came from this same area, knowing myself that she came from this incredibly wealthy family, and I had no doubt that Derek Draper didn't. I felt it was a bit too salt of the earth."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_At twenty-one, Annabel married Reggie Sheffield junior, giving birth to Samantha in 1971. Samantha's sister Emily came along two years later. The couple split up in the 1970s, after he had an affair with Annabel's friend Victoria, but the break-up was amicable. In a confusing twist, Annabel went on to marry William Astor, her stepfather's nephew, who inherited his title in 1972. They set up home in Oxfordshire and have now been together for thirty-nine years._

_Today, the Astor and Sheffield families are thoroughly intertwined and on excellent terms. Bruce Anderson says: **"Reggie and Annabel have a very happy divorce. Most divorces leave scars, but Reggie and William are really good friends. They often have Christmases together with all the extended family. The wives get on. David says Victoria's main recreations are fishing, her dogs, and Virginia tobacco. She's a very good fisherwoman."**_

_So close is the bond between Reggie and William, that according to Anderson, they sometimes jest that they don't know whose children are whose. **"William and Reggie regularly have lunch, and joke, "Is Emily one of yours or mine? If she's one of yours, then why is she asking me for a bigger allowance?" All the children get on as if they were the same (family). It's unusual, because everybody is happy. The kids are very loud, like teenagers. If you want to make a point, you need to get it in in the first half of the sentence."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_The Sheffield family also owns Sutton Park, built in 1730 and set in 1,000 acres, eight miles north of York. It had been bought by Reggie's father in 1963 and he inherited it in the late 1990s...Although a product of Eton and Oxford, he (Cameron) would have been conscious of how much further up the social scale his girlfriend was, particularly when he visited the Sheffields on home soil. The first time Cameron was invited to stay at Sutton Park, the magnificent 1730s home of the Sheffield family, he wore a three-piece tweed suit, which to the lofty Sheffields looked a little like trying too hard. His host was the formidable Nancie Sheffield, mother of Reggie, who wanted to know what the young pretender to Samantha's hand was like. Predictably, despite Nancie's slightly intimidating air, Cameron pushed all the right buttons and impressed his girlfriend's grandmother with his easy manner and intelligence. Nonetheless, he and Samantha had to sleep apart, and at opposite ends of the vast house. To young lovers at the height of their passion, this presented something of a challenge but one Cameron was disinclined to shirk. After everyone had gone to bed, he slipped out of his bedroom, tiptoed along a series of long and creaking corridors, and eventually reached the room of his inamorata. Some time later, he returned to his room, mission accomplished, in plenty of time to present himself, rested and insouciant, at breakfast. The success of the trip was only a little undermined by Cameron receiving in the post, some days later, a package from Sutton Park, Yorkshire. It contained a neatly pressed pair of spotless underpants and an equally crisp message from Nancie: **"You left these behind, and not in your own room."-**Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

* * *

_"I'm not good with these sort of things, okay?" she says. "But I want to be. I mean, I want to try and make things work."_

_"Alright" Emily says and invites her out to coffee with a cautious smile.-writing books through letters, majesdane (Skins fanfiction)_

_"Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in. You must go up, and offer to kiss her, and say-you know best what to say-only, do it heartily and not as if you thought her converted into a stranger by her grand dress."-Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte_

_"I don't lie to people here" she said. "So maybe you'll believe me this time. I'm not the enemy. There is no enemy."_

_"Why do you care so much if I believe you?"_

_She shrugged. "I thought it was weird, too."-Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_I need to talk to him. In the real world._

_"Why?"_

_"Because.." Once again, my voice is trapped in my throat. "Because...I like...being....with you."-Solitaire, Alice Oseman_

* * *

It's always him who has to say it, in the end.

Of course it is. None of the rest of them have the guts. Cameron hasn't got the spine. Miliband needs foreigners to vote for him. And Clegg's not worth the time, anyway.

It will always, in the end, be down to him to say what everyone else is thinking.

Alexandra's looking at him, squeezing his arm, as he gets ready for the microphone. He wishes he at least had the treat of a walk to the pub afterwards. He picked the wrong bloody month to go teetotal.

"There's a lot of backlash" she tells him. "Mostly just from politicians."

"Of course there is" he says cheerily. It's important to keep your chin up, after all. "Because they're all shaking in their boots."

Nobody likes it when people come out and say what they'd rather not think, after all. But someone's got to do it.

And he will. On his own, if needs be.

After all, he was on his own when he started, in the '90s, and back then, he'd never thought he'd get the support he's getting now.

Alexandra smiles, slaps him a high-five. "Just have to get ready to weather the political correctness, then" she says, with a grin.

"We always do." And they always get through it, and that's because their message is one the British people want, no matter how much Cameron hates it.

Nigel sits up, pulls his suit a little straighter. God, he could do with a drink. "Well-" He pats Alexandra's elbow. "Let's find out what the bastards have got for us next."

She grins. He grins back. People have tried to stop him before, always, ever since he started this, ever since they saw their jobs, tucked in the pockets of EU officials, hanging in the balance, the price of being able to call their country Great Britain again.

Great Britain. Their country.

It's _their_ country.

And no-one's stopped him yet.

* * *

"Yes, I know what he said." David leans his head back against the seat. "Just keep putting out the same message."

Craig sighs. "I'm starting to think we have the same message every time Farage opens his mouth."

"Yeah, well, it's sort of the same rubbish that comes out every time he opens his mouth." David can hear the flatness of his own voice and he closes his eyes, leaning back against the seat. He's exhausted and drained and he feels as though he's used up all his energy in Liverpool on that one speech. _"It's the foreigners, immigrants are evil, immigrants cause terror attacks_-I mean, that's a variation, I'll give him that-"

"You've got shadows under your eyes" says Graeme sympathetically.

That just makes David picture those shadows under Miliband's eyes, and a pang of sickness twists his stomach again. Last night flickers in his thoughts for a moment, and then he pushes his hands into his eyes, knuckling them like a child.

"Oh, and Ed's phoned-"

So much for not thinking about Miliband.

He looks up. "What, he wants to pick holes in the speech already?" is all he manages, without much enthusiasm. He's not sure if he can feel much enthusiasm for anything at the moment.

He should be happy, for God's sake. It's been a good morning by anyone's standards, from Craig greeting him gleefully with the news that "the weaponizing story's _still_ fucking making the headlines and Miliband can't say anything about it" to George asking him just how many pieces of Miliband someone would have to clean up today.

And he's got what he wanted from Miliband. He'd got an apology.

If he'd thought about it at all, he would have thought it'd be an apology he wanted.

But instead, he just feels...

Craig and Graeme exchange an almost amused look, and then Graeme says "Not Miliband, David. Our Ed."

David blinks. "Oh-of course-"

"Apparently, the DPM wants to speak with you when you get back to London. Briefly-about the ruddy debates again-"

David just groans and closes his eyes.

He can feel his fingers knotting in Miliband's suit, feel Miliband's chest rising and falling against his own.

It makes him feel breathless, and it aches in his chest.

His thoughts travel back to Miliband's big, dark eyes on every heartbeat, as though Miliband's crushed look's a magnet for every stab of something far too much like sadness in his chest.

When he'd got back to Downing Street, Sam had been waiting in her pyjamas, robe wrapped tightly around her.

David had been shaking when he'd managed to climb into the car, but he'd taken a deep breath, trying to calm the surge rising in his chest that was a little like fury.

He'd managed to keep his voice calm, when he'd walked in and Sam had stood up from the couch immediately, her eyes searching for his. He'd just explained, quickly and quietly, that Miliband hadn't thought it was significant and while he hadn't meant to cause any problems, they'd had a bit of an argument, putting it in the simplest, least detailed explanation he could.

(Leaving out his fingers clutching Miliband's suit.)

(Leaving out his eyes lingering on that eyelash on Miliband's cheek.)

Sam had pressed him for more details and, suddenly fighting back a strange, shaky feeling spreading through his whole body, David had repeated what Nancy had told him earlier before he kissed her goodnight, that she'd just asked about Mr Ed Miliband's brother because she thought he might get it, and that Miliband hadn't understood, but he was stressed anyway-

Sam, being Sam, had worked this out for herself, kissing him quickly while he escaped to the bathroom gratefully, to pull on his pyjamas and wish he could just close his eyes and forget the whole thing.

Sam had wrapped her arms around him while he lay with his eyes closed, struggling to drift into sleep. When he'd emerged from the bathroom earlier, he'd found her, still wrapped in a robe, standing in the doorway of Nancy's bedroom, watching their daughter sleep. David had taken in the worried crease in Sam's forehead and felt his chest ache once again.

Now, David isn't entirely sure what he would like, as Graeme answers his phone again, but he knows what he doesn't feel like, and that's a row with his Deputy Prime Minister over TV debates that he already knows he won't be turning up to.

"Shit-"

David opens his eyes. Craig's frozen, staring at Graeme. "What?"

Graeme holds up a hand, phone pressed to his ear. "Shit. Right. Right-"

"What-"

Graeme lowers his phone, covers the screen with his hand, takes a deep breath and says "Paris."

David blinks. "They've caught-"

Graeme shakes his head. There's a grimness settling about his mouth. David feels a weight sink into his chest.

Graeme's eyes close for the briefest moment before he sights, opens them, and meets David's gaze. "They've taken hostages in a kosher shop."

* * *

Nick might be annoyed with David over the TV debates, but he has sense enough to know when there are other priorities.

"It's definitely connected?" he says now, as David's aides scurry around them, the TV screen switched permanently to BBC news.

David gives him an impatient look. "How many other attacks could it be connected to?"

But almost before he's finished speaking, he's shaking his head. "Sorry. This isn't your fault."

"I should hope not or I'd be rather concerned about our security standards." Nick struggles to lighten his tone and gets a brief twitch of a smile from David. Nick doesn't blame him-another glance and grimace at the screen just proves all over again that no amount of jokes can really make a difference at a time like this.

Jonny lets an oath slip out between his teeth as he stares at his phone. "They haven't even fucking caught the first ones yet-"

David rests his head on his hands for a moment, before pushing himself upright with renewed energy. "What was it you needed to discuss, incidentally?"

Nick's already shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. It can wait until this is over-I mean-" Jonny elbows him in the ribs. Nick fights the urge to kick him.

"I was just wondering if there was any chance of you reconsidering your position on the TV debates-but it can wait." Nick glances once again at the screen. "I mean, you've got other things on your mind-"

For a moment, David turns to look at the screen and Nick thinks he's either been distracted or this is his response. But then, David turns back abruptly to face him, and says-with a ghost of a smile-"It's just as well, Nick. I haven't budged an inch."

Nick had expected this, but he still feels the slight tension enter Jonny's shoulders. He swallows. "Nothing we can say will persuade you?" The letter hovers in the back of his mind. "I mean-you know, it might reflect badly on you."

David's looking at the screen again but Nick catches his cheek lifting the tiniest bit in response. "I'm aware. You managed to make that quite clear yesterday."

Despite himself, Nick feels a rush of warmth rise to his cheeks.

David's smile lingers for a moment, before he says "Anyway, I'm not particularly concerned. People can say-as Ed Miliband eloquently puts it-"

Nick frowns. The moment David had said Miliband's name, a strange tension had entered his shoulders. His fingers had curled a little tighter. Nick muses for a breath that he's probably one of the few who would have noticed and strangely, it occurs to him to wonder whether Miliband would.

"That I'm _chickening out-"_ A little of the usual ease has returned to David's voice. "As much as they like." He shrugs a little. "In all honesty, Nick, I'm not really bothered." He turns back to the screen, as though to emphasise the need for perspective.

Nick swallows. He glances at Jonny, who glances back.

"At all? I mean-this could seriously affect voters-"

David sighs and turns round and Nick feels a prickle of something like apprehension run up his spine.

"Nick, I hate to remind you-" David glances up briefly, as if charting the waters, and Nick braces himself.

"But when you and Farage debated last year-" David looks up now-looks him straight in the eye. "Who came off better?"

Nick feels Jonny tense at his side and swears that he sees the hint of a smile steal over Craig's face. He feels more heat rise to his cheeks.

"Now, it wasn't _your _fault." David says the words a little more quickly than usual, before Nick can speak. "TV debates are quite possibly the worst format in existence for tackling those like him. You know-" David waves a hand. "Anti-politics movements. They rely on audiences-you know, trying to get a headline, prove they're on the side of the people, that sort of thing-and they're awful at prolonged, reasoned arguments. More our sort of thing than theirs'."

Nick doesn't miss the way David's hand moves out just slightly, as though bringing him into the circle. He feels a small, rueful smile tug at his mouth and wonders how often David has used these tiny tricks and at what rate of success.

He doesn't let his thoughts wander too near what their rate of success has been on _him._

David sighs. "The thing is, TV debates are rather a gold mine for their sort of parties. Manna from heaven, that kind of thing-"

Nick knows-unfortunately-that that's true. The problem is-as they're pointing out-

_We need debates. We need debates to show how different you are from Cameron._

_But with Farage-_

_But it won't be just Farage. It'll be all of them. A lot of the focus will be on Cameron and Miliband-how they respond. You can look more moderated. If we want to be in coalition after May-_

The rest of the sentence hanging, deliberately unspoken.

_Cameron's the one who has more to lose from the debates than you. _Those words, sharpening, decisive. _Than anyone, really._

Now, David meets Nick's eyes across his desk. "One powerful line-" He holds up a finger. "From the Greens or UKIP-that could sink you _or_ me."

Nick opens his mouth, then pauses, because the fact is, that's right, too.

They'd been working on the basis that the Greens would attack Miliband, but on the other hand-

Nick can see the moment David spots his advantage. "The debates can only help Farage, Miliband and the others." He shrugs. "I have to be hardnosed about this." He leans back in the chair, turning back to the screen. "I will get a bit of criticism-"

He flashes Nick a quick grin. (The Cameron grin again.) "But I can live with that."

The words are light, charming. They alone could fool you.

Cameron could fool you.

Or at least the Cameron words and the Cameron smile and the Cameron-

But then that's _Cameron-_

And that's not David. Or at least, not _just_ David-

Is it?

Nick's mouth opens-to ask what, he isn't sure-but right then, Wilson approaches Cameron's side. "Prime Minister-it's-"

David nods, and reaches for the phone, and Nick knows it's the moment to leave. He touches David's arm briefly. "Thanks for the time."

David nods, and for a moment, their eyes linger on each other. Nick swallows and wonders if, another, more peaceful time, he might try again.

But today, he nods and David touches his arm, just slightly. And then he heads for the door with the stab of frustration only sharp in his chest for a moment, before there's another buzz of his phone and, glancing down, Wilson's remark of "Anyone know where George has got to?" only vaguely registering, sees the word _hostages_ and is reminded all too well that sometimes, there are headlines that will last, that will matter. That will mar and rip people's lives into God knows how many pieces, scraps that may be collected, gathered into something resembling order over the years, but never quite back together.

And that, no matter what it feels like to him, TV debates will not be one of them.

* * *

Ed isn't sure how long he hasn't been doing anything. He'll work for a few minutes, tabling amendments, occasionally calling advisers in, listening, nodding.

And then he'll just lapse.

He'll find himself staring into space and shake his head, wondering what the hell happened to his thoughts. Sometimes he'll find himself holding onto fragments of a previous conversation; Tom's words _We'll need to talk about the kids soon, how we're going to get them involved_, and something wriggles uncomfortably in Ed's chest at the thought that they've somehow, without even discussing it, decided that the boys are going to be filmed, going to be involved.

It sharpens the discomfort in his chest to think that he already knows Justine will agree.

And then he'll think of the word _weaponizing_ and how Alastair will react and how it's still all the headlines and how the hell Marr's going to use it on Sunday-

And underneath it, he keeps feeling and thinking and breathing in last night, and it aches in his chest.

He can still see Cameron's mouth, twisted in disgust as he spat out the words. His hands digging into Ed's shirt.

The tips of his fingers had been almost brushing his wrist-

And the fury that had flared, bright and sharp, as Cameron's words about _what children are good for_ and now he feels it again but a squeeze of guilt at the thought of Tom's words and Daniel and Sam's little faces.

And that-that-

That feeling of Cameron dragging him closer and Ed had just wanted to-

To-

_Smack_ him, or-

Just get his hands-

Get his hands on Cameron's face-

And pull him-

Pull him closer and just-

Ed doesn't know.

But a drumbeat has been there in the back of his mind ever since he'd fallen into the spare room bed last night, pressing his face into the pillow (it hadn't even occurred to him to check if Justine was home), trying not to see Cameron's face in front of his eyes, wrenched and torn and desperate-the drumbeat of why the hell he hadn't given more thought to what Nancy had told him in November.

And now she's sick.

She's sick and it's partly Ed's _fault,_ or at least that's what _Cameron _thinks-

It's then that Ed becomes aware of a clamour of noise in the corridor, precisely a second before the door is flung open.

"We _told _you" Anna is saying, her voice high and indignant, and Osborne's standing in the doorway, staring at him with a face like thunder.

"We need to talk" he says, shaking Anna's hand off his arm without even looking at her.

_"Excuse_ me-" Ed can hear Rachel's strident tones from the hallway, and for a moment he thinks about throwing his head down onto the desk.

Osborne doesn't even turn round. "Yes, _excuse you."_

With that, he promptly closes the door in Rachel's face.

Ed stares at him, scrambling upright and round the desk. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Osborne just snorts. "Don't try and take the fucking moral high ground."

Ed blinks. Osborne's eyes are dark and glinting, his jaw tight. It's the same look Ed's only seen on Osborne a few times, and one of them was in the dying days of summer nearly two years ago, after the vote on Syria, when Osborne had thrown his office door open and stormed up to Ed-almost pinning him against the wall-and spat out through gritted teeth,_ Do you know what you've fucking done?_

Ed opens his mouth and that's when Osborne says "This is about Nancy."

Ed feels a heaviness sink into his chest and then a flare of alarm or something like t-

"Nancy-" And he's scrambling up from his desk. "What's happened to her?"

Osborne's lip curls. "As if you care."

Ed's fingers curl around his desk. "What's _happened _to her?"

Osborne glares at him. "Nothing since David met with you. But we wouldn't be asking these questions if it weren't for you."

Ed's own temper rises at that. "That ith-isn't fair-"

Osborne moves so quickly, Ed jumps back, so he's leaning against his desk.

"Don't talk about _fair."_ Osborne almost spits out the words. "He's the one finding her crying her eyes out at two in the morning, don't tell me what's fucking _fair,_ Miliband."

Ed feels the guilt sink, heavy into his stomach. "I didn't mean to-"

"Well, that's no surprise. You don't mean to do a lot of things-"

It's at that moment the door opens, and Rachel's and James' heads appears side by side. "Ed, we didn't authorise this-" Rachel's already saying, while James glares at Osborne. Osborne, unmoved, simply glares back.

"It's-" Ed holds out a hand because Osborne's glaring at him and all of them, and he can still hear Anna squawking indignantly in the hallway, and he can still see the way Cameron looked at him last night-

Just _looked_ at him like-

Not even like Ed was _nothing_, like he was-

Like Cameron had thought he was _more_ than-

Rachel's folding her arms and something about the sight sends a stab of irritation through Ed and when Rachel flicks her hair, folds her arms and says, words sharp and rounded with indignation, "You'd be advised to leave now-" Ed hears his own voice, cracking around the words "For God's sake, I can _handle_ him."

It isn't until everyone turns to stare at him that Ed realises his voice has risen to almost a shout. In the corridor, even Anna's squawking has abruptly ceased.

It's Rachel who breaks the silence. "Right. We'll leave you to it, then."

Ed thinks briefly about calling her and James back, but only briefly. He'll apologise to them later, he decides, gaze flickering to Osborne, the moment the door's closed behind them.

The fact Osborne doesn't look even vaguely amused is a sign of how serious things are.

"L-look-" It suddenly seems important that he tell Osborne this, that Osborne knows-

He wants Cameron to know, but he knows without even trying that Cameron won't speak to him.

The thought puts a lump in his throat that shouldn't be there.

"I didn't mean to upth-upset Nancy-you've got to know I didn't, honeth-stly-""

The lisp is going haywire. The whole thing is his worst nightmare.

"Honeth-stly-I meant to tell Cameron and then I wasn't sure-"

"Sure if what?"

Ed blinks. "If-she'd want me to-"

Osborne snorts. "With kids, it isn't always about what they _want._ We need to know when they're upset. To _protect_ them."

Ed nods fiercely, because "I _know._ I just-"

"Just what?"

Osborne's gaze meets his, dark and challenging. His eyes hold Ed's.

Ed swallows, feeling the heat rise shamefully to his cheeks. His throat feels swollen with the words.

"I forgot." His voice sounds small and sad.

Osborne stares at him. "You _forgot?"_ He almost spits the word out.

"Well-not _forgot-"_ Ed's stammering a little over the words, the urge rising up to justify, to explain-

"I-I did mean to th-say-th-somethin-but it kept slipping my mind-and then I juth-just presumed-"

"You just presumed what?"

Ed swallows, already knowing how pathetic the words will sound.

"I just presumed she'd forgotten about it" he mumbles.

"She'd_ forgotten_ about it?" The disbelief in George's voice is too genuine. "You just hoped she'd _forgotten _about it?"

"N-not hoped-" Ed stutters over the words. "It's just-children f-forget things quickly, they m-move on-" His voice trails off.

Osborne's eyebrow merely arches. "Do they?" is all he says, so quietly it's almost a whisper.

Ed swallows hard, an uncomfortable feeling murmuring in his chest, clawing its' way higher.

_Do they?_

_Do they?_

Ed has always thought they do.

Or he's always thought he _thinks _they do.

But maybe-

_You don't care._

Maybe he-

Osborne shakes his head suddenly, as though pulling himself out of his thoughts. "So you just-went on with things? While she-"

"I didn't _mean_ it." It comes out like a splutter. "I didn't mean it-to _hurt_ her-I wouldn't-"

"But you did." And Osborne's eyes are glinting furiously, and suddenly, he's closer, and Ed takes an automatic step back. "You hurt her."

It's not like when Cameron came close to him. Because somehow his hands had ended up in Cameron's sleeves. And he'd been staring at Cameron and Cameron had smelt so _good, _even when he'd been hissing at him.

And now Osborne's there, his eyes colder and his lips taut, and then Ed's saying "I didn't mean to-you can't think I meant to do anything to her."

Osborne doesn't say anything and Ed feels his stomach drop. _"He_ can't think I meant to do a-anything-" The words come out astonishingly shaky, and it infuriates him-that and the fact he doesn't want Cameron to think that-

He can barely think about Cameron without an ache in his chest and he almost spits out the words, because Osborne's there, and it's too much, all of it, it's just-

"Just-leave me alone-" And he almost throws the words back at Osborne, takes a step forward but Osborne doesn't step back. "It's none of your fucking business-she's not even _your_ daughter-"

_"She's_ _as good as."_ The fierceness in Osborne's voice makes Ed's head fly up. It's him who takes a step back and it's Osborne's eyes that are burning with something like-

Loyalty.

Something like-

Like-

Whatever it is, it makes Ed look away, with something aching in his chest. Something like loneliness.

He looks away and he suddenly feels tired and defeated and furious and just-

It's something like sad.

It's sad.

He's sad.

"I told Cameron" he says, and he doesn't even bother to try to look at Osborne this time. "I told him." He takes a deep breath. "Tell him if he wants to talk to me, to do it himth-self-"

"He didn't send me." For the first time, Osborne's mouth twitches in something like a smile.

Ed's head snaps up to meet Osborne's eyes. "What did he tell you happened?"

His heart is strangely rapid, suddenly. His mouth is too dry. All he can think of is that moment when they were dragging at each other.

"That you two had it out. Back in Portcullis House, he said." Osborne's lip twitches, again. "He told me you apologised, but-_who knows if he meant it?_ I think that's what he asked."

Ed feels himself glare like a child. "I _did_ mean it."

Osborne just looks back at him. "It's not me you have to convince."

"Well, apparently it _is."_ Ed knows he sounds like a child. For a moment, he wishes he was one. "Why are you here, otherwise?"

Osborne, to his credit, doesn't look away. "Because I care about Nancy. Even if you don't-"

"I _care _about her-" The words are ripped out of Ed's throat, and the indignation braided into them shocks them both.

Osborne, however, doesn't take long to recover himself. "Why would you care about her?"

The question is so simple that, for a moment, Ed's sure he hasn't heard correctly. "What?"

Osborne doesn't look away. "Why would you care about her welfare? What's Nancy to you?"

Ed can barely speak for a moment. _"What?" _The words are almost a shout. "Why do I _care _about her?"

Osborne's just standing there, looking at him, and Ed, his mind reeling with so many answers he almost can't speak-

"I care-because-because-of _courthe_ I care about her-" He can't even dwell on the lisp, still stammering through the words, through the fact Osborne would think he doesn't care about her-

He sees Nancy, head falling against his shoulder. _Mr. Ed Miliband, I'm tired._

He feels Flo wriggling onto his knee, pressing her lips to his cheek in a fierce, childish kiss.

"Of course I care about-I care about_ them_-I care about _hi-"_

He snaps his mouth shut, even before he realises what he almost said.

Osborne doesn't move. His expression doesn't change. But everything about him stills, just for a moment.

Ed feels all the heat rush to his cheeks. It's as though the heat's been sucked from the rest of his body, because he shivers.

Osborne's just _looking_ at him-

Ed so badly wants to ask what he's thinking, but he can't, he-

He_ needs_ to know, it's like a crawling under his skin-

Osborne blinks suddenly, and then, with a slight tilt of the head and a small smile, simply says "Oh."

Ed blinks, not sure whether to be infuriated or relieved, or a mixture of the two.

There's a smile playing at Osborne's mouth-the slightest flicker of a smile.

"Well" is all he says, as though he and Ed have decided something, somehow, and turns towards the door.

Ed knows he shouldn't ask it, but he does, anyway.

"Well what?"

For a moment, Osborne just stops and stands with his back to Ed, very still. Then, slowly, he turns.

He watches Ed for a long moment, head on one side.

"I think" he says, slowly. "You might want to phone David."

Ed blinks, because he's already apologised and-

"You know-" and Osborne cocks his head to the side a little as he speaks. "He's never particularly happy when you can't come to a satisfactory conclusion in a fight."

With that, his mouth quirks a little, and then he says "Sorry to disturb you."

And with that, he opens the door, gives Ed something resembling a smile, and leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Ed just stands there, one hand braced on his desk, staring after him.

The door flies open a second later, and Rachel appears with Anna at her side, both of their hair a little dishevelled. "What was that about?"

_He's never particularly happy-_

Ed looks down for a moment to compose himself.

Is Cameron-

_In a fight._

Does that mean Cameron's _dwelling_ on it-

"Ed?"

Ed looks at his shoes for another minute. Keep calm. Keep unruffled.

_Stay in control._

_I think you should call David._

He stares at his feet for another moment, Osborne's words ringing so loudly he already knows he won't be able to ignore them. Then, slowly, he raises his head and faces Rachel and Anna to dredge up for them something resembling an answer.

* * *

Nancy knows what Mum's going to say, before she says it, so she stops her.

"S'OK." She nestles against her mother, her arms wrapping tight around her knees. "I know Dad can't to go out tonight."

Mum looks at her, as they sit curled up in front of the TV. "I'm sorry, Nance."

Nancy shakes her head and huddles into her mother as they watch the screen together. "S'fine. It's not like Mr Ed Miliband and his kids."

"Yeah, I meant to ask-" Mum kisses her head and wraps an arm tighter around her. "What was all that about? I meant to ask when Dad was telling me."

"Oh-" Nancy's not daft. She knows Mum doesn't want her looking too much at the TV screen. But, it reminds her.

"Yeah, Flo was saying Daniel kicked off when they went to give Mr. Ed Miliband his present on Christmas Eve-"

"Yeah, Dad mentioned he had a bit of a tantrum-"

"Flo said he started screaming that Mr Ed Miliband and his wife are never at home and that they make him and Sam eat in the basement." Nancy pauses. "She was telling me while she was singing "Do You Want To Build A Snowman?", though."

Mum frowns. "God, that's horrible." Seeing Nancy's look, she blinks. "Not Flo's singing."

"That too."

Mum nudges her.

"Yeah." Nancy leans against her. "Imagine if we made Gita live in the basement. She'd kill us all once she broke out."

"Oi." Nancy almost jumps out of her skin when Gita pops her head over the back of the couch.

"Though Nance has a point." Mum gives Gita a grin and pats the space next to them. Gita takes her seat, wincing at the TV and giving Nancy a quick squeeze around the shoulders. "You'd be more than capable."

"You learn a lot in Nepal."

"But yeah. That's where their nanny lives in the basement." Nancy reaches for her glass of fruit juice. "And they have to stay down there. They don't see their mum and dad most days."

Mum shivers. "God. Poor little things-"

"I know I should feel bad, but Flo let Sam go through my room while they were here."

Mum taps Nancy's arm reprovingly and Nancy huddles up between them, her eyes on the screen.

"Do you think they'll get them out?" she asks quietly, and Mum's smile fades, her hand squeezing Nancy's gently.

"They're trying, Nance."

Gita makes the sign of the cross. Nancy wriggles. But Mum said to ask if she needed to know anything-

"Is Dad going to be OK? If he goes to France?"

Mum squeezes her gently. "Of course. We were thinking, when Daddy phoned earlier, that he's going to stay here tomorrow while we go to Granny's just to go over things with Uncle Ed L, and then they could go together on Sunday. And you know that Daddy will have all his protection team."

Nancy nods. She knows, but-

"And he'll be staying somewhere safe-" Mum says, kissing her head. "So there'll be more protection teams there, too."

Nancy feels a little better, but wriggles a little closer. Mum kisses her head and so does Gita.

"I'll have to move in ten minutes" Gita says, with a glance at her watch. "Get El and Flo-"

Nancy looks at Mum. "It's OK" she says, testing the words out carefully. "Gita can stay with me. You can get El and Flo, Mum-"

Mum turns to look at her carefully. "Are you sure, Nance?"

Nancy nods. "Gita'll be here."

Gita places a hand over her heart. "I guard her with my life. And one of those guards' guns, if I get my hands on one."

Nancy glances at the screen, and Gita winces. "Sorry. Bad timing."

Mum rolls her eyes, but squeezes Nancy's hand. "If you're sure-"

"Yeah. Flo likes you getting her on Fridays, she likes to tell you about Buddy Reading. And you know-" Nancy glances at the screen. "If they've said anything about it at school, you know. Flo might not get it."

Mum bites her lip. "Only if you're sure, Nance."

Nancy nods. "She'll end up sleeping in my bed tonight, anyway."

Mum laughs and gives her a squeeze. Gita kisses her head. Nancy stares at the screen and as Gita makes another sign of the cross, Nancy thinks about Dad and how he's going to go and help, and she folds her arms tightly around her knees, she wants to hug him so badly.

* * *

The hostages are freed after 5pm.

Four of them don't come out.

The shooters are dead. All the shooters are dead.

So are too many others.

David watches silently, with the others around him. Ed wraps his arms around himself and closes his eyes briefly. Chris just puts a hand on David's arm and squeezes once.

Craig is dealing with the phones. Graeme bows his head for a few moments, lips moving silently, as if in prayer.

There's a brief couple of minutes where the phones don't ring. Where Philip inclines his head. Where Theresa withdraws something that looks like a cross and closes her hand around it for a few moments.

David tries not to see his children again, blood and tears staining their faces.

It's Theresa who says, after a moment of silence, "What do we need to do?"

It is the simplest question but the one nobody else wanted to ask.

It's also the one they need to answer.

It's much later that David walks into the flat and when he sees the kids, all he can say is "I'm sorry."

Flo just throws herself at him and hugs him tight round the knees. David wonders if any of the hostages had daughters.

He lifts her and carries her to the couch, his eyes immediately roaming to Nancy and Elwen, nestled into Sam's arms.Sam just leans over and squeezes his hand. David meets Nancy's eyes, past Sam's shoulder.

"Nance?"

Nancy reaches past Sam and threads her fingers gently between his. Elwen nestles into his chest.

He wonders if they've identified them yet. If their kids are waiting for them. When they'll get told.

Sam pulls her arms around them, so they can huddle together, the five of them, with his and Sam's arms tight around the children, keeping them safe.

* * *

Sam always makes it her business to check when David's going away.

Dave cooks and cleans and even does the ironing on occasion, but there are some areas where he is, if not hopeless, certainly less able than she is. One is DIY, and another is packing.

And while she helps him pack, they talk.

_Toothbrush?_

"Nance looks better."

"I think she'll be all right to go back on Monday."

"She seems happier." Dave's jaw tenses, and Sam squeezes his arm. "It'll be good for her to have a weekend with Mum, get her out of London. Emily'll be there too."

_Flannels?_

"It _is_ the British residence, not a Travelodge-"

"You should always be prepared. Remember that time in Morocco?"

"God, yeah."

Sam watches the way his jaw tenses again, and she nudges her chin over his shoulder. They hold each other like that for a few moments, and she says, without needing to look at him "You be careful."

He kisses her without needing to answer.

_Both your phones?_

"Have you spoken to Ed Miliband since last night?"

She thinks she sees David still for a moment.

Then she knows she's seen David still for a moment.

"Why would I speak to him again?" David resumes packing with a slightly increased vigour. "We said all we had to say to each other last night."

Sam snorts.

She'd practically accosted David at the door the previous evening, she has to admit-"Did you read him the riot act? What did you say?"-and then she'd taken in the look.

Just-the look on Dave's face.

If eyes could ache, his were.

He'd looked _crushed._

He looked as though the fighting had pulled something out of him. _Drained _him.

She'd hugged him, made him a cup of tea, and the words had been a little more halting than before, but still clear. Still _Dave's._

"It was a misunderstanding. That's what he said." Dave had stared over his tea as he said the next words. "He said he _forgot."_ There was a horrible stress on the last word.

Sam had stared at him. "He _forgot?"_

"That's his story. But I just-lost it with him. Like we always end up doing." These last words were just breathed, as though they were just for himself.

Sam had squeezed his shoulder. "He deserved it" she'd said firmly, but already, some of the fire had been cooling a little.

If this was entirely the right thing, for him and for Nancy, David would have been looking triumphant.

But he'd looked-

"He asked me if that was really what I thought of him."

Sam had lifted her head. "What?"

David had spoken only a little louder, staring at his tea. "He asked me if that's what I really thought of him. Miliband-" He'd shaken his head. "It doesn't matter, Sam."

Sam knows when David will talk and when he won't, but then, looking at him, she'd suddenly been reminded of two years ago, after the Syria vote, when David had sat here, with George's hand on his arm, and said _I thought better of him._

_Miliband?_ George had almost spat out the name. Sam had felt like doing the same, or worse.

But David had just shaken his head. Stared straight in front of him, like last night. _I thought fucking better of him._

Last night, Sam had watched him and thought that this time, the look on his face had been worse.

Now, Sam's looking at him and she watches the way David's staring too hard at the case.

If Nancy had been happy today, Sam might not have asked. But when she'd asked her daughter, brushing her hair, if it was true, that Dad had mentioned that Mr. Miliband had been talking to her, and Nancy had shrugged. "Oh, yeah. Way back at Bonfire Night."

She hadn't seemed troubled, and Sam, watching her daughter carefully throughout the day, had observed a slight lightening of her mood.

Maybe that makes her more careful as she says, when David gives her a questioning look, "You just seem....unhappy about it."

David's head jerks up a little too fast, which tells Sam her hunch is right. "I'm not. He just....he needed me to deal with him."

Sam looks at him long and hard, and after a moment, Dave meets her gaze. "What?"

Sam doesn't look away. "Do you miss him?"

She knows she's said the right words when David laughs too quickly. "It's been less than a _day-"_

He closes the suitcase over and sits down on the bed next to her. Sam raises an eyebrow.

"Why would I miss him?" is Dave's only answer and Sam has to bite back a grin.

Another memory is suddenly there, a little too clear-sitting next to Dave at some event, and her eye being caught by Dave's sudden movement. She'd caught a quick glimpse of his grin before he'd been turned away from her, waving, and she'd had to turn away to hide her own grin.

Miliband had been waving back at him across the aisle, both of their eyes meeting, smiles dancing about their mouths that had been-

Almost shy.

Almost awkward.

Something about that look lingers on Sam's mind and, taking Dave in, even though his expression now is completely different, something about it-

Something's similar.

Sam's grown up learning to read people. She and Emily-and later, the others too-were never made to stay upstairs when Mum and William and Dad and Vic were holding dinner parties. And Mum would never be the type to put up with any sign of rumours without pointing it out quickly to Sam and the others. "Don't ever think that is how you get ahead" she'd tell Sam, pressing kisses into her hair. "Spreading rumours and having people pretend to be things they're not is not the way you get ahead in society-or life, for that matter."

_Listening._ Granny used to tap a finger to her ear. _The way to make friends-_she'd glanced around quickly at the table then. _Real friends-is by listening. And being interested._

Sam had learnt that. And she'd made sure to do it, even at school, when the other girls had traded rumours and whispers like they'd once traded sweets and daisy chains. She'd learnt to listen and by that she sometimes thought she knew more than she realised or wanted.

But if knowing could help people, then Sam was willing to do it.

And she knows David better than anyone.

So now, she looks at David and says "Because you like him" very simply.

David stops dead for a moment, then turns to look at her. "What do you mean?"

Sam picks up her phone. "The dictionary definition of_ like_ is to find agreeable, enjoyable or satisfactory-"

"That's amusing-"

"To be fond of, to be attached to, to have a soft spot for-"

David almost chokes. "I don't know about the rest, but I don't have any kind of _soft spot_ for _Miliband_, I can promise you_ that."_

Sam lets a hint of mischief creep into her voice. "So you're not sure whether or not you have a fondness for him, or find him enjoyable or satisfactory?"

David rolls his eyes, but Sam sees a hint of colour rise to his cheeks.

"You miss him" she says, more simply and the way Dave's shoulders stiffen only tell her how true the words are.

He turns to look at her and pauses for barely a moment before he says "That's got nothing to do with having a soft spot for him."

Sam moves closer to Dave and touches his hand. "So that's a possibility as well?" This time, there's no teasing in her voice.

David's head snaps up. Sam frowns. "You two are friendly" she says. "Even if you're not friends."

David's eyes meet his. "It's not that I'm not friends with him-" His voice trails off , as if not quite sure what he's just said. His fingers wrap around Sam's, warm and strong. "Well, it's not that I'm _friends-"_ He sighs, rests his head on one hand. "This is just-"

He shakes his head, summons up a smile. Sam can always tell. She wonders how many people can.

"It'll all be fine."

Sam waits a moment, then says "Maybe after Paris-you should talk to him. Talk to him when you're both calmer."

David's lips compress for a moment-a sure sign he's considering something even if he doesn't want to.

He lapses into silence for a moment and Sam squeezes his hand.

It's another thing she remembers, then. Bonfire Night, when David had touched Miliband's arm for a moment, before they bent to help Flo and Sam lift their sparklers into the air. A touch that Sam had thought, just for a moment, looked as if neither of them were quite sure they were doing it. Or quite aware.

They'd reminded her, for a moment, of her and David when they'd first helped Nancy lift a tiny sparkler into the air, her hand wrapped carefully around Ivan's.

Sam looks at David, but David's fingers tighten around her own.

Sam knows when Dave will talk about something. Right now, she just holds his hand and waits, their fingers wrapping around each other, as she feels David thinking, his head leaning against hers', Miliband's name hovering between them.

* * *

George rings, because George always rings. Sam and the kids have been at her mother's for nearly a day and so David answers too quickly.

"Who are you flying with?"

"Ed."

There's a spluttering sound from Tatton. "Miliband?"

An ache rises annoyingly in David's chest at the name.

"No, _not_ Miliband. Our Ed."

"Oh." George falls silent for a moment, and David knows-the way he can know with George-that there's more to the question. "Have you-spoken to him at all?"

David feels his brow furrow and at the same moment, Miliband's name seems to contract sharply in his chest. "Sam asked me that."

"Not just me, then." George's voice is quieter for a moment, so these words almost get lost. "Have you?"

"No, of course not." It should be easier to say it. It should be far easier.

David glances around, pulls himself a little further into his chair. He's alone in the flat, Ed-their Ed, watching him over his laptop. He doesn't bother to pretend not to be and instead, flashes David a grin, which David returns, albeit a little reluctantly.

"Why of course not?" George's voice jerks David back into the conversation with a jolt.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"What I just said. We're not going to start doing fucking Steve-speak, are we-you flying up there to start analysing the chemical contents of clouds or something-"

"Hilarious, Steve's in fucking California, probably trying to patent some design that allows us to-I don't know, predict election results through the colouration of the rings around a lemur's eyes, or something-"

"Not as good. Mine was one he actually wanted to do, remember-plus, lemurs have one ring around their eyes-"

"Why would I have spoken to bloody Miliband?"

"Because I have."

David almost drops the phone. "When the hell were you going to tell me that?"

"I thought he would have. You know. In one of your little tete-a-tetes, as Boris would say-"

"A, that is _not_ what Boris would say-" David's barely aware that he's pulling himself upright. "Because _Boris_ would manage to create some sort of-some sort of bloody lexicological labyrinth of Latin verbs and then manage to get himself lost in it-b, tete-a-tetes is _your _term, and c, no of course I didn't. The last time I saw him-"

The words catch in his throat as he feels the fabric of Miliband's shirt between his fingers again.

"We weren't exactly amiable" he settles on eventually.

George snorts. "Well, _we_ weren't exactly amiable. But he wanted to speak to you."

"He told you that?" Something leaps a little in David's chest. It's horribly like hope.

"Not in those words." George's voice is carefully casual-too casual to fool David. "But it was-pretty obvious, given the way he was acting. Face like a wet weekend in Sheffield."

"Don't say that in front of Nick-"

"Again. I know."

"So-" David waits for a moment. "What happened? Why did you go? What did he-"

_Say_, is what he thinks he wants to ask, what he should want to ask, if he's asking anything at all. But even as he asks, other words jostle in the air before his mouth snaps shut, closing them out.

Look like? Seem like? Do? Feel-

"Mainly just to see whether Sam's got a job as a grave-digger lined up after May."

"Hilarious-"

"No, seriously-because I was annoyed. And apparently, he was sitting there, pining away."

Something jumps in his chest, as though David's suddenly dropped a couple of floors.

"Pining?"

"Well. Sitting there at his desk, moping-hadn't spoken much all day, Balls mentioned-shadows under his eyes-just one shadow each, see, like lemurs only have one-"

"George, I do not think I have ever cared less about fucking lemurs in my life. If one was in front of me now, I'd sit on it."

There's a pause, then, "Actually, it seems you might find that quite difficult-"

_"I swear to Christ, if you're googling the defence habits of lemurs right now-"_

_Were you too hard on him?,_ and really, that should be the furthest thing from David's mind, right now.

(Though, really, so should lemurs.)

"I'll wait for the impact of your telekinesis to reach me-" George is drawling, which makes David feel an odd rush of relief. "And anyway, he just seemed-"

And abruptly, George's voice is louder, clearer, the teasing edge gone. "He just seemed sad, David."

David stops dead where he now realises he's been pacing without noticing. "Sad?"

"Yes. Really-sad."

Something swells in David's chest. Something far too much like-

He thinks of the shadows under Nancy's eyes and hardens his voice a little more than he needs to. "Good. He should be."

There's a silence, then "That is perhaps the worst attempt you've made at a lie since you told Steve that the clouds thing was a good idea. And I'm including the time you told Boris that Lynton would give him a kangaroo one day."

David rolls his eyes, but he can feel that ache again in his chest, and it's then that George says, almost off-handedly, "Oh, and he said he cared about you."

David splutters furiously. "Wh-" He glances around at Ed, who is openly staring at him over his laptop, a smile twitching at his mouth.

David turns his back. "He said he-ah-cared-"

"About you. Yes-"

David scowls, picturing the smirk on George's face. "Well. He. Ah-" What the hell's he supposed to say? Tell him thanks?"

"That's-ah-" David doesn't fumble. He never fumbles.

"I just thought you might like to know. When you speak to him."

"And who says I'm going to do that?"

"You." George sounds remarkably unruffled. "Both of you. You're moping, and Miliband looks like a really sleep-deprived panda." George sighs. "Frances hated that metaphor."

"She would, it's a fucking simile-" David turns, lowering his voice. "And who told you I'm moping?"

"Your face." George still sounds happily unruffled. "It tells me lots of things, your face-it's very informative. It tells me when you're trying to ignore me, it tells me when you're-"

_"George."_

"Anyway. I thought you might like to know." George sounds suspiciously chirpy. "What with Paris and everything. Sort of a time for sorting things out. I mean, even if you don't care about him-"

"And when did I say I don't care about him?"

David curses himself the second the words are out of his mouth.

There's a long silence. Then, sounding far too carefully unsurprised, George says "Well. Either way. I suppose given the way things are-I just thought he might have spoken to you-"

"Well, he hasn't." The words don't come out as shortly as they're intended. In fact, they come out a little shorter than they should.

There's another silence before George says, a lot softer now, "Up to you, I suppose."

"George." It comes out, just the name. David isn't sure why. It comes out like a question. Like a child calling out for a parent just to make sure they're still there.

David turns away again. He can feel Ed's gaze resting on his back. He can hear George's breathing on the other end, a sound almost as familiar to him as his own.

"Yes?" George's voice is low, careful.

David swallows, then squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He sees Miliband's face again, eyes far too wide and dark. His voice, smaller and more quavering than David's used to. _I'm going to go now._

When he speaks, his own voice is lower. "Don't talk about lemurs in front of Lynton. That'll be the next toy that ends up on your desk."

There's a moment before he hears George's laughter, a little louder now. He feels himself smile, something like comfort seeping into his chest.

He shouldn't really need it as much as he does.

* * *

It's a little later, finalising arrangements, that Ed closes his laptop over, turns to look at David and says "Miss him, don't you?"

David feels himself tense a little, but keeps his voice light. "Who, George? I _have_ just spoken to him-"

Ed just raises an eyebrow. "You know who I mean."

David rolls his eyes.

He's known Ed-and it's downright irritating that he now has to think of him as_ this_ Ed-since the '90s, when they were both in the back rooms. This Ed is one of the people David doesn't even remember meeting properly-he's just been there, a face next to David's own, to look at and grin with an elbow, ever since those days working for Lamont, sweating out speeches for Major.

One of his first real memories of Ed is piling out of Alan's house with him, as dawn broke and Major waited to walk back into Downing Street, and them spinning round in Smith Square, the chant "Five more years" filling the air, thrown like a bomb at the Labour headquarters, and Ed's arms thrown around his shoulders as they spun around in the grey light of the dawn, laughing.

Now, Ed's looking at him, head tilted to the side with a grin. "I know you're furious with him."

David is, but-

There's something heavy and solid and sad in his chest. Something that's leaving his head resting against his hand, his smiles a little more of an effort.

(They're so rarely an effort around Miliband, which he doesn't need to remember right now.)

"Maybe you should ring him."

David lifts his face and turns to look at Ed. _"He's_ the one who bloody-"

"I know" Ed says reasonably, now playing on his phone. "But he probably thinks you're furious at him."

"I am."

"Hence him not calling." Ed glances up at him quickly over his phone. "I mean, it can't go on like this forever."

"Not forever. Just-"

Just until David feels less of the solid weight in his chest, less of the nausea in his stomach when he thinks about Miliband keeping things, things about his own_ daughter_, from him.

But it's not making any difference.

"It's not. Political. It's-" David gets up, wanders over to the window. "He didn't _tell_ me."

It's a moment before he hears Ed's footsteps and feels his hand on his shoulder.

And for one strange moment, David thinks it's Miliband's, even though the fingers aren't long enough and the hand's too certain of itself, and-

He turns round a little too quickly.

"I know" is all Ed says, looking wonderfully familiar, in a way that fills David with some kind of horrible relief. "And usually, I suppose you wouldn't, but it's you two and-well-"

"Well what?"

Ed grimaces and gestures at the window. "Where we're going tomorrow."

_Why we're going,_ he doesn't say, but David hears.

He stares out of the window, not taking in the view. He thinks of those phones in those pockets in that office.

Those phones. Ringing for those people who are never going to answer again.

David doesn't look at Ed, but Ed's hand squeezes his shoulder anyway, and David hears the first part of the sentence again. _It's you two..._

What does that mean?

He doesn't wonder why he doesn't ask, and instead, he stares out of the window, over the Downing Street gardens.

He doesn't try to or not to think about Miliband and maybe that's what makes it all the more obvious that he's thinking about him.

For a moment, he pictures Miliband sitting next to him, that stroppy, indignant little look he always gets when David doesn't do what he wants, or that awkward little grin, dimpling one of his cheeks, that's made all the nicer to watch when Miliband isn't thinking about how awkward it is-

When Miliband isn't _thinking. _That's a good time. When Miliband crumples into laughter and his eyes don't flinch away from David's. When he can meet David's eyes over a desk, Jaffa Cake crumbling between his fingers and not have to speak. When Miliband's not thinking about how much he _hates_ David and everything he stands for.

Miliband would probably say David doesn't think enough. _Are you familiar with the concept of conth-consideration, Prime Minister?_

(Of course he'd end up lisping it.)

_This enough for you?_ he thinks in Miliband's direction, grumpily, and only then realises that he is, in fact, thinking and _thinking_ about Miliband. And he can't seem to stop.

That knot aches tighter in his chest. He grimaces, and, aware of Ed's gaze, presses his forehead firmly against the cool of the glass, staring out over the garden, into the winter night creeping grey-black over the sky.

_Miss him, don't you?_

* * *

He knows when he's getting ready for the call with Hollande that he's going to call him.

He knows when he sees the images of the faces on the news. They're pale, drawn. Some stare at the spots where flowers are laid. Others' gazes dart about, as if waiting for an explosion, a grabbing of sound. A disturbance.

Some children have flowers, he thinks he sees.

He thinks he sees, but that's what David notices most, the children with flowers.

That ache is back in his chest and he wonders how many of those who lay with their phones still ringing had someone who could have answered sooner.

He knows he's going to call him, even if he doesn't let himself think of it.

He doesn't have to rehearse how to greet Hollande. He doesn't have to force the words.

He knows he won't have to force the hand on the arm tomorrow when they walk inside the Elysee and Hollande stops being Hollande and just becomes Francois.

"This is the least I could do" he says when Hollande thanks him for agreeing to come and he's not pretending.

His conversation with Hollande is short-there'll be more conversation later in a conference call, and it's after that that David excuses himself briefly and heads to the bedroom, a room that always seems bigger and emptier when one of them isn't there.

He's not pretending in the slightest.

He sits on the edge of the bed and tries to stare out of the window. He picks up his phone and puts it down again.

This is ridiculous.

He scrolls through to the number, then exhales, leaning forward, resting his head on his hands.

He's exhausted and drained and he needs to rest before dinner and it's too much, and he's furious with Miliband, he _is,_ but-

But.

He hovers over the number three times. It feels longer than two days since he heard Miliband's voice.

It shouldn't feel so long.

But-

He feels vaguely sick, and for a moment, he buries his face in his hands. His fingers tremble a little.

He thinks of Francois' voice and George's words and this constant niggling _Miss him, don't you?_ in his chest.

He presses the number.

Miliband won't answer, he thinks.

One ring. Two.

David finds himself pressing his fist against his mouth.

He won't answer. His knuckles press into his teeth.

He won't.

Another ring.

Miliband answers.

"Hello?"

David has to stop for a moment. He stops, pressing his fist tighter to his mouth. He has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment at the voice, nasal and familiar and God, it's _Miliband's_ voice.

"Hello, Miliband." His voice manages to force itself out. It's tighter than usual. Smaller.

There's a moment of silence, then "O-oh. Hello, Cameron."

Miliband's speaking. His voice shakes a little. It's hesitant. But it's Miliband's-

"I know you didn't do it deliberately."

Fuck. He meant to-fuck.

"Y-you-"

"I'm still angry." He winces at how childish the words sound. "I-I mean-I'm still not happy with you-" _Not happy with you?_ "But I know-you wouldn't do it deliberately."

There's a pause. Then-

"Well. That. That'th understandable-" Miliband's voice is trembling a little. The lisp is there, and something about it just _seizes _David in the chest.

"I should hope it's-"

"G-did George th-speak to you?"

David frowns. Try as he might, he can't make out Miliband's tone. Nervous, maybe. Tense-

"No." He's standing up, pacing to the window. "All right, yes. But that's not why. That's not why I called."

There's another pause, then "Oh."

"Yes." David stops, leans his head against the glass. "Yes. So-I just-"

"I'm-um-" Miliband clears his throat and David closes his eyes, struggling to hold onto his voice. "Th-sorry. I'm th-sorry. About-that I didn't-um-" His voice wavers a bit. "You know-I wouldn't-with Nanth-Nancy-"

The sound of his daughter's name being lisped in Miliband's voice makes David's heart turn over slowly.

He nestles his head against his hand and then presses his forehead against the glass again. He stares out at the darkening night sky. "I know, Miliband." His own voice is softer. "I'm-" He takes in a breath. "I-"

He can't say it.

Whatever it is.

"Y-yeah" Miliband says, and David's eyes squeeze shut. It's something like relief puddling in his chest. It's-

"I-um-I wanted to talk to you-" David blurts it out, before he can stop himself. "I mean-George did speak to me. But you know-that's not why I called."

"I-I know. You th-said."

David fights with himself and then says "OK, maybe it was part of the reason. But not all of it, anyway."

There's a pause. And then there's a little nervous sound-a nervous, choked laughter. Miliband's laugh.

David feels his shoulders slump in relief, leaving him weak, laughing a little. "God, I've-"

_God, I've missed that sound._

Miliband's still laughing, but there's a softer sound to his voice somehow. "You-what-"

"I-um-" David casts about for words, thoughts flailing a little.

_God, I've missed that sound._

Why on _earth-_

"I'm going to France, actually." It's the first thing he can think of.

"Franth-ce?" And then suddenly, Miliband's voice is sharper. "Is that th-safe?"

God, David's missed that lisp.

He blinks.

"Um-yes. I will have most of the top protection team in the country with me-so, yes." He tries to laugh a little, past the odd fluttering in his chest, the sudden sharpness of Miliband's voice, the strangely-

Strangely _protective-_

Then, "Th-till, though-" Miliband's voice wavers a little. "You should be careful. Cameron."

David feels something like a grin wriggle in his chest at the sound of his name in Miliband's voice again.

"Thank you." His own voice is softer, now. "I will be."

"Good." Miliband's voice is almost a whisper. There's a silence and then, suddenly,

"Are you coming?"

David curses himself.

"W-what?" There's a tautness in Miliband's voice.

There's nothing for it but to say it, now. "Are you coming? To Paris? It's just-there's going to be a lot of leaders there-"

He winces suddenly, because-"Oh, of course-you've got the Marr show-"

"N-no." Miliband's voice cuts in. "No, no-I was thinking of coming, actually-after Marr-for the rally, you know-"

Something leaps in David's chest.

"Oh? When are you going back?"

"Monday morning-"

"Same as I-" David stops and then says "I mean-"

"Oh. Yeah."

David closes his eyes. "I know we're annoyed with each other" he says, after another moment's silence.

He waits for Miliband to deny it.

There's a long silence. Then, "Maybe. But-"

"But?"

David gets the distinct impression that Miliband is fighting with himself.

Then, suddenly "Maybe. But-it'th underthtandable-"

"Yes, but-"

"I mean, it's not as though you're particularly fond of me."

David winces and then, slowly "Turning my lines against me doesn't work when you use it in PMQs, Miliband."

There's another silence and then Miliband's laughter again. David feels himself smile at the sound, something like a grin burrowing deeper and deeper into his ribs.

"I do, by the way."

"What?"

"Like you."

David stops dead and wants to kick himself. Preferably hard. Preferably round the shin.

There's a silence.

"Th-th-thankth-"

He knows Miliband's blushing. He doesn't know how he knows.

"I mean, maybe you don't-"

"I never th-said that-"

David knows Miliband's blushing deeper, now.

David waits and then says "It's going to be hard in France-" He doesn't mean to say it. "It's hard now."

"It muth-st be-"

"Yes. It's-" David closes his eyes, grips the phone tighter. It's digging into his cheek and something about Miliband's voice makes his own catch in his throat. "It's-Hollande is reeling." His voice cracks out of his throat. "People aren't safe. They don't feel safe."

"Who's with you?"

"Ed. Llewellyn. He's coming tomorrow." David glances around the room. "But right now-" He swallows. "I'm alone right now."

There's a moment and then a breath of sound on the other end. David's fingers tighten again on the phone. It sounded, just for a moment, as though Miliband had just breathed David's name.

Then Miliband's voice is low. "I mean. I wanted to-"

There's a pause. David can feel something hovering between them.

Perhaps Miliband's about to say something else. Perhaps that's why David speaks too quickly.

"Can I see you?"

He stops dead. He's gripping the phone tight. His eyes are tracking the darkening sky outside. He stares, vaguely noticing the faint movement of a grey cloud.

"Th-see-"

"In Paris." David has to say it. Has to get it said. "Can I see you? I just-"

He swallows. He feels that emptiness again, that he's felt over the last few days. That had seemed much longer.

"I need to-we need to talk. I need to-I-"

He means to say _I need to._ He means to say _we need to._

He means to say-

"I really-I want to see you. Miliband."

His heart is pounding hard enough to hurt.

The silence stretches out, then Miliband says "To-to th-see me?"

David squeezes his eyes shut. "I-"

"I mean-yeth. We can. I don't have any-we can. We can. I'll-"

He hears Miliband swallow, an audible gulp. "Yeth. I'll th-see you, Cameron."

David stares out of the window. He nods. Then nods again.

"Good" he says, staring at the sky, and then a little more firmly, "Good."

"Yeth-"

"We can meet tomorrow."

"Yeth."

"I want to see you." It comes out again.

A pause. Then, "I want to th-see you. Too."

David closes his eyes and something-

Something _tilts_ in his chest. Something warm and moved and-

It's a strange, tender sort of happiness. Bruised at the edges by everything that's happened.

"Thank you." It comes out too quietly.

He listens to Miliband's breathing, a little shakier than usual. Then, "Thank you." Miliband's voice is so _soft-_

"It's-" He has to clear his throat. "It's going to be hard." He shakes his head, grey sky filling his eyes. "It's been hard, talking to Hollande."

"David-"

They could both maybe pretend Miliband didn't just say his name.

"I'm quite looking forward to seeing you."

He means it to be light. He means it to break the ice.

(He sees for a moment, those children carrying flowers again, and it comes out a little too shaky.)

(A little too heavy.)

(A little _too-)_

"I'm coming." Miliband's voice is there, suddenly, a little stronger. "Tomorrow. I'm coming."

David nods. His forehead's pressed against the cool glass. His grip tightens on the phone, pressing it deeper into his cheek.

"Thank you." He's gripping Ed's words tighter too, pulling them closer into his cheek. Into his skin.

"David, I'm coming." Miliband's voice is there now, stronger in his ear. Something there, tighter between them, letting them both hold on. David nods, squeezes his eyes shut. "Tomorrow?" he says one more time, like a child.

They both hold onto them, the words pulling them tighter together.

"I'm coming."

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Sitting, Waiting, Wishing-Jack Johnson-"I can't always be waiting, waiting on you/I can't always be playing, playing your fool/I keep playing your part/But it's not my scene/Want this plot to twist/I've had enough mystery"-_

_Champagne In A Paper Cup-Death Cab for Cutie-"I'll keep my mouth shut from under lock and key/That's rusted firm, no lie/Cause all these conversations wind on and on...A sad-sorry state, stutter step to these slammin' grooves/As I'm waiting around for you"_

_Everything You Want-Vertical Horizon-"You're waiting for someone to put you together/You're waiting for someone to push you away/There's always another wound to discover/There's always something more you wish he'd say/He's everything you want/He's everything you need/He's everything inside of you that you wish you could be/He says all the right things, at exactly the right time/But he means nothing to you and you don't know why"_

_Kiss The Grass-The Paper Kites-"And our bones are growing stronger/Every day we breathe it in/We make time to see/And find our healing"_

_Mayflies-Benjamin Francis Leftwich-"I'm wide awake, colours start to run/Giving in, like I'm staring at the sun...I don't wanna talk about it, afraid of what I'm gonna do/I don't wanna let your light in, I've got enough to lose/I don't wanna say it's something, afraid I'm gonna make it true/We'll be lying in the pieces, I've got enough to lose"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments Farage makes are these:https://bit.ly/2Qa2X21  
Alexandra was his Head Of Media:https://bit.ly/2IETmMr  
David's memory is of the morning after the 1992 election, which he, as part of the young Tory "Brat Pack", had helped to win:https://bit.ly/2W4IT4N  
Steve Hilton's idea about clouds was real:https://bit.ly/39HpwCY  
https://lat.ms/2U2T1s2  
https://bit.ly/33m3NhD  
The Morocco holiday Sam mentions:https://bit.ly/2w2CrRh  
Gita is from Nepal:http://dailym.ai/2U288SR  
https://bit.ly/2W6vTvG  
The William Sam mentions is her stepfather, and Vic is her stepmother. Sutton Park is the stately home owned by her father Reggie where the family often stay:https://bit.ly/2TWBced  
https://bit.ly/39NWwta  
Sutton Park: https://images.app.goo.gl/3S6CXE5Cwf7DKm7y8  
Sam does do the DIY:http://dailym.ai/2veCkl7  
The picture Sam remembers of Ed and Dave waving at each other from 2012:https://bit.ly/2THPYXh


	5. Lorded Liaisons, Misguided Monikers And Arrangements Of Ambiguity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which David is much too fond of his Union Jack headphones and no one wants to decide whether Cornwall or Devon do better scones."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask%22) .  
The reference notes in this chapter refer to David travelling to Paris and more of the drama between the Miliband brothers.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_ **Home** _

_It's that word again. Weaponize. Andrew Marr has just asked Ed Miliband four times whether he used it. Four times he's wriggled._

_If I'd realised that reporting what Ed Miliband had indeed said he wanted to do to the NHS would have caused such a fuss I might have turned it into a proper news story. As it is, all I did was mention it at the end of the live coverage of PMQs and on a blog. I should be fired._

_The interview is not a success for Miliband. Andy also pushes him repeatedly on what spending he'd cut. After a few weeks of emphasizing his hair-shirt credentials, he reverts to saying what he really believes, insisting that you can't simply cut your way to a lower deficit and that the crucial factor is raising the rate of growth. _

_**"I couldn't have been clearer"** says the man who may be PM in less than four months. **"No, you could"** retorts the Beeb's interrogator, looking increasingly frustrated. It's perfectly reasonable economics but much, much trickier politics._

_Extraordinary pictures from Paris. The streets are packed with more than a million people marching in solidarity with the Paris victims. Behind bereaved relatives and friends comes a line-up of world leaders marching together, their arms linked. Cameron is there, alongside his pal Helle Thorning-Schmidt. There is a telling gap between them and President Hollande, who strides side by side with Angela Merkel. The Palestinian leader, Mahmoud Abbas, is present, as is Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu. But there's no Obama, no (Joe) Biden, no (John) Kerry. Mistake. Big mistake.-"Sunday 11th January 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_After the (leadership) announcement, Ed was to be taken triumphantly backstage. The plan was that he would be greeted by party officials and escorted off to a holding room to gather his thoughts and then do a round of press interviews. Like all the other candidates, he and his team had practiced the choreography before the announcement was made. Now, though, something was horribly wrong. The party's personnel had disappeared; they had voted with their feet. Many had headed for the bars to drown their sorrows. One senior party official admits today that **"at least 80 per cent of the party backed David (Miliband)." S**ome Labour Party press officers were spotted sobbing outside by members of the Ed campaign. Surreally, the new party leader was alone backstage-until he was joined by his aides, who rushed over to be at his side. "**A backbench MP wouldn't be that badly looked after"** says an adviser to Ed, who was present.** "The party officials had just pissed off."** It was not the most auspicious of starts for the new Labour leader. His party machine had been meant to help navigate him through the first few chaotic hours of his leadership, protect him from the media pack, and provide him a diary from minute one. But it failed to do so. The insurgent candidate had defeated the establishment candidate and people weren't pleased. When (Stewart) Wood went through to the cramped Labour press office room behind the conference chamber, he found party workers in tears. Taken aback, he tried to rally the dejected troops:** "I don't care who you voted for, we should all just get on-five years from now we'll be back in power."**_

_Elsewhere, members of Ed's team immediately noticed a difference when they met former friends from the David campaign. They were either blanked-or pilloried for having won with trade union support. In the first sign that family relations would never be the same again, Ed himself was cut dead by David's wife, Louise, shortly after the result, as he headed back to his hotel room with his entourage, after a meeting with Labour's National Executive Committee.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_The following day all eyes were on David (Miliband) as he was scheduled to give his official speech as shadow Foreign Secretary. Whatever the faults in behaviour of his more zealous supporters-and there were many-it is universally acknowledged that David Miliband gave an exceptionally gracious, and moving, speech that day. Walking round the stage without notes, with Ed sitting behind to his right, David described the new leader as **"a special person." "I've been incredibly honoured and humbled by the support that you have given me. But we have a great new leader, and we all have to get behind him. I'm really, really, really proud. I'm so proud of my campaign, I'm so proud of my party, but above all, I'm incredibly proud of my brother. Ed is a special person to me. Now he is a special person to you and our job is to make him a special person for all the British people. You don't run for the leadership, you don't do anything like that in politics or in life, unless you are 100 per cent committed to winning. But I've also learned something else in life-you never go in for something, especially something so important, unless you are sure in yourself that you are reconciled to the prospect that you might lose. That's life."**_

_It was reported that during the speech, David's wife Louise was in tears, backstage (though friends of David have denied this to be the case.) There is, however, no denying the fact that members of David's inner circle were in an emotional state throughout the party conference in Manchester. At one point a despondent Lisa Tremble (David's press secretary) bumped into Polly Billington (Ed's adviser.) Billington was about to say something to try and console her when Tremble intervened: **"Don't be nice to me yet."-**Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Speculation was feverish on whether David would stand for the shadow Cabinet and therefore serve under his younger brother. But most of those who knew David could sense he would not...David's instinct was to get out of it all. His wife Louise was determined that he should do so. He was still in shock, and needed time to recharge his batteries..The one positive aspect of the whole sorry business was that he could spend some time with his wife and two young sons after a long, gruelling, and bitter campaign against his brother. After brief deliberation, he informed Ed that he was to stand down. Reflecting his unwillingness to acknowledge the rift between them, Ed urged him to reconsider; he had wanted David as his shadow Chancellor. But it was to no avail. Back in London, David issued the following statement: _

_ **"The party needs a fresh start from its' new leader, and I think that is more likely to be achieved if I make a fresh start. This has not been an easy decision, but, having thought it through and discussed it with family and friends, I am absolutely confident it is the right decision for Ed, for the party, and for me and the family. Any new leader needs time and space to set his or her own decisions, priorities and policies. I believe this will be harder if there is constant comparison with my comments and position as a member of the shadow Cabinet. This is because of the simple fact that Ed is my brother, who has just defeated me for the leadership."** _

_Stepping outside his home in a faintly bizarre floral shirt, David smiled for the cameras, less wholeheartedly perhaps than his wife beside him. They gave a brief photo call before David went inside and conducted a series of interviews with the major broadcasters, explaining his decision to withdraw to the backbenches. Never once did he slip into anything that could be interpreted as an attack on Ed, nor did he attack the electoral system that by now he had concluded was to blame for a wrong turn by Labour. The only line that betrayed his frustrations, as he could feel his political obituaries being prematurely written, was: **"I am not dead."-**Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Perhaps the most important role Justine has played is in supporting Ed through his struggle with David for the Labour leadership. Justine was one of those who supported his decision to stand-**"Life's an adventure. And you've got to seize the day"**-and told him he had nothing to be guilty about. Since David's defeat at the hands of Ed in September 2010, Justine herself is believed to have fallen out with David's wife, Louise, who, only a few years earlier, she had been **"in awe of" o**ver the latter's musical prowess and career success as a violinist. **"Louise has been nasty towards Ed and Justine can't handle that"** says a friend of the couple..._ _In December 2010, David and Louise Miliband hosted a birthday party at their house in Edis Street for their elder son, Isaac, who had just turned six. But there were some crucial absentees. Ed did not attend the party. Nor did Justine or the pair's two children, Daniel and their then new baby Samuel. Ed's family live(d) a ten-minute drive away from David's. Guests who attended the party were unclear as to whether Ed was invited and declined the invitation, or was not asked to begin with. It remains a mystery. Perhaps understandably, both brothers refused to comment on the episode. But for friends of the Milibands, Ed's absence confirmed one of their worst fears: that the relationship between David and Ed had so deteriorated that it had impacted on the entire family. This, of course, had been their mother Marion's biggest worry, and she was said to have aged by several years since the summer of 2010...The once tight-knit Miliband clan chose not to spend Christmas 2010 together either. Despite Ed optimistically telling the press he was looking forward to spending it with his brother-and quipping that **"no peacekeeping forces were needed"**-David headed off to America to spend the holidays with his in-laws. The same thing happened again for Christmas 2011.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_In the end, Ed put party before family-or, as his critics would say, he put himself before his brother. Did he think through the implications of his decision? Did he underestimate the risks to his family relations?..That is not to say that Ed did not think long and hard about **"the David issue"** but, as he himself now admits to friends, he **"underestimated how difficult"** it would be to go up against his own flesh and blood._

_Some David supporters claim that Ed had always been covertly plotting against his elder brother. Friends of Ed argue that it would be naive to expect their man only to have made up his mind in the forty-eight hours after David stood. Either way, the truth is that Ed Miliband, who doesn't like the word **"ruthless",** let nothing, including his immediate family, get in the way of his exceptional determination to be leader of the Labour Party.-Ed: The Milbands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_At 10.30, he (David Cameron) is back down in his office. "**I can't sleep, I'm too excited"** he tells his staff. He is exercised about the statement he will shortly deliver, one that will further define his second term, and contextualise his first. Drafts are handed to him, one of which contains the phrase **"closing the gap between the rich and the poor".** He doesn't like that. **"Too Milibandy"** he says.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_He (David Cameron) flies out that morning with Ed Llewellyn from Northolt to Velizy-Villacoublay airbase, from where he is driven straight to the British residence on the Rue du Fauborg Saint-Honore. From there they walk the short distance to the Elysee Palace before buses take them to the Place de la Republique. Cameron is deeply moved by the expressions of support for the murdered Charlie Hebdo employees. He notes wryly how on most occasions when world leaders travel in coaches, to and from G20s and other summits, the crowd is booing, but here they are applauding wildly, displaying their banners-Je Suis Charlie and Nous Sommes Charlie. After the demonstrations, Cameron gives interviews at the British Embassy. He is shocked by the whole episode, struck by how close to home it is and how easily it could happen in Britain. He knows that the quality of British security and police work, and strict legal controls on firearms, have been partly responsible for preventing such vile attacks on British soil; he also knows that luck inevitably has played a significant role.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

* * *

_"I'm not going to dinner with you. You don't even like me."_

_"I like you fine" Reagan said.-Fangirl, Rainbow Rowell_

_ _

_"Because I say so little, you think I don't feel. I care a lot."-Maurice, E.M.Forster_

_ _

_He snorts again._

_"You hardly know me, David" he says._

_But he's wrong. I do know him. And I want to know him more. I have no idea why. I only know that I'm drawn to him in ways I can't quite explain, and that I can't shift the sneaking suspicion that beneath it all, he gets me, that he's drawn to me too."-The Art Of Being Normal, Lisa Williamson_

* * *

"Did you use the word _weaponize_, though?" Marr's leaning back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Ed, and Ed swallows hard.

He'd known Marr wouldn't let him get away with it; everyone had known Marr wouldn't let him get away with it. And everyone had known, but no one had known what to do, because, as Bob had pointed out, "We say you didn't, and Robinson brings out a transcript, and we're fucked."

They weren't even trying to pretend he hadn't said it, now. Not to each other, anyway.

"Just get out _fight for the NHS" _Tom had barked, after getting off the phone to Alastair. "Just get that out. The only thing we can do is keep our fucking heads down and hope the bloody thing blows over. Though a fat fucking lot of use that's been so far." Ed had felt a creeping of shame at how relieved he was that he hadn't had to talk to Alastair himself.

And so now, he's sitting here, studio lights hot on his face, and Marr's just asked him for the second time, before he's even answered the first.

"Well, I don't recall exactly what I said-"

It's not an answer. It's nowhere near an answer, which is something Cameron will give him hell over, which is why he pulled out the fucking word.

And that just makes things worse, because he's told Cameron he'll see him and-

"But we are in a fight over-"

"So it's possible that you did?"

The Tories will be loving this. Tom will be tearing his hair out. Ed wishes he could tear out his own.

And yet, he still wants to see Cameron.

"We are in a fight for the National Health Service"" he says too weakly,

(No, he's _said_ he'd see Cameron, that doesn't mean he _wants-)_

(But he_ does_, doesn't he, and-)

"And I make absolutely no apologies for the fact that I'm _really concerned_ about what's happening to our National Health Service-"

That had been Bob and Stewart's idea. "It's the one way we can salvage this a little" Stewart had muttered, running his hands through what remained of his hair. "If we make it look like it just demonstrates how passionate you are about it."

"Sure-" Marr speaks over him easily, brushing his explanation away with one word. "That-that word-" Marr meets his eyes. "Which clearly _infuriated_ the Prime Minister-"

Ed freezes and forces his head to shake, tries to hitch out a smile.

"If we go for it this way" Stewart had said. "We've got to turn it round. Make it look as if Cameron's the one being cynical, trying to trip you up on small details so he doesn't have to look at the bigger picture."

"Weaponized _does_ seem to be rather a cynical word to use about the NHS-"

"Well, I think what infuriated the Prime Minister was-"

Marr's interrupting him. "Can I just ask-" and Ed hates the fact that he's glad of it, because he doesn't know what he was going to say.

He knows what he should say. _Because I was exposing his failings on the NHS. Because I was hitting a nerve. Because he couldn't answer the question._

But right now, all he can think is that the one thing he _did_ infuriate Cameron about, he wasn't trying to.

Cameron's face just an inch from his own, his mouth twisted around the words. _He is not your weapon._

Something cold and uncomfortable is squeezing hard in Ed's chest and he holds himself more stiffly, because there'd been something in Cameron's voice last night-

"Did you use it? Can you help me-"

"Well, I don't recall exactly what I said, but-"

"Clearly."

Ed wants to hit him for a moment and wants to hit himself even more for the wavering in his own voice, like a child trying to explain to his teacher why he hasn't done his homework. (Ed never had that experience. Something else Cameron would probably give him hell for.)

"But what I'm clear about is that we're in a fight for the NHS-"

"Right-"

"And I, and I-" He's stuttering. Cameron wouldn't stutter.

Stop thinking about _Cameron-_

"And I think that's really important. Look-"

He has to steel himself for a moment. He shouldn't have to steel himself, but he does.

Nancy's name still sticks in his throat, and the words _Which clearly infuriated the Prime Minister_ ring loudly again.

"The Prime Minister went into the last general election-"

_He is not your weapon._

"And he said he could be trusted with the National Health Service. He said he could be trusted with the NHS-"

_That's all people's lives are worth to you, isn't it?_

"He's _betrayed_ that trust with people-"

_I suppose we know your general opinion on childrens' welfare._

"We've seen an NHS where-"

Oh God, this isn't going to make things any easier when he sees Cameron.

But Cameron hasn't made things easier for _himself_, and what the hell's he _thinking_, wanting to make things _easier_ with Cameron-

"Well-" Marr looks away, but he has to make the point, he _has _to-

"We've had_ tents_ erected in the hospital _car parks_ this week-"

"We can see-we can all see what's happening-"

"We've seen ambulances-"

"In the NHS-and-"

"Ambulances-"

"I want to come back onto-"

"Sure-" He lets his hand fall.

"Exactly what you're going to do about it. Before we leave this point, you know-the Prime Minister called this a cynical and disgusting word-"

_Keep shaking your head._

"Do you disown the word _weaponized?"_

"I-I-what I don't disown-"

"Do you disown the word?"

"No, I, what I absolutely stand by-is that we're in a fight for the future-"

Marr is leaning forward, now. "That's an answer to a completely different question-"

"I know, but we're in a fight-"

He sounds like a child. He sounds like a _child-_

"We're in a fight for the future of the National Health Service and hon-honestly-" _Oh God, don't stutter_-"I don't think this is about the words we use-"

It was _one bloody word-_

"About how-" He talks over Marr this time, before Marr can ask the bloody question again. "This is about how we're going to change this country, so we have an NHS that properly works for people again-"

"OK-"

"And isn't going backwards as it is under this government."

It's the best he can do. But he didn't answer the question.

And he knows Cameron will pick up on it, and the irritation grinds away in his chest and maybe that makes his answer on the TV debates more vehement, because otherwise Cameron will get _away _with it, the way he always does.

Tom will be more pleased with this too, he thinks. He'd nearly exploded when they were planning out the first answers-"What the _fuck _are we talking about cross-party harmony for?"

Stewart had rolled his eyes. "Because this is the time to be talking about it. With everything that's happening-"

"We need to look different from Cameron, not like we're his fucking best friend-" Tom had shot Ed a dark glance. "The two of you spend enough time together as it is-"

Ed had frozen, even as Bob rolled his eyes. "We'll look completely heartless if we don't say something about solidarity" he'd said simply, checking his phone and unknowingly rescuing Ed as he did so. "We need to say something, and Ed can't pull out of going to Paris or it would look awful. Yes, it's coming at a bad time with the deficit-reduction figures, but that's just how it is."

"Just make sure you're fucking careful" Tom had muttered, giving Ed another, darker look. "The last thing we want are a bunch of headlines from the SNP about how you and Cameron live in each other's pockets."

Ed had swallowed hard and been suddenly, profoundly grateful that Tom did not have access to his mobile phone.

And that he'd followed his instinct not to tell anyone about Cameron's phone call.

He hasn't told anyone-not even Justine, who'd been struggling to entertain the boys, who frankly weren't making it easy for her. Daniel was still moody and tired, laid out on the couch under a blanket, and Sam hadn't been much help, turning away towards the TV whenever Justine had tried to proffer him an Octonauts toy. It hadn't helped that she'd got Pinto and Peso mixed up.

If only Daniel hadn't been bloody sick, then Ed could have taken them to the park-Bob wanted him to talk about it more in interviews. "It makes you sound human" he'd said, nodding approvingly at the photo on the Christmas card. "People want a Prime Minister that sounds human."

But he hadn't told Justine, instead watching as she pressed her lips awkwardly to Sam's cheek and Sam leant away, before scrubbing his hand across the spot where his mother's mouth had been, as if wiping her off his skin.

He hadn't told anyone. Maybe that was because of that surge he'd got when he saw Cameron's name. Something like fury. Something like relief. Something like-

Something sad and heavy and cold in the pit of his stomach.

And he hadn't even considered not answering.

That had only occurred to him afterwards, because the second he'd heard Cameron's voice-

Well-something had buckled a little. Like dropping into a warm bath. But more intense. More _jolting,_ somehow.

_I know you didn't do it deliberately._

Ed hadn't been prepared for the relief that followed those words-another buckling sensation, one that almost left him breathless.

Because Cameron _believed_ him. He knew that Ed wouldn't-that he'd never deliberately-

And Cameron had asked. He'd asked, and-

Ed hadn't even thought about it.

It wasn't as though there'd been a reason not to, he tells himself.

But-

It was the way he'd just-

It was that _sound_ in Cameron's voice when he'd asked and he'd sounded so-so-

Ed couldn't have said no and that should bother him more than-

But he'd wanted to.

That's it. He'd wanted to see Cameron.

That was the _fact,_ but-

But Cameron pulled out _weaponizing-_

_He's not your weapon._

_He's not your-_

But look what Cameron's _done_ to the NHS-

And yet-

By the time Ed shakes hands with Marr, his mind couldn't be less on the interview and that's just another thing to drive him mad.

* * *

"Nanny's coming" Daniel says, and Daniel's right because Daniel knows lots, even when Daniel's sick.

Sam looks up at Daniel, where he's on the bed. Mummy put him there because she needs to do some work, and they have to play quietly until Nanny comes.

"Know-I know-" he says and holds up Pinto to Daniel. "Pinto-Peso-" and Daniel bumps the penguins' beaks together.

"Mummy going out" Sam says, and Daniel just makes a blowing sound with his mouth, and puts his hand out for Sam's.

Sam squeezes tight and gets himself up on the bed next to Daniel and Daniel says something about _cameras-_

Sam knows what cameras are. They're the things that go _flash_ and take a picture.

But Daniel's saying "We'll have to have pictures taken, Mummy and Daddy said" and Sam doesn't know why, because they just had pictures at Christmas, and Sam didn't like it, Mummy and Daddy kept showing them pictures that were half-coloured in, and trying to make him look and smile-

"Christmas" he says, and tugs at Daniel.

"But bigger-" and Daniel holds his hands out to show him. "And with flashes. Like on the beach."

Sam doesn't remember_ beach_. He can't, properly-he just remembers Mummy in a red coat saying "Do you want to throw some stones?" and he was littler then, and the stones were crackly under his feet and up above was all grey, and Mummy was saying something about _Cutthroat Jake, he's there_ and Sam didn't want to look and he was saying _No, Mummy_ and he didn't like it. Zia wasn't there, and Sam didn't like that, either, and he was only happy when Mummy let _go._

Daniel says there were big cameras there and Sam just wants Nanny or Zia or both, and he says to Daniel "Don't want cameras."

Daniel hugs him, though he can't fit his arms all the way around. "I won't let the cameras near" he says, and he kisses Sam's cheek, nice and warm and not like Mummy or Daddy.

"Daddy TV" he says, because Daddy's down there but not there, talking on the telly screen, and he thinks Mummy's watching, but he doesn't know-

Daniel screws up his face and says "Don't want to watch." He rolls over and buries his face in the pillow.

Sam crawls up behind him and pushes his face into the back of Daniel's shirt. "No watch" he says and Daniel's fingers are round his, and he pulls his head out so he can look at Sam, and then pats at Sam's hair with his other hand.

"No bad cameras" Sam says, to be sure, and Daniel says "I won't let bad cameras hurt you."

He lets Sam get all huddled and close to him, and then says "It'll be all okay."

Sam nods and cuddles in. He doesn't mind that Mummy's downstairs and will just do work and Daddy's going somewhere, because Daniel's here. Nanny's coming, and Daniel's here.

He huddles up and sniffs Daniel in and cuddles because Daniel won't let bad things happen to him, and that makes Sam feel good and happy and safe.

* * *

After he's gone over his speech for what feels like the hundredth time, Ed sleeps a little on the plane, the glass of the window cold and then too warm against his cheek. Each time he jerks awake, he finds himself looking round, almost expecting to see Cameron right there, and then he'll remember how Cameron did the same thing, when Ed nudged him awake on the train. For a moment, he almost wishes Justine was next to him, so that she could at least drive some of the thoughts of Cameron out of his head, and that they hadn't decided to travel separately.

He hadn't planned on Justine coming at all, but it had been Bob's suggestion at the last moment. "Looks a lot better" he'd said. "Remember, we need to get her out on the campaign trail. We need to see the two of you as a couple."

Ed could have pointed out that they were a couple, but he'd suggested it to Justine anyway, half hoping she'd say no.

"It'll only be for the rally bit" he'd said quickly. "I mean-I think I might have a couple of meetings in the evening, so you don't have to stay for them-"

"Oh, it's fine" she'd said breezily-too breezily, Ed had thought. "It's a good thing to go to, anyway-it'll be educational for the boys."

Ed had hesitated. "Actually-maybe it wouldn't be the betht idea to bring them" he'd said slowly, trying to remember the things Zia's told him about kids their age. "I mean, Daniel's still ill, really, ithn't he? And they've got to be up tomorrow-"

Justine hadn't put up a fight about this, which hadn't surprised Ed, and for the strangest moment, he'd wondered if it should have.

He tries not to think about Cameron at first, but in between bouts of fitful sleep, he comes rather suddenly, and almost without realising, to the conclusion that this is a useless endeavour.

And one he's quite tired of, since he's spent the last few days fruitlessly pursuing it.

Thinking about Cameron doesn't help matters much either, though. It just means he's constantly _there_, behind Ed's eyes, and Ed leans his forehead on his hands and groans.

By the time he walks into Baggage Claim, he's not sure whether he's desperate to see Cameron or terrified or both. Knots are pulling tight in his chest, and he feels sick and nervous and on high alert, his eyes darting at every sound.

"Ed Miliband?"

Ed almost spins round at the name.

He blinks. Standing calmly, arms folded, flanked by several protection officers, and looking as sternly unruffled as always, is Theresa May.

"Theresa?"

Theresa raises an eyebrow. "I believe so, yes."

Ed flounders-an effect Theresa tends to have on people.

"Um-it's lovely to th-see you-though not under better th-circum-th-stanth-ces-"

"Quite-" and then Theresa is interrupted by a hand on her shoulder.

"Now, now, Tessie-don't frighten the poor fellow-"

Ed closes his eyes in horror, and waits for the unfortunate man to dissolve into a quivering heap, withered by the sheer force of Theresa's glare.

When he doesn't hear any sounds to suggest that the man has died, he opens his eyes cautiously and peers at them both.

The man's still beaming at him, pushing at his glasses. Theresa has closed her eyes, and appears to be silently appealing to the heavens for help.

"Philip" she says, eyes raised to the ceiling, without even turning to look at her husband. "I _asked _you to wait in the car."

Philip beams, apparently unperturbed by his wife's expression. "Couldn't let you greet him alone, now, Tessie! Plus, didn't want to leave these chaps to carry all the bags!" He beams at the protection officers, all of whom seem to be struggling to hide smiles and failing rather badly.

"Mr. Miliband-" Theresa sighs and indicates her husband. "This is my husband, Philip. I believe you've already met-"

"Yes, a few times-" Philip's already shaking his hand, beaming, eyes twinkling behind the glasses.

"Hello." Ed smiles, but it's difficult. Cameron's name is beating in the back of his head like a pulse.

"The Prime Minister asked us to meet you here."

Ed stares at Theresa. "Camer-the Prime Minith-"

Theresa's eyebrow arches only slightly. "He rather disliked the thought of you having to make your way from the airport alone."

"Oh-" Ed feels a lump swell in his throat. He swallows hard and doesn't know whether he wants to hang onto the words or not-

But Cameron didn't want him to be-

"I think there's a car" he says. He sounds pathetic. Young. Theresa must _think_ him pathetic and young.

But at the same time, there's the fact Cameron thought of him-

"I know. We arrived in it." Theresa watches him for another moment, as Ed tries to sort out his thoughts, then sighs. "He's been rather impatient to see you."

Ed looks up, his heart suddenly rapid. "R-really?"

Theresa rolls her eyes, but the ghost of a smile touches her mouth.

Philip pats Ed's arm. Ed could easily imagine him doing the same thing to a beggar or the Queen of England. "Let's get hold of those bags, then." He reaches for one enthusiastically, prompting another roll of the eyes from Theresa. "Philip, _please_ be careful-we don't need your back to go again, it was nightmarish enough in Switzerland-"

"That mountain's never defeated me yet, Tessie-"

It's only in the car that it occurs to Ed to ask "Where are we going?"

"The British residence" Theresa tells him, glancing at her watch. "The Prime Minister's staying there, too. Didn't he say when he phoned?"

Ed blinks. "He-he told you-"

Theresa glances at him curiously. "That he checked to see if you were still coming? Yes."

Ed feels his shoulders relax, and isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed.

"Though it did seem rather a weight off his mind" Philip chips in brightly. "To know you were coming, I mean."

There's a faint thud and Philip shoots Theresa an aggrieved look. _"Tessie-_that was my _shin-"_

Ed glances between them, puzzled. Theresa raises her eyes to heaven. "Philip, the definition of _discretion_ is readily available in any dictionary-kindly acquaint yourself with it-"

"And so's the definition of _pain,_ Tessie." Philip rubs his shin rather enthusiastically, though the twinkling of his eyes remains undimmed. "Plus, no-one uses dictionaries any more- there's this magnificent device called an _iPad-"_

"I'm well aware of the existence of iPads, Philip, and you are not getting one." Theresa turns back to Ed. "But yes, the Prime Minister is rather anticipating your presence."

Ed bites his lip.

"He was rather regretful he couldn't greet you himself" Theresa continues, folding her hands in her lap. "But he had a few phone calls with the French President and the other world leaders. Mr. Llewellyn asked us to pass on that the Prime Minister hopes to chat with you before the march this afternoon and then-well, he's got a rather clear schedule after the rally." Theresa sniffs. "He said something about discussions with you."

Ed's heart is suddenly rapid again. He swallows, folds and unfolds his own hands.

"Oh-yeah-"

Philip, on Theresa's other side, is still grumbling. "I will purchase an iPad if I _wish_, Tessie-"

"Purchase what you like, Philip, but you shan't be inflicting it on me-"

Ed turns to peer out the window. "So he's going on the march then? Camer-the Prime Minister?"

He senses, rather than sees, Theresa's nod. They're mostly driving through the back streets, but Ed can hear the thrum of noise-feel it even more, the hum of activity from the main streets, people preparing for the march. The city seems greyer, as if the air itself knows what's happened. Maybe it does, Ed thinks. Maybe grief and death and blood and bullets can weave itself into the bricks of a house, the stones of a street. Maybe the ghosts of it can braid themselves between your ribs, their fingers digging into your heart.

And he sees Louise's face suddenly, backstage, Justine's hands rounded over her pregnant stomach. _Congratulations_, the word spat out, like darts finding his skin. _I hope you're proud-_

David's hand on her arm.

Now, he becomes aware that Theresa hasn't spoken for several moments, and when he looks back at her, he sees that she too is gazing out of the window, past his shoulder at the streets outside. Her eyes are as sharp as ever, in the mid-morning light, but softer somehow, too.

Ed looks away hastily, but it's to the window Theresa speaks, her voice far quieter than usual. "Yes" is all she says, words a breath between them. "We all looked for it, too."

Ed doesn't know quite what she means. Somehow, he knows what she means.

It's then that Philip, adjusting his glasses carefully with one hand, reaches out and covers Theresa's hand with the other. He squeezes, gently, and after a moment, Theresa raises her head to meet her husband's eyes. Ed catches the movement of her hand, as she squeezes back.

Ed averts his eyes hastily, suddenly wishing himself anywhere else but the back of the car. He fixes his gaze out of the window and tries his best to look utterly fascinated by the passing landscape.

After a moment, when Ed judges it safe to look round again, he notes with some relief, that Theresa and Philip are no longer holding hands. He sits there awkwardly for a moment, unsure if Theresa wants a response or not.

It's Philip, who after a minute or so, breaks the silence. "Tessie, you know these iPads-you can get some of them at _remarkably _cheap prices-"

"Oh, for heaven's _sake,_ Philip-" Theresa's voice is Theresa's voice again. _"Get_ an iPad, if you wish, but on your head be it-"

"On your head-you know, there is this rather marvellous app called _Face Swap,_ Tessie-we could actually _see _how I'd look with your hair-"

The discussion of just how aesthetically appealing this image would be takes Theresa and Philip the rest of the way to the residence, which saves Ed from having to contribute any more to the conversation and also, oddly, leads him to notice that he can't remember the last time he had a back-and-forth conversation with Cameron.

Suddenly, he finds himself clutching his hands together in his lap and his stomach clenches at the thought that he'll be seeing Cameron in a few minutes, less than that-and that-

He swallows hard, and somehow, with Theresa and Philip's repartee throwing itself merrily back and forth next to him, Ed suddenly wants to see Cameron more than ever.

* * *

David pulls at his shirt and suit and then adjusts them again. Ed, next to him, seems to be struggling to hide a smile. "You know doing that won't make them get here any quicker" he says, with something like a grin and David jumps.

"I wasn't thinking about him" he says, a little too quickly. Ed's smile deepens.

"I mean, them." David glances at his friend and rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up."

"I didn't say anything-"

_"Shut up."_ David leans forward. "You're as bad as Helle was last night" he mutters. "I wasn't aware that knowledge of our_-liaisons_ had spread that far and wide."

He becomes aware that Ed appears to be struggling not to laugh.

"Oh, shut up-"

_"Liaisons-_you really should have chosen a better-_liaisons-"_

"You know what I _meant-"_

Ed holds up his hands. "No need to explain-"

"I'll get those headphones out again in a minute-the Union Jack ones you wouldn't let me wear on the plane-I _will_, that's what you're driving me to-"

David might not have needed to resort to the headphones while on the conference call with Hollande and the others last night, but it had been a close thing.

Hollande had merely laughed-some of the first laughter he'd managed that evening-when David had informed him that Miliband would be coming too-it had been Helle whose voice had immediately curved up in a grin. "Ah, yes" she'd said (David was certain Angela would be grinning) "Stephen has been keeping me informed-"

David had smiled a little, but his heart had suddenly been rather rapid. "Oh?"

"Oh yes" and he'd been able to picture Helle's eyes sparkling mischievously. "We've been hearing all about how Mr. Miliband's been like a bear with a sore head for the last few days."

Hollande had laughed again, shakily. "Perhaps some socialist conversation will cheer him a little-" he'd managed and David had chuckled carefully. "I'm sure you'll be able to help with that, Francois."

Angela had laughed then. "He didn't get an audience with me" she'd informed them all. "The real cause of the absence of cheer-"

"Of course, Angela-"

Helle had laughed again, delightedly. "Ah yes-Stephen has told me that Mr. Miliband's friends were rather chomping at the bit over that-"

David had grinned. "Ah yes-no doubt it'll be myself and Mrs. May paying the price-"

Hollande had laughed again. "Whatever spares me the trouble, non?"

There'd been another outbreak of laughter, and then Helle's voice had been in David's ear again, light and playful, so he could picture her beaming, the way she does every time her foot catches David's under the table at a summit or meeting. "Of course, Stephen did say you've been rather better friends of late" she'd said, the mischief clear in her voice now.

"Cross-party co-operation" Matteo had mused, with a smile in his own voice. "Rather something to aspire to."

David had taken a moment to compose himself. "Well, we try" he'd managed, with a grin. "Whether we succeed, however, is something else altogether-"

There'd been some more laughter and Angela had chipped in "Cross-nation co-operation, too-"

There'd been some more laughter, but Helle had made a small, knowing sound in her throat, and David had pictured her eyes sparkling meaningfully.

Now, he's sitting here, next to Ed, and he's waiting, and trying not to think of how close Miliband must be, closer with each second.

He folds his hands together and Ed turns to look at him, one corner of his mouth twitching in a grin.

David glances at him. "I _will_ put those headphones on-"

"Gladly. Couldn't think of a more suitable place-"

"Oh, would you shut up-"

They're quarrelling amiably when there's a sudden flurry of movement and footsteps and David looks up before he can stop himself, and then-

He's walking in, and he's there-

Miliband's there, so suddenly, and too near and-

He's_ there_, after David's been thinking and wondering and-

Miliband's there, and it's only when those big, dark eyes widen the slightest bit, and David becomes aware he can no longer feel the warm weight of Ed's arm against his own that he realises he's stood up.

For a moment, they're just looking at each other and David's staring at him. Miliband's just looking at him and David's eyes seem to be darting everywhere, trying to take all of him in at once. He's got those shadows under his eyes and they seem darker than usual, and he's a little paler, and-God, when was the last time he got a proper look at Miliband?-

(In Portcullis House, with his hands knotted into Miliband's suit, that eyelash loose on his cheek-)

David swallows. Miliband's staring at him.

It's then that he realises that he's standing there, just staring at Miliband.

"Ah-"

"Miliband-" David says the name, quickly, before Ed behind him can say anymore. "Ah. Miliband-"

"Prime Minith-ster-" Miliband's lisp is like a pleasant wriggle in David's chest, something that he only just realises now he's been _missing._

"We found him, Prime Minister." Theresa's hand is on her husband's arm. David suspects she isn't even aware of it.

"Helped with the bags" Philip beams, pushing at his glasses. "Not that he'd brought much-"

"Wish I could say the same" Ed's laughing from behind him and David's smiling, but he's just-just still looking at Miliband-

"Ah-ah-did you have a pleasant flight?" David isn't sure it's his own voice, only knows that he can't look away from Miliband. He doesn't want to.

Miliband's staring at him too, and then his head jerks a little, as if he's only just caught himself. "Oh-I-yes, thanks. Flight was-thankth-s. Great."

There's a short silence, which is broken by Philip clapping his hands together. "Right. Ah-Tessie and I will leave you to it, then. Tessie, I've just been thinking-the _price_ of these iPads-"

David barely notices Theresa ever so slowly raising her eyes to heaven. She steers Philip off firmly and it's then that Ed claps his arm from behind. "Just got to give the wife a ring-"

David thinks he sees him wink, knows he says something to him, pats his arm, but he barely notices what. He's so strongly aware of Miliband suddenly, only a few feet in front of him, that it's as though awareness of everything else is filtered down a little.

Ed heads off, and David and Miliband are looking at each other. For a moment, they just stand there.

Then Miliband speaks. "I-"

David speaks at almost exactly the same moment. "We could sit down-"

They both stop and then look at each other. A tiny smile tugs at Miliband's mouth for a moment, and then disappears again.

David gestures to a chair, and Miliband sits down slowly, still eyeing David as if he might start shouting any moment. When David resumes his own seat, he considers smiling, to try to put Miliband at ease, but quickly discounts it. The usual smiles don't seem to work with Miliband.

Other smiles, though-

"I thought you might not want to see me." The words come out a little more quietly than usual. David folds his hands together.

"I thought you might not want to th-see _me."_ Miliband gives him a look that's both consternation and nervousness.

"Copying my lines." The words are quiet but that tiny smile appears again at Miliband's mouth.

Then, suddenly, Miliband draws in a breath. "Look, I'm r-really th-sorry about Nanth-Nancy-"

It's the nervous glance Miliband gives him that makes something-well-

_Melt _a little.

David just feels suddenly, almost unbearably _fond._

He has to close his eyes for a moment, and then his fingers flex a little.

"Honeth-stly-" and he opens his eyes to see Miliband watching him warily. "I didn't mean-"

David shakes his head. "No, I know....I know" he says suddenly, a little louder and Miliband stops talking abruptly. "I just...I know you didn't do it deliberately."

Miliband nods. "No."

"I know you wouldn't do that." David swallows. His fingers flex. He fumbles the words together a little too quickly.

"I-um. May have overreacted. A little."

Miliband's eye twitches slightly, but he keeps watching David.

David takes a deep breath, meets his eyes. "I'm-ah-sorry. That I shouted the way I did. And that I-well-" He gestures awkwardly to Miliband's suit.

_(Awkwardly._ David never does anything_ awkwardly_. God, it's irritating.)

"No, no, it's-" There's a tinge of colour in Miliband's cheeks now. His eyes are darting around rather rapidly. "I-ah-" He makes a similar gesture to David's suit.

David manages to laugh. "Yes-well-"

"Hmm." Miliband nods awkwardly and a short silence falls between them.

David takes a deep breath. "Well-ah-I'm sorry. Miliband."

Miliband nods and stares at his knees and then, taking a deep breath, "Look, what I th-said-"

He glances quickly at David, then away again.

"About the-the NH-th-s-" Miliband's blushing, David notices with something that could be surprise, but isn't quite. "I-um-look, I didn't mean-"

He's stumbling. David's suddenly aware of where they're sitting-in one of the entrance halls where almost anyone could see-

He touches Miliband's shoulder before he can stop himself. "Hang on. Do you want to-um-"

Miliband looks up, dark eyes meeting David's.

"We could-ah-go somewhere else, if you like. Somewhere more private."

David hears how the words sound almost before he's finished saying them.

He feels the heat rush to his own cheeks, but Miliband-

Miliband just _blushes,_ the colour sudden and startling in his face.

David's missed that, he realises suddenly. He's missed Miliband blushing.

Which is odd, in itself.

"I just meant-" He falters. He _never _falters. "In case someone-someone could hear-"

Miliband nods a little too quickly. "Um-yeth-yeth. I-" He blushes more at the lisp and the warmth David feels blossom in his chest at the sight-

He gets up a little too quickly, and perhaps to occupy his hands, reaches out for Miliband. "Come on, then."

It isn't until they're walking side by side, their arms almost brushing, Miliband's blush still colouring his cheeks, that David realises that he actually accompanied the words with a tug at Miliband's wrist.

His fingers almost wrapping _around _his-

He quickens his pace a little, shoes clicking a little louder on the tiled floor, so he doesn't have to think about it, and instead lets his thoughts fall into the strange familiarity-that's strangely _becoming _familiarity-of Miliband at his side.

* * *

It's a weird feeling, stepping into Cameron's suite. Ed tries not to glance around too openly, but Cameron glances at him as he shuts the door behind them.

"Measuring the curtains, Miliband?" His voice is low, but there's a curl of amusement in the words.

"You think I need to, then?" It's not his best comeback but Cameron arches a eyebrow, grin twitching at his mouth.

Ed doesn't realise where Cameron is leading him until they're standing in the bedroom area and then he opens his mouth. "I-"

"Problem?" Cameron appears completely unperturbed, even as he gestures for Ed to take a seat in one of the armchairs that litter the room.

Ed shakes his head. "No. None-"

(He doesn't look at the bed.)

(He doesn't know why, but it suddenly feels very important not to look at the bed.)

"We've only got a bit of time" Cameron says. "Before the marches, I mean. We can talk properly afterwards."

"Don't you need to see Hollande?"

Cameron shakes his head. "I'll see him today-usually there'd be a dinner or some such, but-"

Ed nods, understanding without Cameron having to finish the sentence.

"If we keep a low profile, we should be walking to the Palace, and then-well-quite a few others have turned up, apart from the leaders, so I suppose you'll be on the bus with us-and Theresa and Philip-"

Ed tries for a laugh. It comes out a little strained. "I won't bother you, if you don't want me to-"

Cameron frowns, and Ed shuts up quickly. There's something heavy in the silence between them-something heavy, and-

"Why wouldn't I want you to?" Cameron's voice is mild, polished, smooth, but his head is tilted to the side and his eyes are soft, far softer than Ed's used to.

Ed swallows. "I-"

"I mean-" Cameron clears his throat. "Not that you're bothering me." He clears it again. "What I mean is you're not. At all."

Another silence falls, a little longer now, and this time, quite suddenly, Ed can't stand it.

"Look, it wath-sn't what I meant, OK?"

Cameron's brow creases. "What wasn't?"

"I mean-what you th-said. About the NHS. I didn't mean it-I didn't mean as though-that-th-s all I saw it as-I, I didn't, it juth-s-"

And then, suddenly "It wath-sn't meant to upset you."

He can't look at Cameron suddenly, so he looks at his hands. "I mean-I mean about you-what you said. That night-"

_He is not your weapon._

"I didn't mean, honeth-stly-that's not what I meant." He meets Cameron's eyes. He's not sure why, but it's suddenly important to. "I don't agree with you. But I didn't mean it-like that."

Cameron's eyes are narrowed, but they remain on Ed's. He takes in a breath, as if he's about to say something, but instead, there's just silence.

Ed opens his mouth, but all he can think of to say is "You know that."

(Cameron has to know that. He _has _to.)

Cameron looks straight at him."I know you didn't mean it like that."

The relief that sinks into Ed's shoulders takes him by surprise. It sinks into him, makes him feel weak.

"But-" Cameron tilts his head, and stares at him. "You did say it."

Ed opens his mouth, but Cameron shakes his head. "I saw you on Marr. I know you're not going to answer me. But you said it. That's what I'm saying." Cameron breathes out, head tilting back. "I suppose I just...didn't realise the NHS was that cynical to Labour-"

"It's _not."_ Ed almost jumps at the volume of his own voice. "You know it isn't-"

He stops. Cameron's just looking at him.

"I suppose Baldwin would say you shouldn't be talking to me."

Ed snorts. "He'd probably say I shouldn't be _here."_

Cameron's head jerks. "He doesn't-" He falls silent suddenly, and then "I suppose-God, this is how it's going to be, isn't it?"

Ed jumps again a little, but he can't pretend he doesn't know what Cameron means.

"Isn't this how it's th-supposed to be?" he manages, not even bothering to correct the lisp. "I mean-it'th an election, Cameron."

The hint of a grin flickers at Cameron's mouth. "Is that how you want it to be?"

The words are light, teasing, but something about them makes the heat rise to Ed's cheeks.

"I-" is all he manages, before there's a knock on the door and Cameron calls in a hotelier carrying a tray of tea.

It's only after he leaves that Ed says. "Not neth-cetharily-"

He can feel the blush deepening as Cameron's eyes meet his as he pours two cups of tea. Cameron stares at him over the rims of the cups.

"Listen, I was thinking-" That's all Cameron says, for the moment, and then "I mean, we're probably better off discussing some of it later-after, you know-" Cameron glances at his watch. "I just thought-you know-we've got to go soon, but I thought you might like a cup of tea after the flight."

Ed's rarely seen Cameron fumble over his words so much.

"Yes" he says, then, "And-um-that th-sounds-I want to th-see you. Later."

Cameron raises his eyes. Ed feels the heat rush to his cheeks and takes a quick gulp of tea, almost burning his mouth.

"Careful-" Cameron reaches out, as Ed grimaces and his hand lands on Ed's sleeve. Ed feels a small jolt of sensation, and he shivers as Cameron leans back, with the odd thought that he didn't want Cameron to let go yet.

When he looks up, Cameron's watching him. "I want to see you, too" he says, a little too quickly, and then, taking another sip of his own tea, "Do you want to meet tonight?"

For a moment, Ed isn't sure he's heard correctly. "What?"

Cameron meets his eyes almost defiantly. "Would you like to meet me? Later?"

His voice is smooth, level. But Ed notices that his fingers have curled a little tighter around the handle of his teacup, that his lips have tautened the slightest bit.

Ed swallows, his heart suddenly rapid. "Oh. Ah. Well-yes. Yeth-yes, I'd, um-I'd like that."

It's only then that he realises he's just accepted an invitation to meet Cameron that night.

Just him and Cameron. Though Cameron didn't say that-

Cameron smiles, then-a twitch of a smile, a crease of those dimples, and something jolts pleasantly in Ed's stomach.

"Good." Cameron smiles a little bigger this time, as he takes a sip of his own tea.

"Even though you're not particularly fond of me." The words slip out, and Ed blushes, and quickly drops his gaze.

Cameron's voice, when it comes, is curled with amusement. "Copying my lines again?"

Ed glances up, biting his lip.

"And I didn't mean it." The words are casual, almost an afterthought. But Cameron smiles, smiles right at him, and Ed feels something like a smile creep out in his chest, under his ribs, creeping up to his mouth.

"And I believe I said that _you_ weren't particularly fond of me-"

The door opens and Llewellyn pokes his head round. "Everything all right, Prime Minister?" He gives Ed a quick nod. "Mr. Miliband."

"Hi." Ed offers him a quick smile, as Cameron waves a hand. "Morning, Ed. How are things-"

"They're good." Llewellyn nods. "Just popped in to tell you that we should probably leave in about five minutes, if we want to-"

"Get to the Palace, yes-"

"You arrived just in time, Mr. Miliband-"

"Oh, right-"

"We'll be down in a moment, Ed."

Llewellyn winks at Cameron. "Sorry to interrupt, Prime Minister."

For some reason, a hint of colour appears in Cameron's cheeks at that.

Ed turns to him, puzzled, as Llewellyn closes the door. But Cameron's already grimacing. "Sorry about having to rush. I just hoped you'd get a bit more time-"

"No, it's fine-we had to rush a bit from Marr-"

"Oh yeah, of course-you staying here tonight?"

Ed nods. "I think so. I think they got me a room."

"Right." Cameron glances away, and then to Ed's surprise, bites at his lip. "Did you drive through Paris?"

"With Theresa and Philip. Just-"

Cameron frowns.

"Streets are packed. I think this march might have attracted more attention than anyone thought-"

"God, really?"

"Well, 3 million are predicted across France-"

"God-" Cameron's eyes widen a little. "And I thought-" He shakes his head. "It's not going to be easy, though. Speaking to Hollande-"

"Haven't you spoken to him yet?"

"Only by phone." Cameron gets up abruptly, and crosses the room to the window. Ed gets up, taking a last sip of tea, and follows, with the thought creeping in again that in a few months, this room could be his.

"God, it's going to be difficult." Cameron's staring out of the window, taking in the sky, and Ed watches him. There are shadows under Cameron's eyes, and suddenly, Ed wants to just-

Reach up and just-

"Why?" he hears himself say, but his voice is softer, quieter.

Cameron laughs, but the sound's a little forced. "I've been trying to imagine what I'd do if this happened in London, actually" he says, hand now gripping the windowsill. "What the hell I'd want him to say to me."

Ed sees, just for a moment, London's name sliding into the headlines, ambulances and sirens and gunshots. Cameron being the one standing there, on the steps of Downing Street, face pale and drawn, his voice cracking.

His hand fastens in Cameron's sleeve. "You'll-no-one will know what to th-say" he manages. "I mean-if you just tell him that, I'm sure he'll understand-"

Cameron laughs again then, but the sound's shorter and sadder, and then he turns and looks at Ed. "Do you know what, Ed" he says, and the words are soft, without a hint of malice. "Here's, ah-a line for your campaign. Sometimes, I wish I could see things the way you do."

Ed blinks. The words hover there, and he scrabbles for a response.

"Thanks" is all he manages, and then "If-um-if it was a compliment."

Cameron doesn't smile. Instead, he just glances at Ed, head on one side, and says "I think it was, yes."

Ed chews at his lip. "Thanks." It comes out a little too quiet, but Cameron turns then, and just looks at him, head on one side.

"You're so-" The words catch in his throat.

Ed's heart is suddenly rapid. Cameron's eyes are fixed on his.

Cameron shakes his head, and Ed feels an odd lurch of disappointment. "Never mind." He tugs at his tie, and then Ed says "I won't use it."

Cameron frowns. "What?"

"The line. In a campaign-"

Cameron stares at him for a moment, and then bursts out laughing. "That was a _joke,_ Miliband."

Ed winces. "Oh. Yeah-"

Cameron's still laughing, but his hand lands on Ed's arm. "God, you really are-"

His voice is soft. His eyes roam over Ed's face quickly, and for a moment, they hover on his mouth.

"I'm quite glad you're here actually, Miliband." Cameron's voice is suddenly lower.

Ed waits for the line, the polish, the smoothness. But Cameron just looks at him, and then away a little too quickly, tugging at his tie. "Better get this bloody thing fastened-"

Ed doesn't know he's going to do it until he does, and then his fingers are wrapping around Cameron's tie.

"Here. Let me-" He glances up at Cameron uncertainly. "Unless you want to-"

Cameron blinks. "No. No, that's-that's, um-" He nods quickly, and it's not smooth or practiced or- Ed fixes his gaze on the tie, tries to breathe slowly.

He loops it carefully, pulls it in, gently coaxes it up to Cameron's collar. He can smell Cameron's aftershave. He can feel, when his fingers brush Cameron's neck, his pulse, strong and rapid under warm, smooth skin, in the second Ed's hand dares to hover before it pulls back.

Cameron's hand moves and then as Ed lets go with a muffled "There-", Cameron's fingers flutter around his own.

Ed feels words dry up in the back of his throat. His heart's suddenly so rapid it almost hurts.

"Thanks, Miliband." Cameron's voice is low, and Ed swallows.

He means to say "You're welcome."

He means to say-

"You'll be fine" is what comes out, instead. "You-you'll know what to say-"

Cameron's cheek lifts in a small smile. He nods, once, and then turns to look out the window. He shifts an inch closer to Ed. The silence no longer feels awkward; just reflective. Almost companionable, in a way.

Ed turns to look out of the window, his arm brushing Cameron's. He doesn't move it away. He just stands there, staring out of the window at the grey January sky, thinking about the people gathering in the Paris streets below them, Cameron's arm warm and reassuringly solid against his own, until the knock comes and they both step away a little, as Llewellyn comes in to tell them "It's time to go."

* * *

The walk is mostly silent and David finds himself glancing at Miliband every few seconds. Miliband has his head lowered, but his eyes dart about every few moments, and David knows without asking that he's checking for cameras.

"It's all right" he says, in an undertone, walking a little closer to Ed, unsure whether to be amused or indignant, because there's a reason they're not walking down the Champs-Elysees. "No cameras to catch you in the company of Theresa and I, don't worry."

Ed's head jerks up furiously. "I wasn't thinking of that!" he says, in a tone indignant enough to tell David that's exactly what he was thinking about.

David fights back a smile, and catches a roll of the eyes from Theresa, as Ed, in clear defiance of David's assumption, walks only an inch from him for the rest of the journey, so that their arms brush every few moments.

It's less trouble to suppress a grin when he casts a glance at the other Ed, only to catch his head of staff hastily hiding a smirk.

There's little time for more than a quick clap on each other's arms, and a "See you there", before Ed's ushered towards a car, and as the other Ed falls into step next to him, David doesn't even look at him. "Shut up" is all he says, and when the stifled snigger breaks out, "I mean it."

* * *

He doesn't have to rehearse how to greet Hollande. He doesn't have to force the hand on the arm.

He doesn't have to force the hands on the shoulders, when they're inside and Hollande stops being Hollande and just becomes Francois.

"This is the least I could do" he says, when Hollande thanks him for coming, and he's not pretending.

He's not pretending in the slightest.

* * *

He finds Miliband hovering awkwardly next to Helle and has to hastily push away the idea that Helle could be having a conversation with the next Prime Minister.

It's easier to dispel the thought when David sees Miliband tug awkwardly at his sleeve and nearly trip over his own feet as he catches sight of David.

"Helle-" They greet each other with a kiss on the cheek. "I see you've been talking to my current Leader of the Opposition?"

Helle's blue eyes sparkle. "Ah, yes-" She gives a mischievous grin which seems incongruous with the setting, but for which David is both rather grateful and mildly apprehensive. "I've heard that rather a lot of talking has been going on between the two of you recently-"

Miliband blushes. David's stomach does an odd, swooping motion.

Helle's eyes narrow a little at the blush, and she gives David a grin. "Rather nice to see" she says, eyes sparkling more brightly than ever. "Didn't happen to arrive together, did you?"

Miilband blushes deeper.

Helle gives David an incredulous look, but before David can open his mouth, there's a hand on his shoulder.

"Could not imagine it with mine, some days" Matteo's saying, and Helle greets him with another kiss on the cheek. "Though I have heard-" He glances between David and Miliband. "It is different in England, yes-and we Italians thought we were the country of the heart-"

Miliband shoots David a rather hilariously furious look.

"England, you see-" Matteo gestures rather ambiguously with his hands. "Suits, public school and handshakes-"

"Not_ all_ handshakes" Helle objects, while David glances at Miliband awkwardly. _"Some,_ certainly-"

"Ah, it's how England is seen in the world-" Matteo's hands are flying all over the place. "Handshakes. NHS. Scones-"

_"Scones?"_

"Ah, whatever they call them!" Matteo throws his hands to the heavens. "Cake things-"

"Scones, Matteo, are not _cake things-_they're a treat, they're well-known in Cornwall-"

"Since when did _you _have a scone-"

"I've had _plenty _of scones, I've been on holiday with Stephen-"

"Ah, see, you have a natural bias-your _husband _is English-"

"What does_ that_ have to do with scones?"

Matteo stares at her. "Well, now I've forgotten what we were talking about!"

"Regardless-" David steps in to diffuse the situation, before the debate can start over whether Devon or Cornwall do the better afternoon tea (David has strong feelings on the matter) "What exactly have you been hearing, President-"

Matteo's smile appears again immediately. "Ah, that is rather a long story-"

Miliband, whose cheeks had been slowly returning to their normal colour, immediately blushes once again. Matteo beams, eyes lighting up. "Ah, see, he is blushing-"

Miliband isn't the only one, and then Angela's voice is behind him-"Yes -I did not get the chance to ask-"

David meets Miliband's eyes, catches a glimpse of his flushed cheeks-and then reflects on where they're about to go, and suddenly wants the conversation to carry on longer.

* * *

Ed is a little too grateful when they get onto the bus. He'd never admit it to Cameron, but he'd felt slightly awkward standing there, waiting for him, and a little too relieved when he'd seen Cameron looking around for him.

Francois had been easy enough to talk to; they've met several times before after all, and Francois had taken Ed's hand in both of his, kissing both of his cheeks. "Monsieur Miliband-it is good of you to come-with Prime Minister Cameron, are you not?"

"Well-yes-not _with_ him, exactly-but we're both-yeah."

Francois hadn't seemed to mind Ed's mangled speech, squeezing his hands again. "It's so good of you-" he'd said and it hadn't been hard to squeeze his arm, to hold on tight.

Now, he stands momentarily frozen on the bus behind Cameron, unsure whether to follow him or to step back and let one of the other leaders sit beside him.

Cameron turns round. "Come on, then-" he says, with a hint of his usual grin dancing at his mouth. "Not going to bite, Miliband."

There's a touch on his shoulder and Merkel's voice brushes his neck. "Sit with him, Mr. Miliband. Keep him in check."

Ed stutters. "Um-yeth-I m-mean-"

It's Cameron who saves him, grasping Ed's sleeve and tugging him out of the aisle. "Here" he says, with a wink. "Since I apparently can't be trusted to keep myself out of trouble-"

His smile's a little strained, and Ed knows without knowing how that Cameron's trying not to think about where they're going.

Perhaps that makes him sit down a little quicker than he might have, otherwise. Angela gives him something suspiciously like a wink.

Cameron gives him a quick smile, but turns his gaze to the window, a crease denting itself between his eyebrows.

Ed struggles with himself for a moment, before he asks, turning so that his shoulder brushes Cameron's-"Are you-um-all right?"

Cameron's nodding before he even turns round-but at Ed's expression, he stops.

He makes an attempt at a smile, then shrugs. "I suppose-well, nothing prepares you for this anyway, does it?"

Ed blinks. "Oh-no. Of course not. I mean-"

Cameron tries for a laugh, a little. He scrubs at his eyes and sighs, tipping his head back against the seat. "I think everyone's finding it easier to laugh right now."

"That can be-well, that can be good." Ed winces. "Th-sorry. That was useless."

Cameron grins just a little. "Yeah, it was." But he nudges Ed then, presses their arms together, and the warmth seeps into Ed, into his stomach, making it flip pleasantly.

It isn't until the bus pulls off that Ed says "Everyone's really been lovely." He grimaces again at the words.

But David just grins. "Yeah, they have." He's staring straight ahead, forehead creased, but after a moment, he turns and waves at Helle and a few of the others, who wave back.

"You've met some of them before, haven't you?" he asks Ed, wriggling round in his seat.

Ed nods. "Francois-and Helle, of course-" He wriggles round to face Cameron. "You know Rachel-my press-"

"Your press officer, yes-"

"Well, her brother Stephen-you know, the MEP-they're married, him and Helle-"

David claps his hand on his knee. "Of course-knew she was married to an MEP-Kinnock's children aren't they, Stephen and Rachel-standing to be an MP, isn't he-"

"Stephen, yeah-Labour candidate for Aberavon-"

"God, of course-wasn't there some story about her dropping by your house unexpectedly or-"

Ed feels his cheeks colour. "Well-not unexpectedly-I mean, Rachel had arranged it-it was when Stephen, he wanted some tips-you know, for the MP bid and Helle was with him-they were in England for the summer with the girls-"

"God." Cameron winces. "Imagine England for your summer holidays. Sorry, go on."

"And I thought you were all about Cornwall-but that's it, really."

Cameron frowns. "Wasn't there some story about you not being able to find a bottle of wine or something-"

"Oh." Ed fidgets a little. "Justine said that-in a speech. It-um-wasn't really-she embellished it a bit."

Justine had embellished it a lot. There was nothing really_ to_ the story, apart from the two of them suddenly realising that they might be an anomaly in how little alcohol they kept in the house.

But Rachel had suggested it when Justine was working on the speech and they'd stretched it into an anecdote, while Ed now wonders why on earth the story couldn't have been told in one sentence.

(He can't remember where the boys where when Helle and Stephen came over. They might have been at his mum's. Or down with their nanny.)

(He can't even remember mentioning them.)

David laughs. "Oh. Right." He inches closer to Ed and turns his gaze back out of the window. They're mostly heading through back streets, but there's an odd murmur in the air-a low sound, as though the chatter of the crowd is already reaching them.

Cameron's forehead has creased again. His face is still composed, but Ed catches the way Cameron's thumb has caught his forefinger, picking slightly at his nail.

"Are you sure you're-ah-all right, Cameron?" He asks it nervously, chews at his own thumbnail, before he stops himself, glances at Cameron, then away, then back again.

For a moment, Ed thinks Cameron is going to just brush it off. But then, his brows knot together and he glances at Ed.

"This is-ah-" Cameron laughs a little, leans back against the seat. "Going to be difficult-"

It's only now, glancing about the bus, that Ed realises that there's a quietness descending over them all. He glances at Cameron and takes in the crease that's back in his forehead.

"Cameron-" He reaches out and covers Cameron's hand with his own, fingers wrapping around his sleeve. He squeezes quickly. "It'll be all-well, it'll be all right."

Cameron gives him a small smile. "Hopefully."

Ed wants to say something else but the words swell and stick in his throat, so he just squeezes awkwardly.

Cameron's eyes meet his and they look at each other for a moment, before they both glance away, Cameron staring out of the window, while Ed clears his throat and suddenly finds the aisle fascinating.

Cameron squeezes back awkwardly and the feeling sends a rush through Ed's chest, his heart suddenly rapid.

They're still sitting like that a few moments later, and it's when Ed shifts a little closer, and he and Cameron both look down at once that Ed realises that they're still holding hands.

He gulps. Cameron's eyes flicker to his, and they stare at each other for a moment, before they both pull away and Ed feels heat absolutely flood his face.

"Th-sorry" he mutters, knowing he's blushing, and when there's no answer he turns to see that, to his disbelief, he isn't the only one.

Cameron's eyes meet his almost a little nervously. "It's-fine."

His hand twitches, and then just reaches across and pats Ed's wrist. It's quick and gentle, but Ed feels the heat in his cheeks deepen.

He glances away and bites his lip, but looks back to find Cameron's eyes again. Cameron's head is tilted and he's still watching Ed.

They meet each other's eyes, then look away, then back. They're sitting so close together and they keep looking at each other in a way that Ed could almost think of as _shy._

* * *

The minute's silence stretches, and all David thinks of is that office. That deli. Those shots.

17 names and faces.

He stands there and feels his own heart beat and it hits him just how loud it is.

He'd noticed it when he'd sat there, watching Ivan's little face resting on the pillow, deep, rattling breaths struggling through his chest, willing his son to fight again to stay alive. How loud his own heartbeat was. How strong.

He'd stared at his son, like his heart could pound some of that strength through their skin into his son's veins, rich and red, keeping him alive.

Now, he thinks of their faces and Ivan's face and Nancy and Elwen and Florence's faces.

There's too much time to think in that minute's silence.

The march is quiet at first, with Helle's arm slid tight through his own and Mariano on the other. Helle's eyes aren't sparkling any more-they're wide and blue, taking in the street around them, until they turn a corner and her eyes widen at the same moment that Mariano takes in a sharp breath.

There are too many people for David to look at at once. It's more than a sea. David can barely make out faces. And there's a low tide of noise around them, that's swelling as they walk forwards.

They're applauding.

David feels a lump swell in his throat. Helle's holding his arm tighter. He doesn't look down the line at Francois.

The crowd's applauding and, every few moments, there's a chant, a chant which is growing more and more frequent by the moment, with each breath.

_Je suis Charlie._

_Je suis Charlie._

David feels Helle squeeze his arm tight. He swallows, and keeps walking, Helle's and Mariano's arms in his, the chant echoing in his ears

* * *

Ed and Justine don't link arms, but they walk together. Every so often, Ed glances at her, wondering if he should reach out and take her arm, but each time he tells himself that there are plenty of other people who don't have their arms linked.

He's not sure why it doesn't surprise him that they're not linking arms. Ed's never understood those people who sleep wrapped around each other, who just touch each other so casually. It's not that he doesn't like that sort of thing-or he imagines he'd like it. It just feels like it's on one side of a pane of glass and he's on the other.

Justine isn't crying-he'd been afraid she would. He never knows what to do when she cries. Something about the way she lifts her hand to her eyes and dabs at them, the way she sniffs and blinks when he can't see tears-something about it rings oddly to Ed, and he's fairly sure you're not meant to tell someone that. So he hasn't, but it means he-sometimes he-

"It's inspiring, isn't it?" she says to him now, with her big eyes, and for a moment Ed wants to tell her that that word's probably been used by every single person on this march today, and couldn't she think of a better one?

He doesn't, of course.

"Yes" he says, glancing about the crowd. "The way people can come together, it'th really encouraging for community spirit-"

He sounds like a sociologist.

But doesn't he always sound like this with Justine? Doesn't he? She never minds. He never minds. Does he?"

Justine drags her scarf tighter around her neck. Ed stares at his arm, trying to will it to link through hers'.

It should be easy. It should.

But Ed doesn't have any more time to consider it because the chanting grows louder suddenly. He looks up, taking in the way the chants have taken on a rhythm, as though the crowd had learnt it years before, even though most of them probably just met today.

His chest aches and all he can hear is the shout every few moments of _Je suis Charlie, Je suis Charlie,_ and he squeezes his eyes shut and just thinks of gunshots and seventeen names and the French flag, which, when he opens his eyes, is everywhere that he can see.

* * *

"That was-" David sips his tea ruminatively, Ed standing next to him. Even now, back in the British residence, the chants from the Parisian streets still reach them every few moments, and David glances at Miliband, who wraps his hands around his mug of tea, warming them.

"Yes-" is all Miliband says, but it's all that needs to be said, and David steps back from the window, automatically gesturing for Miliband to follow him.

He's sitting down, watching the blood rise to Miliband's cheeks for some reason, but he's already sitting and it's only then that David realises he's still gesturing.

And then that Miliband's following him.

And that Miliband's sitting on the bed next to David.

Another time, David would notice it more, but now with his mind still on the chanting, somehow Miliband sinking down on the bed next to him doesn't seem as odd.

"Are you all right?" he asks, with a quick glance at Miliband.

Miliband nods. "Juth-st-" He shrugs and exhales, resting his head on his hand. David glances at him and squeezes his arm quickly before he can stop himself.

Miliband glances at him. "What about you?"

David glances back and shrugs. "I suppose. It's just-" He sighs, presses his face into his hands. "I'm glad you're here."

It comes out before he even thinks about it. He freezes, glances quickly at Ed.

Ed's blushing. Somehow, David isn't. He stares at Miliband and perhaps it's just the day or how close they are, but he feels a stab of something like affection.

When Miliband speaks, it's a mumble and it makes that affection twist even more sharply in David's chest. "You shouldn't be here. Alone, anyway."

"Well-" David tries to lighten his own voice a little. "Not exactly alone. But I'm still-"

_Glad you're here._

You.

Miliband.

In particular-

God, this is odd.

"Are you sure Justine didn't want to join us?" he asks, taking another sip of tea. He'd only got a brief glimpse of Justine when he'd reunited with Miliband after the march-of her hair, windswept and that scarf pulled tighter around her neck, of her rushed words explaining that she really had to get back, and no, that was lovely of him to ask, but one of Ed's aides was going with her, and she'd really only come for the rally-

She'd kissed Miliband goodbye on the cheek and David's almost managed to convince himself that he didn't see Miliband's eyes flicker as her lips peeled themselves off, flicker into what could almost have been a wince.

But as he sneaks another look at Miliband, even under the colour now painting his cheeks, David can make out the shadows under his eyes. He frowns. "God, Miliband, you look exhausted."

Miliband shrugs. "Up early, that-th all-" He scrubs at his eyes with his fists and something fond scrunches tightly in David's chest.

"You know-" He says the words tentatively, testing them out. "I was thinking about having a rest this afternoon. Maybe you should, too. And then-um-"

Miliband's watching him, head on one side. "I thought you wanted to-"

"Talk, yes, I do, but-" David swallows. He never fumbles over his words. And he must have asked this question hundreds of times. Thousands.

"Well-well, I was wondering if-well, maybe-"

Miliband's eyes are big and dark and pulling him in.

David clears his throat, then looks away. "I was-ah-wondering if you'd like to have dinner with me." He looks back. "Miliband?"

Miliband is staring at him. His eyes are big and dark and blinking uncertainly. "Have dinner?"

David swallows. "Well-yes." It's not as if they haven't eaten together before, after all. They have-plenty of times.

But he supposes it's been very rare they've eaten together alone. And now-

Though why should it be different now?

"Well-um-" Miliband bites his lip. "Yeth-yes. I mean-that would be nice. Yeth." He looks away, then back, and something about how flustered the expression is-it's just-

"Good." David nods and says "Good" again, simply for something to say.

"Yeth-"

"We can meet here-um-around seven. Is that all-or earlier, if you want-"

"No-no, th-sevent-th fine-" Miliband's blushing and then-

He just peeks out from under his eyelashes. Just _peeks_, and-

Something happens. Something to do with that smile.

It's just small and shy and...sweet.

_(Sweet.)_

(Did he just think of Miliband as _sweet?)_

But Miliband's just smiling at him and-

David just smiles back.

And then realises that they're just sitting there, with their arms pressed together.

Glancing at each other.

And-

Well.

He likes having Miliband here.

A lot.

(Not more than he should.)

(Really.)

* * *

A shower can be a blessing. After a nap-curled up on the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted-David's even more thankful than usual for the chance to stand under a beautifully hot jet of water, and let it relax his muscles, rubbing soap into his skin.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, feeling the tension seep out of his muscles. It helps a little-as though he's washing away some of the tears and names and grief and fury that's clinging to his skin like a shadow.

His thoughts wander a little and after a few moments, he's thinking, daydreaming, rubbing soap slowly over his stomach. His iPod's playing outside in the bedroom, just loud enough for him to hear-it's some pop song, one he vaguely recognizes-maybe it crept into his playlist from one of the kids. He leans back, just lets himself dream for the first time in what feels like days.

He feels the arousal creep slowly, a whisper at first. He just stays there, under the water, the steam clouding up the door until it's almost opaque, and as his mind drifts, he feels himself twitch pleasantly in response.

He hesitates, but the water and music's loud, and he's alone, and it should help with some of the tension. And it's been-it's been since New Year's, at least-

David looks down and smiles ruefully as he looks at himself. His legs are trembling a little. The music's a steady beat. _My heart is racing, She puts her hands in mine, I feel them shaking. _He's aching and slowly, savouring it, he reaches down, wraps his hand around himself and strokes blissfully.

He groans almost before the first little wave of pleasure rolls out. He moves his hand carefully, teasingly slowly, making his hips twitch, an aching ripple of pleasure just-_rolling _up and through him now-

This isn't going to last long, he realises quickly, and he doesn't want it to, so he lets his mind drift, feeling a pressure building now, a pressure that makes his legs tremble, that drags out little gasps, one after another, from his mouth. _I'll fix your broken heart, I'll make it beat again, I'll never let you down, On me you can depend._

He throws one hand over his mouth, muffling the sound, and the tension's stretching tighter and tighter, coiling, and Christ, the ache is so sweet, he's so close, God-

His mind wraps around Samantha for the final few strokes-God, yes, two more, he can feel his willpower splintering, _yes, yes, come on_-Samantha's hair all over her bare shoulders, her hand guiding his between her legs-the twitch that comes next aches in the sweetest way possible, and his birthday, when she'd been mouthing against his neck-

And then suddenly, he's seeing Miliband's living room and he's sitting on that brown couch again, and he sees that thought, it flickers there, the one he'd had then when he'd thought about birthdays-Miliband, with his head back, that lisp mangling his words, that worrying at his lip-

A bolt of something jolts David then, something electric, his heart throwing itself against his ribs, and he twitches then in his hand, once, hard-

"Oh, _God-"_ The word breaks against his fingers and then he's teetering on the edge and he summons up Sam's face, her hair when he's breathing it in, the feeling of her warm and wet and tight around him, that night on their honeymoon when he'd been wrapped around her, how perfectly they'd fit together, the new glint of her wedding ring on her finger-

But Miliband's dark eyes hover there, too, and then he remembers lying on top of him, his face pressed nearly into Miliband's neck, the heat of his skin, the tickle of his hair, the rapid flutter of his pulse-and their cheeks pressed together, so close that David could just turn his head, turn his head and then just-

And with a shudder, David feels himself let go, the relief of it, before a spasm of pleasure hits him, smothering his thoughts, pulling him forward as the pleasure grabs him, spilling and rippling through him, leaving him crying out against his fingers.

He shudders through the sudden rush of it, crashing over him for a few moments, leaving him quivering. His hand is suddenly sticky and he lets it fall, stepping back under the shower immediately. The soapy warm slickness of his skin makes the afterglow creeping up his body even more pleasant. _You're taking over me, I'm in ecstasy._

He looks down at himself, feeling a rueful grin twitch at his mouth as he sees the mess he's made and steps further under the shower, letting the water take care of the problem.

It's only a few minutes later, when he's resoaping himself, that he remembers suddenly what he was thinking about.

Or rather, who.

David only freezes for a moment, soap clutched tightly between his hands. It's nonsense, he tells himself, pushing away the faint fluttering of panic that stirs in his stomach. He didn't _think _about Miliband-Miliband just happened to pop into his mind. It's what happens when you're in a job like politics, where your career sinks its' fingers into every aspect of your life. People's faces can and have appeared in David's thoughts at any number of bizarre moments. (He'd once been stupid enough to mention to Sam that his train of thought had just been interrupted by a memory of Boris looking thoughtfully at a trampoline and mentioning that he'd quite like to have a bounce. Sam had burst out laughing and insisted on moaning _"Boris!"_ whenever they were in bed for the next three weeks, telling David with a grin that if he could daydream about their friend while in _flagrante delicto_, surely she had a right to indulge in the same.)

David shakes his head firmly. It was a complete accident. It means nothing that, for a moment, he thought about Miliband.

Nothing.

He gets on with showering, folding these sensible thoughts around these flutters of worry and crushing them tight.

* * *

"Look nice enough?" David glances at Ed, who gives him a thumbs-up.

"Absolutely. Remarkable for going to dinner with someone who is obviously not a friend."

David rolls his eyes. "I doubt_ he'd_ call _me_ a friend."

Ed just grins. "Fine. You look incredibly handsome for meeting someone who would simply never call you a friend."

"And I certainly doubt that Miliband would think _that."_

As the knock comes at the door, David catches a slight arch of Ed's eyebrow, and he turns away a little too quickly.

He opens the door and grins. "Fashionably on time, Mili-"

He trails off as his eyes flicker over Miliband.

Miliband tugs at his tie nervously. "Do I-ah-look all right?"

David blinks. The words seem to take a long time to reach him.

"Ah-"

It's just-

That suit-it _fits_ Miliband.

Well, more than _fits-_

It's dark, and the shirt's so white, it just-

Really sets off Miliband's skin-it looks lovely and olive and-

God, his hair looks lovely-he's washed it or brushed it, but it looks so _soft_, soft and fluffy-

God, his eyes look big and dark-and his eyes flicker up and down-and God, the _cut _of it-he can make out the line of Miliband's-

A strange shiver ripples through his chest, and yanks his eyes back up to Miliband's.

"Ah-" He tries for a laugh. "Sorry. Got distracted there. You look-um-"

_Handsome._ The word flickers, sharp and sudden. _God_, Miliband looks handsome.

David blinks.

"What?" Miliband looks so nervous, dark eyes darting from David to Ed. "Is it-um-"

David drags the words up so quickly that he doesn't have time to check them first. "You look lovely."

Miliband's face changes colour so quickly that David's almost concerned. Colour rushes up his cheeks, making his eyes look even darker, and David's eyes flicker to that tuft of white in his hair. Another jolt of something stirs in his chest.

"Thank-th-" The lisp wriggles gloriously in David's stomach.

"Thank you." Miliband's words are almost a mumble, as he glances shyly up at David.

David nods, and then gestures quickly, telling himself it's not an excuse to avoid meeting Miliband's eyes. "Would you-ah-like to come in?"

Miliband steps inside, and as David closes the door behind them, mumbles something that sounds like "Ukeeoo."

"Sorry?"

Miliband meets his eyes, now blushing as furiously as David's ever seen. "You, um-look lovely, too."

"Oh." David's voice comes out a little rougher than usual. He's blushing. He knows it. Miliband's made him blush.

Miliband's made him _blush._

How has that happened? How has that become Something That Happens?

Miliband's waiting for an answer. David swallows. "Oh. Thank you. Miliband."

Miliband's eyes meet his cautiously, and he looks so-

So _shy_, and-

Something about it-

David just _beams._

He's not even trying to. He just beams.

Miliband just looks so-

The answering smile Miliband gives him is goofy and awkward.

(Very Milibandy.)

And it just-

It's only when Ed pops his head round the corner and asks "Everything all right, Prime Minister?" with a little too much of a grin that David realises that he and Miliband have just been standing, staring at each other.

And smiling.

He steps back, and so does Miliband, and it's only then that David realises that somehow, they'd both stepped closer to one another without noticing.

He looks at Ed a little too quickly and replies a little too loudly and pushes that odd moment in the shower earlier a little too firmly away.

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Bitter Glass-Feeder-"The thought of never knowing/Would kill me just the same...You're travelling broken/You just can't free yourself/An' all the words we've spoken/Are buried in the sand/The ruptured and the broken/The taste of bitter glass"_

_Without You-Oh Wonder-"Come back into the good life/Lose these hazy love lies/I've been chasing my mind/Lonely in the cold nights"_

_Something To Talk About-Badly Drawn Boy-"I've been dreaming/Of the things I've learnt/About a boy who's bleeding/celebrate to elevate/The joy is not the same without the pain/Ipso facto/Using up your oxygen/You know I'm shallow/Calling out for extra help/You've got to let me in/Or let me out/Oooh something to talk about..."_

_Time Stops-Explosions In The Sky._

_Taking Over Me-Lawson-song that's playing in David's shower scene._

_Now Is The Start-A Fine Frenzy-"Hey, do you hear, do you hear/That sound/It's the sound of the lost gone found/It's the sound of a mute gone loud/It's the sound of a new start...Unafraid you can name your scars/With the touch of a new heart2_

_Smitten With You-Nicole Dollanganger-"When I see you, I can't find the words to speak/My cheeks go as red as two big cherries/I try to look beautiful for you/Stuffing my dress up with tissues, hoping you'll notice/But it's obvious and I get so embarrassed/I'm so smitten with you and everyone knows it"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed on Andrew Marr: https://bit.ly/2TKgIXe  
The memory Sam has of being made to smile for the cameras on the beach:https://bit.ly/2U5Bn72  
Theresa and Philip do go on hiking trips to Switzerland:https://bit.ly/2IF4TeL  
The memory Ed has of Louise and Justine backstage is right after he won the leadership-Justine was pregnant with Sam and Louise got into an argument with them backstage:http://dailym.ai/2Q9Uqw3  
https://bit.ly/2Wbi0w6  
https://bit.ly/2U5BHmg  
http://dailym.ai/38KXvsL  
https://bit.ly/3aTz9OO  
http://dailym.ai/3aXdshb  
Ed and Justine, and David M and Louise, at the Labour conference 2010, and David M announcing his decision not to serve in his brother's shadow cabinet:  
https://bit.ly/3aUzJMC (This one says it's the day of their engagement, as does the one below, but it's actually the leadership conference)  
https://bit.ly/2wUnDEc  
https://bit.ly/39T3bCA  
https://bit.ly/2TMP6B1  
https://bit.ly/2vgGKrG  
https://bit.ly/3cTNn45  
https://bit.ly/2TLdsL7
> 
> https://bit.ly/33diXpf  
https://bit.ly/38Lqn44  
https://bit.ly/2vTdtnu  
https://bit.ly/2TWyxBm  
https://bit.ly/39RjAqY  
https://bit.ly/38HiLzC  
https://bit.ly/33fHfPx  
https://bit.ly/2IKxLC9  
https://bit.ly/2TOqms6  
https://bit.ly/2IIKCoy  
https://bit.ly/2xzyy6N  
https://bit.ly/2TKiEPu  
https://bit.ly/2TLRWWL  
https://bit.ly/2Qb77GF  
https://bit.ly/2xubkyM  
David greeting Hollande, along with other world leaders:https://bit.ly/38Jzbrm  
Helle is Helle Thorning-Schmidt, the then Prime Minister Of Denmark and wife of Stephen Kinnock, son of Neil Kinnock and brother of Rachel Kinnock, Ed's adviser-he became an MP in the 2015 election:https://bit.ly/33dsmgs  
Helle and David are pretty friendly, as seen in this infamous selfie moment:https://bit.ly/38HhGYA  
The story Ed relates Justine telling is from here: https://bit.ly/2IGS4jQ  
Ed's advisers had been annoyed that on her visit to the UK, Angela Merkel hadn't given Ed an audience:https://bit.ly/2Ufl2wX  
David's Union Jack headphones: http://dailym.ai/3cWtU2M


	6. Parisian Ponderings, Rueful Recollections And A Companionship Of Cultural Cultivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which waitresses know far too much and a deal is made."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask%22) .  
Warning: there are a LOT of notes here. They deal with the death of Ed and David's fathers, their childhoods, their various religions, both of their liking for Tony Benn, how they met Sam and Justine, and David's time at boarding school.  
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_In reducing that bill, one change would take on particular potency in Labour's narrative about Austerity Britain. The previous Labour government had changed the rules for private-sector tenants, so that they were only paid housing benefit for the rooms they needed to occupy, rather than for every room in the house or flat they rented. On 1 April 2013, we brought in the same change for tenants in council and housing-association homes. If the home was deemed too large for its occupants-in many cases there were spare bedrooms-the housing benefit they received would be reduced by 14 to 25 per cent. Either they'd have to move to a more appropriately-sized property-freeing up bigger houses for bigger families, who badly needed the space-or pay the difference. Our opponents seized upon this, branding it a "bedroom tax." Like the "pasty tax", the name stuck._

_And even though it wasn't a tax, and it was equitable, there was a difficulty with it. While private-sector tenants effectively choose the home they live in, council or housing association tenants have little such choice. And although we were building more council homes-more than Labour, in fact-they were still in short supply, and therefore moving home could be hard. As a result, some people ended up receiving less housing benefit without being able to reduce their costs. But what was the alternative? If we were to bring housing benefit under control, something had to give. At least this proposal had the merit of levelling the playing field between the public and private sectors. Add the mythology around this so-called (incorrectly called) "bedroom tax" to food banks, and we were in danger of losing the economic argument just at the moment the economic recovery should have been winning it for us. The underlying economic truth was that you can't sustainably grow living standards without rising wages-and wage growth had been sluggish for many years, since long before we came to office. The problem had its roots in decades of underinvestment in skills and infrastructure, and low productivity. We were addressing the effects of a lopsided economy-tilted heavily to the south-east and to finance-but the dividends of long-term decision-making would take time to make themselves felt...But I sensed we had the edge. We might have the historical baggage of being cold, uncaring Conservatives, but they (Labour) had the more recent and more potent baggage of financial profligacy. The polls also showed that the **"bedroom tax"** wasn't particularly unpopular. I was given a paper by the Department of Work and Pensions in 2013 which showed a plurality of people supported the policy both in principle and after a more detailed briefing of what it involved._

_This was brought home to me during the most extraordinary conversation, in Glasgow Airport of all places. A woman approached me. "**There's something I want to say to you"** she said. **"It's about the bedroom tax."** I thought "Oh God, here we go..." But she said she was a housing officer, and was totally in favour of it. **"Don't change your tack"** she said as she left with a smile.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_ **Home** _

_I spoke too soon. The taxi to the airport is at the door but I'm on the phone to Katy, Westminster news boss, and Jon, news editor, who think I should postpone to handle a story that's just breaking. Late last night Messrs Miliband, Clegg and Farage formed an unprecedented alliance by releasing identical letters to David Cameron charging him with trying to block the TV election debates. Miliband will use PMQs to accuse the PM of chickening out. The story will lead the news.-"Wednesday 14th January 2015" Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_By late summer (2008) the personal strain of his dilemma was taking its toll, and not for the first time in his life, he wanted to get away from it all, so in August, Ed and Justine took a holiday in California. Conveniently, the ever-political Ed made sure the trip coincided with the Democratic convention in Denver, Colorado, where Barack Obama, who had beaten Hillary Clinton to be the party's presidential candidate, would be giving the keynote address. Such was Ed's unusually despondent mood however, he almost didn't attend the conference. He and Justine decided to drive part of the length of the stunning west coast, from San Francisco and through Big Sur, with it's astonishing views, flora and fauna....he was having innocent.. fun. A friend who dined with him in London soon after their return remembers Ed talking with **"sweet"** wonderment about the trip.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_In the autumn of 2002, Ed Miliband arrived at Busch Hall to begin his year as a visiting scholar at the CES. Once again he was following in the footsteps of his brother David, who had attended the Massachusetts Institute Of Technology-also located in Cambridge, Massachusetts-as a Kennedy Scholar, between 1988 and 1989, and received a master's degree in political science. Ed had been invited to Harvard by the then director of the CES, Professor Peter Hall...Hall remembers Ed telling him that he wanted to take a break from the daily grind of the policy world to think with more time and detachment about issues of social justice, and what Labour, in particular, should be doing about them. The professor's own sense was that Ed also wanted to use his spell at Harvard to think about his own future in the Labour Party and what kind of role he wanted to play within it. Other Harvard contemporaries agree: **"I think this was the time when he could think about what he wanted to do" says Trisha Craig, the executive director of the CES, who became close friends with Ed. "Did he want to go on in politics or take a different route? It was a crossroads in his life."** Martin O'Neill, who was completing a PhD in the university's philosophy department at the time, and became friends with Ed, remembers asking the young spad why he had come to Harvard. **"His answer was that he wanted to take a step back from day-to-day politics and he wanted to maybe write a book about progressive thought and the future of the left"** recalls O'Neill, who now teaches political philosophy at the University of York. **"I got the sense at the time that this was a guy who had been very involved in day-to-day politics but maybe wasn't going to stay in it. He seemed to have some dissatisfaction with the lack of thinking space that he had in the day job he was doing." I**f Ed was going to take time out from the Treasury to explore his political beliefs and expand his intellectual horizons, where better to do so than at one of the world's most prestigious universities?..Friends remember Ed as ruminative and reflective during his Harvard days. He was keen to absorb and explore the thoughts and ideas of others; he would go out of his way to find out what projects or reports other academics or visiting scholars were working on. If he did end up returning to politics at the end of it all, Ed told a colleague at the CES, this was going to be his last opportunity **"to be free."-**Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Ed's year as a visiting scholar at Harvard came to a close in the summer of 2003, but he decided to extend his time in Cambridge by a single term in order to teach for the first time in his life. The son was following in the footsteps of the father. **"He was finding the environment very stimulating, he was interested in teaching so he decided to see if he could stay on"** says Hall, who helped his transition from a visiting scholar to a visiting lecturer. Ed returned to Harvard in the autumn of 2003 but this time to the university's government department rather than the Centre for European Studies. His background as an adviser to Gordon Brown helped him obtain such a prestigious post.** "Given his role at the Treasury, he was a middle-level important person and Harvard love to have such people as lecturers"** says a former CES staffer. "Harvard people love power." The course that Ed taught was entitled, provocatively, "What's left? The politics of social justice." The course description on the Harvard University website read: **"What does it mean to be on the Left today? How can we organise our societies to achieve social justice? The course debates these questions and compares recent experience of left-of-center governments in different European nations and the US. It examines policy dilemmas confronting politicians seeking social justice amidst trends like globalisation, economic insecurity and multiculturalism. And it explores innovative, feasible ideas in welfare, economy and society which can define a future for progressive politics."..**There was his teaching style: once in his class, students responded positively to the engaging and challenging lecturer and his conversational approach. He also made himself accessible after class to students who had questions; once again, his listening skills were put to good use. **"I met several students who told me it was their favourite class"** says Hall. Ed himself admits today that he was good at** "the performance"** of public speaking then as now. Aside from the Q guide, Harvard offers students an opportunity, via anonymous forms, to evaluate their lecturers. The forms are collated and lecturers are offered scores out of five-by the end of his course, Ed had obtained a 4.9. **"It was a phenomenally good score, and he was rightly proud of himself"** recalls Craig. One of Ed's closest friends describes this as a **"watershed moment"** for Ed: the 33-year-old special adviser from north London standing up in front of undergraduates in one of the world's top universities; making speeches, giving lectures, holding seminars. Far away from Gordon Brown, Ed Balls, and the Treasury, says the friend, **"Ed was coming out of his shell, proving to himself that he could do it, that he was important in his own right."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Instead, Ed Miliband may have been more at home working for Tony Benn, which Benn's friend Ralph arranged for him to do in the summer of 1985, just after completing his O-levels at Haverstock. **"Very helpful"** wrote Benn in his diaries. **"He has just taken his O-levels and is at a loose end."**_

_Benn, a hero figure on the left, took a number of young people under his wing. His interns were charmingly nicknamed **"the teabags"**, which stood for The Eminent Association of Benn Archive Graduates. The keen students-including Simon Fletcher, later Ken Livingstone's right-hand man, and Andrew Hood, who would go on to work for Robin Cook-formed a club, with its own headed note paper. Their task was to help at the Benn home in Holland Park, sorting through the vast collection of cuttings and archives that would make up the famous Benn diaries. Today, Benn remembers the boy Ed Miliband as down-to-earth, **"not at all grandiose"**, and not opposed to performing menial tasks.** "I just remember I liked the lad. He was very helpful, thoughtful, decent and I just liked him."** His assistant Ruth Winstone remembers how modest the young Ed was. He received his O-level grades while working for Benn in his basement office but wouldn't tell him or Winstone what grades he had received.** "I said to him "I bet you got all A grades" and he smiled. So he obviously did."** Ed got eight A-grades at O-level and two As and two Bs at A-level (beating David's three Bs and a D.)-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Tony Benn was another unlikely stimulus. Cameron has said that reading Benn's book **Arguments For Democracy** helped pique his interest in politics.** "Lots of it I disagree with, but I loved reading it. I like being stimulated by things I disagree with, almost rather than reading something and saying: "Yes, that is my creed.""-**Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_When he was twelve years old, Ed Miliband's father had been given the opportunity to take up a teaching post in Boston. His mother had been reluctant to leave her own job, and David, who was by then seventeen, wanted to stay in London. So it was decided that Ed would go out and stay with him, while his mother and brother remained in the UK. Later, when he talked about that time, Ed Miliband would describe it as one of the happiest of his life. He was alone with his father, and they bonded as a father and son should. They went to baseball games. They went bowling. They went to eat at McDonalds. He no longer had a father, he had a dad...Dad and Boston were supposed to be **his.**..(David had) wanted to be in London, hanging out with his friends, when Dad had stayed in the States. It was Ed who'd gone out to be with him. And David knew what it was like. They all knew. The dark places Dad could drift to when he was on his own...It wasn't fair. Boston was supposed to be **his.** And it had been his. And now David had stolen that from him as well.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_There was also a sense that he was returning "home." Ed had been an Americanophile since childhood, having lived and gone to school in Boston while Ralph taught at Boston and Brandeis Universities-one of the happiest periods of his peripatetic childhood. Ed has always been in awe of America, its sense of excitement, opportunity, optimism, and unique culture. He became a baseball fan. Despite his father describing the sport as **"two and a half hours of mind-destroying boredom"**, living in Boston as a child made Ed, in his own words, **"a fanatic" f**or the Boston Red Sox (which helped make going to Harvard, in nearby Cambridge, so appealing.) He later told an interviewer: **"The Boston Red Sox have this amazing story because in some ways they bear a resemblance to the Labour Party because they won the World Series in 1918...and they didn't win it again until 2004. And what's even more extraordinary about them is that they came very close to winning on a whole number of occasions in that 86-year period. So it's an amazing story of disaster and then redemption."**...He may have had a limited hinterland but it was a hinterland nonetheless. Outside of his studies and seminars, he would play tennis and go to watch his beloved Boston Red Sox play.** "If you wanted to be his friend, you had to go watch a Red Sox game with him"** says Trisha Craig. Ed, the Red Sox fan, left Harvard and returned to the UK in January 2004; in October of that year, his team won the World Series for the first time since 1918. Craig remembers Ed calling her up from London on the night the team triumphed, his voice filled with elation: **"Are you listening to this?"**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_It shouldn't have been difficult. I love pasties. As a child I had sat shivering on Cornish beaches devouring piping-hot steak-and-potato ones.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_One of Cameron's favourite subjects was Art. McGlyn (a schoolmate) recalls him taking it extremely seriously: "**We were fifteen or sixteen and he was passionate about it. I recall him reporting to our group what he had done on the very short three-day half-term we had in October, which was called "Long Leave". While I just went home to Leeds, slept and returned, David languidly told us that he had been to Florence for the weekend. This was in the days before cheap and easy flights! The purpose of his visit was not to drink and get laid, as most fifteen-year-old public schoolboys aimed to do, but to immerse himself in art. He was very knowledgeable, and I remember feeling rather dim and narrowly experienced by comparison, even though academically at that stage, I was doing a lot better than him."-**Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_The return from Harvard heralded not just a change in his career path, but in his private life too. Two months after moving back to the UK in March 2004, Ed went to a dinner party in London where he struck up a conversation with a clever young lawyer from Nottingham named Justine Thornton. Though she was struck by his eyes-wide and brown and fixed on their subject-a friend remembers Justine's undoubted excitement after meeting Ed as **"gosh, how fascinating, he's really clever"** rather than **"gosh, how handsome."** It wasn't love at first sight, and it was several months before the pair started formally dating. Justine was born in 1970, to parents Stewart and Margaret, and attended West Bridgford School, a local comprehensive. (Other former pupils include the Oscar-nominated British actress Samantha Morton.)_

_She first came to public notice as a teenage actress, appearing in 1987 as a rebellious schoolgirl who refers to Geoffrey Howe, the then Tory Foreign Secretary, as a **"fascist"** in the pilot episode of **Hardwicke House,** a Central Television drama made in Nottingham, near where she grew up. The programme, however, was swiftly cancelled after only two episodes in response to a public outcry over its provocative storylines and unsavoury characters-in the words of the Daily Telegraph:** "The drama's irreverence, comic violence and portrayal of dysfunctional pupils and incompetent teachers in a city comprehensive prompted a backlash that led ITV chiefs to pull the plug."** Justine would go on to appear in another children's programme, the award-winning **Dramarama**, but her flirtation with acting was brief. In 1989, she was admitted to Cambridge University to study law, graduating in 1992 with a 2:1. Called to the Bar in 1994, she became a specialist in environmental law and was working as a senior associate at Allen and Overy Solicitors when she met Ed in 2004. (She has since moved to 39 Essex Street...) She and Ed had much in common: their intellectual curiosity, their interest in the environment, and many of their political beliefs. Already a member of the Labour Party when they met, Justine has been described by one friend as belonging to the** "more moderate wing"** and by another as a** "traditional, liberal, moderate centre-leftist."** But she herself wasn't political. She offered Ed a glimpse of life outside Downing Street, the Treasury, and the Brown gang; of non-political activities and a much-needed hinterland. For Ed, who had dated several women from the worlds of politics and the media-Liz Lloyd, Alice Miles and (the current BBC economics editor) Stephanie Flanders, with whom Ed split up not long before he started dating Justine-his new girlfriend in 2004 came as a breath of fresh air...But Justine has the tough task of being the public figure she never planned or wanted to be. **"While Glenys (Kinnock) at least was a political activist"** says Neil Kinnock, a friend of the couple, **"Justine just has a totally normal background."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_She was quite shy of her friend's brother, fully five years older than her. Neither had shown much interest in the other beyond mere courtesies in the past. Samantha Sheffield and Clare Cameron had known one another for years, but had not become close until their teens. They shared a mischievous sense of humour and a teenage taste for adventure...On one occasion, Clare (Cameron) held a party at home in Peasemore. It was there, according to David Cameron's recollection at any rate, that the couple first met. Recalling it later in Samantha's company, Cameron was heard to say** "You were a sulky sixteen-year-old who thought "Who's this crashing bore who is your friend's older brother?""** Evidently the encounter left little mark on the **"sulky sixteen-year-old."** When asked later when they had first met, she said that she had** "probably"** met him when she was at primary school, but had no clear recollection of him. It is her belief that they didn't meet until she was eighteen..Then, in the middle of 1992, Clare asked Sam if she would like to go on holiday with her family for the last week of August and the first of September. It was to be a special occasion. Clare's parents were marking their thirtieth wedding anniversary-and Ian's sixtieth birthday-and they planned to celebrate in style, block-booking a large part of a resort in southern Tuscany...._

_But it was not long into the holiday before Cameron had set his sights on Samantha Sheffield. Clare Cameron is outgoing and her brother had always been intrigued by her amusing, but cool and reserved friend, the **"straight man"** to his effusive sister. Five years older than Samantha, he was determined to make her laugh, conscious that to the twenty-one-year-old, he might have seemed **"a serious, scary, slightly earnest older bloke"**, as a friend put it. **"When he's relaxed, Dave can be very, very funny"** he added. It helped that the fortnight was freewheeling. Loehnis spent much of the day sitting in the bar complimenting Giovanni on the excellence of his cocktails, while others pursued similarly undemanding activities. With increasing frequency, Cameron and Samantha found themselves poolside at the same time. When the pair took to the tennis court it was clear that a romance was under way, for Cameron, a good and competitive player, very much dislikes playing with those who aren't. And Samantha, who has little aptitude for sport generally, is particularly bad at tennis. It is fair to say that their matches were more a milestone to be passed than the cornerstone of their romance. She struggled heroically and he took pains not to humiliate her. But it was clear they were never going to take on the world at mixed doubles. For Cameron that Tuscan holiday delivered a** coup de foudre.** -Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Blue-blooded, beautiful, and much cooler than he could ever hope to be, she was an incredible catch. Cameron says they first met when she was a teenager at a party in Peasemore thrown by his sister Clare. The two girls had been close friends since they were young, though they went to different schools-Clare was at St Mary's Calne, while Samantha attended a school called St Helen and St Katharine in Abingdon. It seems he didn't make much impression, as she can't remember meeting him on that occasion. It was not until she was twenty-one, when Clare invited Samantha to join a family holiday in Italy to mark Ian and Mary Cameron's 30th wedding anniversary and Ian's 60th birthday, that their relationship took off. It was the last week of August 1992, and it was no ordinary summer break: the holiday party comprised more than two dozen of Ian and Mary's family and friends, half in their twenties, the rest middle-aged. Between them, Clare, Tania and David (Alex was busy) brought nine of their own friends, while Ian and Mary invited six couples._

_**"That's when it all started"** Cameron has said of his romance with Samantha, hinting that while the age gap (only four and a half years, but both were young) was an initial worry, he swiftly got over it. **"I just began being more and more certain about it...It just became the right thing to do. I fell in love with her."** According to a detailed account of the holiday, the party block-booked part of a resort in southern Tuscany, where the younger crowd seem to have spent most of the time lounging by the pool sipping cocktails mixed by a waiter called Giovanni. As they whiled away the hours sunbathing, eating and drinking, Cameron could not take his eyes off Samantha. Tall and willowy, with long, glossy hair, she was stunning. From Cameron's point of view, it was love at first sight. Watching with amusement, Pete Czernin and Dom Loehnis, another Oxford friend, knew their old friend was smitten when they spotted the pair playing tennis. By all accounts, Samantha is a lousy player, while Cameron is accomplished and extremely competitive, and hates playing with anyone worse. **"She struggled heroically, and he took pains not to humiliate her"**, according to an account. By the end of the trip, they were an item.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_Something else happened while I was a special adviser: properly meeting the love of my life-and my wife for the past twenty-three years-Samantha. I say "properly" because Samantha was a friend of my younger sister Clare and we first met when she was just seventeen. I remember being struck by this laid-back, almost silent, waif-like thing lying on my parents' sofa, smoking rolled-up cigarettes and sniggering gently as my sister took the piss out of me. _

_We met properly on a holiday organised by my father four years later. Dad, who was always incredibly generous, decided to celebrate his and Mum's thirtieth wedding anniversary by inviting some of his best friends to a hotel in southern Italy, and he allowed each of us children to ask three friends along. Samantha was invited by Clare, who warned her in advance: "**Watch out-I think my brother fancies you."**_

_I did. And it was a blissful week.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_But Ed returned to London in December 1982 as Ralph began a peripatetic academic career which saw him spend the next decade teaching at Brandeis in Boston, York University in Toronto and the City University in New York. (He would not retire from teaching, and his annual trip across the Atlantic, until May 1993-a year before his death.) The absence of Ralph for nine months each year had an effect on a young Ed. **"I think it was hardest for my mum, but it was hard for me too"** he admits. As a teenager, it was difficult for Ed to spent three-quarters of the year without his father. With David off at university between 1984 and 1987, Ed became **"the man of the house", **supporting and helping his mother. **"My dad being away, and my mum working, made me a more self-sufficient person"** he says now. Ed is often asked by reporters and interviewers about his relationship with Ralph but some friends of the family have suggested that he has always been closer to his mother than his late father. Marion, a restless, curious, idealistic woman,** "always smiling"**, has been a huge influence on Ed, say both friends of Marion and friends of Ed...A close family friend recalls: **"Ralph was a princely person, self-confident, sure of himself, with a loud voice. Marion was more impulsive and, over the years, became courageous enough to interrupt or contradict her husband. She was the driving force behind their marriage-much more down-to-earth, much better at connecting with people in an emotional, non-rational way."** The friend says he believes there is a similar division between the** "princely"** and **"confident"** David, who takes after their father, and the younger,** "more impulsive"** and **"emotional"** Ed, who takes after their mother..Such a distinction has merit but can perhaps be overstated. Overall, the mood in the house was rational and analytical.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Ralph's health had been steadily deteriorating. In February 1991, he had a heart bypass operation which involved horrible complications and led to him spending four weeks in intensive care. During this fraught period, Ed would travel back from Oxford to see Ralph almost every weekend and occasionally missing tutorials during the weekdays too, in order to be at his bedside. Ralph died on 21 May 1994-he had turned seventy only four months earlier. Ed was not yet twenty-five. It was the saddest he had ever been; he still regards it as the day that his world was turned upside down._

_Three years earlier, in Oxford in 1991, Ed had broken the news of the death of Gautam Mody's father to his friend from India outside the Bodleian Library. Now, Mody was calling Ed from a pay phone 4,000 miles away to offer his condolences. Marion answered the phone, and handed it to Ed. **"You've been through this already, Gautam"** he told his friend from university, his voice cracking. **"You've been dealing with this sorrow for three years."** Ed was **"deeply, deeply upset",** recalls Mody. Ralph could occasionally be a **"stern"** father, according to a close friend of Ed's. But there is no doubt Ed's father was his political **"lodestar"** too, and given how politics had dominated his family and life the hole left by Ralph's death was deep. Ed says now it did not affect him politically. **"I don't think it particularly affected my political direction"**, he said, **"because I was already doing what I was doing for Labour."** But given that it coincided with the rise of Tony Blair's leadership it is hard to imagine that the fundamental dilemma that has haunted Ed throughout his life-between the ideological politics of his father and the politics of his party-political masters-was not heightened at this time. Meanwhile, the small Miliband family had suffered a devastating blow; the dominant figure in the household had gone. An anyway small and relatively unextended family had just lost its central member. Ed's eulogy at Ralph's funeral, on 27 May 1994, was as personal as it was poignant...David, of course, also delivered a eulogy at Ralph's funeral-but some friends of the Marxist academic had long considered Ed to be the political heir to his father. Once both brothers had finished speaking, Wendy Glyn, wife of Andrew Glyn and close family friend of the Milibands, turned to her husband and said **"Edward is the real believer in progressive politics."-**Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Cameron was close to both his parents but worshipped his father, whom he has described as a **"wonderful eccentric"** and **"huge hero figure"** in his life. Born with deformed legs, Ian was an extraordinary character: full of energy and mischief, with a well-developed taste for the finer things in life. Cameron's godfather, Ben Glazebrook, who was one of Ian's oldest friends, says: **"I think Ian was the most extrovert person that I have ever known in my whole life. You know he was born with those stumpy legs? Well, he wouldn't mind unscrewing a leg in front of everybody. There was no point in averting your eyes, because it was so natural somehow. Once, we were driving through Holland and he took his leg off and put it on the table. We went to the Maldives a lot, and Ian and Mary wanted to go to the Maldives, so Ian said "Give us a few tips?" I said "Well, look, it's an Islamic island, so don't take in any booze, because they will just confiscate it." He said, "Well, we might have a bit of a problem there: I always take a spare leg on holiday. It looks like a magnum of champagne under the security photographs. It's the same sort of shape."**..Ian would arrive home from work around 7.p.m and, as the children grew up, the whole family would all sit down together to eat. **"There was lots of chat about the world",** including some politics, Cameron has said of these family dinners, though neither parent was particularly party political. Cameron himself was never short of words. **"He always had something to say, even when he was five or six" h**is mother has recalled. **"We used to go on holiday with another family, and they used to say "Can't you shut David up?"...**_

_Ian's disability was severe. He had no heels and his feet were twisted, one with only three toes, the other with four. As a child, he underwent various operations, but doctors were never able to straighten his legs. At the time, such a disability was quite a stigma. His parents decided not to have any more children, leaving Ian as an only child..Ian's father left his mother when Ian was young leaving her struggling for cash. It meant Ian started work younger than many of his contemporaries. He was very proud to be able to help his mother out, including buying her a car. As a result of his disability, he was unnaturally short for his build, reaching only 5 feet 8 inches, and needed prostheses, but he never let it hold him back, carving out a highly successful career as a banker and, like his father and grandfather before him, a partner in Panmure Gordon....Friends remember a** "remarkable man"** who was **"immensely brave."** Soames says: **"He was a very accomplished man. He struggled through this terrible disability, and never complained. He was immensely stoic."...**_

_Though neither parent was particularly pushy, school reports were taken seriously, particularly by Ian **("He used to sit us down and read them"** Cameron has recalled) and there was an expectation that they would go to university. Ian himself had not, which he considered a **"terrible mistake".** Instead, he had done an accountancy course, which he hated. It gave rise to one of three rules he set for his children. They were: that nothing in life is ever completely fair; that they should not marry until they were at least twenty-six; and that they should never become chartered accountants.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_Hidden from public view behind high walls, Cameron's childhood home is a Grade II listed building with extensive grounds, including a tennis court and swimming pool, which would be ceremonially opened for summer every 1 May. There is also an elaborate pagoda, built by Cameron's father, which his friends called **"Ian's erection."** Inside, the house is comfortable (though not ostentatiously plush-one visitor remembers the odd broken table) and furnished with decent antiques..Cameron's upbringing there was quintessentially English, full of fresh air, croquet and homemade cakes. One childhood friend who came from less well-off stock and spent many happy summers lounging by the pool with him and his siblings was mesmerised by the old-fashioned wholesomeness of it all. **"To me it was like a fairy tale; like living in an Enid Blyton book. His mother would come out to the pool with jugs of homemade lemonade and freshly made cakes. It was just idyllic, the house was absolutely gorgeous, and they were very privileged-but very nice. The pool was a focal point of the kids' life. We just hung out there...Dave was a very good swimmer and I remember him diving. We spent time in the kitchen and of course there was an Aga and all that posh stuff. We played board games and cards by the pool. I don't remember watching TV, it wasn't that kind of era. We amused ourselves; I remember going on walks in the countryside, cycling and going to the local shop to buy sweets." **To childhood friends, Ian and Mary seemed kind but a little remote. They recall Cameron and his siblings greeting their father rather formally and deferentially when he came home from work.** "I got the sense there was respect"** says one who used to play with Cameron as a child. **"When Ian came home from work, everybody said "Hello, Daddy." There was no talking back; I think Dave respected both his parents. Mary was quite frightening to me because she was so grand and proper. She was always impeccably dressed. She was quite abrupt with children; I don't know if she was particularly warm. She always seemed to be doing her own thing, she was very involved in the local church, and she was always involved with stuff in the village. They were all close, but I never saw any signs of affection, hugging and kissing and that kind of stuff."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_The bald facts of Ian Cameron's early life might not be expected to encourage the development of a positive outlook. In the language of the day he was born a cripple, his legs severely deformed from the knees downwards. A bout of German measles at the time of his mother's confinement was blamed, incorrectly, at the time, but the cause remains obscure. Its' effect was to shorten his legs below the knee and twist his feet, one of which had three toes, the other four. He had a series of operations in very early infancy to provide some relief to the problem-although after the age of three he was never particularly in pain-and straighten his legs, but while the rest of him suggests a man of about six foot two, he was actually about a foot shorter than that. The young Ian was sent away to boarding school, wearing specially adapted shoes. He went first to Betteshanger School in Kent where, because of his disability, he was made to have an extra hour's rest every day. At home, in London during the holidays, his mother treated him with a great deal of affection but also with some firmness. She believed that the effect of his disability had to be minimised, that he had to do as much as possible for himself. Friends say it was from her that he acquired much of his tough-mindedness and independence. All his life he felt in her debt for pushing him beyond what, at the time, he thought he was physically capable of doing...Donald Cameron did not cope well with having a disabled son, and it has been said he did not encourage Ian to believe that he would be joining him at Panmure Gordon, where he was a senior partner. Had the father seen more of his son at Eton he might have revised his opinion. Ian Cameron did not shine academically at school, but his peers learned not to underestimate his determination. A lifelong friend Ben Glazebrook remembers playing a rumbustious game of indoor football in a corridor at Eton. **"I had the ball at my feet...and I said "Oh yes, this is Ian, I can get past him." Suddenly my wrists were seized in an iron grip by Ian, because all the strength of his legs had gone into his arms and wrists. I virtually needed a course of physiotherapy after that. He had this amazing strength, and he was always incredibly resilient, courageous and outgoing. He'd never been shy, and he was always very open. He said, "I can do everything except ski", which I think he regretted."** He also enjoyed cricket and tennis, and at Eton, when he took part in the Field Game, the school's own soccer-rugby hybrid, he played in a position comparable to scrum-half where, on occasions, a low centre of gravity can be an advantage...Having qualified, he spent two years as a banker at Robert Fleming before joining Panmure Gordon, where he worked exceptionally hard to overcome the stigma that some had attached to his physique...Socially, Ian Cameron was no less determined to triumph over his disability. He moved out of his mother's house in Lowndes Square, near Harrods, into a flat of his own round the corner in Basil Street. **"Ian was always incredibly social"** remembers Glazebrook, who lived near by. **"He used to have endless parties with the most beautiful girls.".**.When the charming Mr Cameron set out to woo her, Mary Mount saw not deformity in him but spirit. He threw himself around the dance floor with the same gusto with which he had played football...In the early 1990s, Ian Cameron had to have one of his legs amputated and replaced by a prosthetic one, and in early 2006 he had the other one amputated, but as ever he minimised the inconvenience. In the latter year, he got an infection in one eye following an operation and lost the use of it. With two prosthetic legs and a walking stick, Ian Cameron had to succumb, to a degree at least, of being disabled. Speaking in 2006, Giles Andreae said **"Ian is one of the most confident and self-assured people I have ever met. I don't remember his disability ever being an issue. It wasn't that it was not discussed out of good manners, it just wasn't an issue. He's a breezy, sociable, outgoing, affable man. These are the qualities that would have had more effect on David."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Yet the influence of Ian's disability was enormous, if unstated. For a start the children had a constant reminder that their petty everyday complaints of childhood were minor indeed. **"Whingeing wasn't on the menu"** says one family member. Cameron himself has said he had a very strong relationship with his father. **"He was an amazing man." "Great optimist. Always believed the best about people and thought things would turn out OK."** It may be that Ian Cameron, while seeking to impart certain values, was anxious to protect his sons from the pressures-emotional and financial-that he had felt when growing up.** "(David's) parents were fantastic"** says Pete Czernin, an Eton friend. **"They were never pushy with their children; they gave them all implicit confidence without cockiness."** Yet for all the lack of witting parental pressure to succeed, Ian's unstated determination made him a hard man to live up to. Without wishing it, he set a high bar. Susan Rathbone agrees that, tactily, a standard was set. There may be, she says,** "a subconscious drive that Dave has got from Ian's incredible example. Ian had vast enthusiasm-which Dave inherited-and a sort of unstoppableness which I'm sure is very inspirational to live with."** When he was thirteen, Cameron is said to have told a friend: **"He is my role model. Dad has never let his disability hold him back. He has proved you can do anything you want in life."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Home was decidedly old-fashioned, if not notably bookish **("They are very country"** explains one friend.) Dinner was served upon the return of Ian Cameron promptly at 7.45pm. His children, once old enough to graduate from tea with their nanny, were expected to display immaculate manners. It was a house, recalls a guest, that still played parlour games. After dinner parties **"the ladies"** would withdraw to another room. But the Old Rectory was also hospitable, its swimming pool-the result of a big win on the horses-and tennis court always at the disposal of the children's friends (if not of other villagers, a cause of resentment among some.) From the youngest age, David Cameron lacked bashfulness. **"He was very articulate"** says a friend. **"I remember him liking a good argument. He was quite precocious from a very young age. He certainly knew what he thought.".**..The prevailing mood seems to have been one of contentment, rarely broken by parental displeasure. The boys went away to school from the age of seven, where a more explicit discipline would be taught, and the school holidays were something of a refuge from the pettiness of school. In any event, growing up with a large garden in a secluded part of Berkshire ensured that parental strictures would be minimal. Yet there was always a keenness not to disappoint. Those close to the family remember few occasions when either parent was moved to anger. Both of them exerted an implicit but benign authority, an enviable degree of control, which meant the children always knew where they stood. If standards had not been met, a quiet** "I see"** and a knowing glance would be sufficient. Indeed, this seems to have been enough to instil a strong desire to win parental approval.** "In some homes, where there are bright children, they can get the better of the father, but Ian was definitely the boss-he ruled the roost"** says a friend. It was, says Susan Rathbone, the widow of David Cameron's godfather, **"quite a tight household...you wouldn't get away with just lounging on the sofa. No beer cans on the carpet. It was a lovely, comfortable, delicious home, but there was no slacking."..**.This was true of school reports too, when the formality of the process alone would imply a certain seriousness. The children would be called in to see their father, who would read out the report before they had a chance to see it. Disapproval did not need to be obvious to be effective. It was clearly spelt out, though, on at least one occasion, when, a family friend remembers, Ian had been informed of a misdemeanour at Eton. David Cameron was firmly told that his father was not paying the hefty school fees in order for him to break school rules.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Among the first guests at his official country retreat in Buckinghamshire was his father, by then in a wheelchair. Cameron delighted in pushing him round the property, showing off its many treasures, which include the sword of Oliver Cromwell. (Reaching it involved going up a steep flight of stairs. In a touching scene, the son helped the father slowly pull himself up by the rope on the side.) Though he could no longer meet his father in White's, the private members' club to which they had once both belonged and where they would dine together when Cameron was in opposition, they continued to talk regularly. These were precious moments; just a few months later, Ian suffered a devastating stroke while on holiday with Mary and family friends in the south of France. Cameron and his brother took the first available commercial flight to Nice to be at his bedside. With Ian's condition rapidly deteriorating, the then French President Nicolas Sarkozy arranged a helicopter to rush them from Nice to the hospital in Toulon where he had been taken. They made it just in time to say goodbye. The following day, the Prime Minister returned to work and talked openly to colleagues about his loss. A senior Conservative aide says: **"He gave an account of what happened in the morning meeting the next day. It was quite moving. He was incredibly close to him and admired him immensely. He talked about it for ten minutes, saying how brilliant Sarkozy had been, laying on transport and so on, which made it all so much easier."** A member of his inner circle in Downing Street says Cameron still misses his father intensely: **"When his dad died, he was really, seriously moved, and I think he still thinks about him a lot, actually. Talks about him occasionally. His close family are very, very dear to him. He'll see things in his kids that remind him of his dad and will say, "That's just like my dad. He takes after my dad."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_Naturally enough, his parents were among the first visitors to Chequers in the months after Cameron had finally reached Number 10. Ian Cameron was by now wheelchair bound and had lost the sight of one eye. After wheeling him around the gardens, the young Cameron wanted to show off one of the house's rarer treasures: a fine room that features Oliver Cromwell's sword. The trouble was that it was up a flight of stairs. Ian Cameron, who had never given his disability unnecessary allowance, wasn't going to be prevented from seeing the full run of his second son's new estate. Telling the story later, Cameron said: **"There's a rope that goes up the stairs, it was a bit like going up the north face of the Eiger, he pulled and we pushed and finally he got there."** Asked by Chequers' waiting staff what he would like to drink, Ian Cameron ordered an old favourite-and enjoyed it to the full. **"That gin and tonic must have offered him one of the proudest moments of his life"** said a close friend of the family._

_Several weeks later, on 8 September 2010, Cameron was just turning his thoughts to that day's dominant event, his weekly appearance in the Commons for Prime Minister's Questions. It was 6.00 am. A call from his mother put a juddering stop to daily politics. She told him that his father had been taken seriously ill in the night and that the doctors attending him thought his family should be called immediately to his bedside. The pair had been holidaying with friends in the South of France at a hotel outside Toulon. It had been a good break but at 2.45 that morning Ian Cameron had what appeared to be a stroke. Mary Cameron called John Pender, a peer and friend Ian had known from school, from his room and he held his hand while they waited for an ambulance. When it arrived the paramedics at first sought to prevent Mary from travelling in the ambulance with her husband, quoting French ambulance protocol. The former chairman of the Newbury magistrates' bench travelled in the ambulance. _

_Now, as she sat in Toulon's Font-Pre hospital, she wanted her sons and daughters at her side. Together, they would say goodbye to this remarkable man. The logistics were against them; there was a commercial flight to Nice leaving from City Airport at 9.30 am but the airport was some way from the hospital. The redoubtable Liz Sugg got cracking. First the flight was delayed just long enough for Alex, Clare and David Cameron to get on board (although Number 10 denied that it was deliberately held.) More importantly, the Elysee Palace got involved. Nicolas Sarkozy, with characteristic energy, had ordered that the Camerons be provided a military helicopter to fly them directly from Nice airport to the hospital's helipad in Nice. That gesture allowed the Camerons to be at their father's bedside in the final moments. They arrived shortly before their father passed away. A family friend confirmed later that, without the French president's personal intervention, the Prime Minister would not have made it before his father died. Sarkozy gave the family the presidential retreat of Fort Bregancon, surrounded on three sides by the sea, to grieve in private for the rest of the day and that night. The siblings composed a statement put out through Number 10: **Our dad was an amazing man, a real life-enhancer. He never let the disability he was born with or the complications in later life get in the way of his incredible sense of fun and enjoyment. He touched a lot of lives in lots of different ways and was a brilliant husband and father. You could never be down for long when he was around. We will miss him terribly, but have a bank of memories that can never be exhausted.**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_To friends Cameron, perhaps defying the English stereotype, expressed his feelings about his father's passing with minimal sentimentality and with a full regard for how unhappy his father would have been to be further incapacitated. **"David was deeply anxious about the general deterioration of his health",** says an intimate, **"so he had mixed feelings of loss and relief that his dad had not had a slow and gradual deterioration."** A colleague confirms his family was worried about Ian, in the past the most active of men, being increasingly prone to infections and needing long-term care, a subject that had already been broached. **"He died on holiday"** said a close colleague, **"after he'd seen his son become Prime Minister and I think Mary Cameron had come to be at peace with the idea. There was more the celebration of a life lived than the sadness that a life had come to an end, and a faint sense of relief that he had been spared many years of care and pain."**_

_Recounting how father and son had inched up the stairs at Chequers that summer, Cameron said: **"We sat and had a drink together and a chat. He was very proud of what I was doing. He was always very worried about all the responsibility I was taking on. I didn't know it was "goodbye." His last bit of advice to me was, "Do the right thing." That was always his advice. My last memories of him are very happy."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Wednesday 8 September 2010. Cameron is up at 5.a.m. in the Downing Street flat and is soon working through his prime ministerial boxes. Four months into the premiership, he has an early-morning routine of working for two hours on the sixty or so items placed in them by his private office the night before, added to by the overnight duty team..At 6.a.m., his mother Mary disturbs his reading when she calls his mobile with worrying news about the health of his father, Ian, aged seventy-seven. They are on holiday in the south of France. Ian and Mary have four children: sons Alex and David, and two daughters, Tania and Clare. Cameron is immensely proud in his first months as prime minister to show his father his study and the adjacent Cabinet room in Downing Street, culminating in drinks outside on the terrace. Shortly before the Cameron seniors left for France, he invites him to Chequers. Ian had been born with no heels and is confined to a wheelchair so David pushes him around the mansion. **"I was determined to get him up the stairs, too. There's a beautiful room where there's Cromwell's sword"** Cameron says. **"He wanted to as well. There's a rope that goes up the stairs; it was a bit like going up the north face of the Eiger. He pulled as we pushed and finally we got there."**_

_Cameron pauses after his mother's phone call. His father is far from young, and had suffered health complications all his life, but the family has not expected any sudden deterioration. He picks up his mobile and calls Liz Sugg, the indomitable aide who organises his trips.**"My father is in hospital and I may need to fly to see him."** She logs the information calmly. At this stage, the family are still far from certain how serious the illness is and he debates whether he should go. He is anxiously preparing for the first PMQs since the summer recess...Cameron phones Tom Fletcher, his foreign affairs private secretary, to talk over the dilemma. Fletcher, although inherited from Brown's Number 10, is already much trusted and respected. While Cameron shuffles his papers and contemplates the health of his father, Fletcher calls Peter Westmacott, the British ambassador in Paris, and the Elysee, the French president's official residence. Sugg researches flights to the south of France....Time is rushing on. Cameron is still split between duty to his father and to his still new job, anxious to provide a strong lead at PMQs. News about his father's health is uncertain and confusing, but he decides on balance to go. His convoy sets out from Downing Street to London City Airport where Sugg is holding reservations on the 9.45a.m. flight to Nice. A short time into the journey, fresh calls suggest his father's condition may not be too serious. Cameron instructs the convoy to turn around. Then his mobile phone rings. He is told that Jean-David Levitte, Sarkozy's trusted diplomatic adviser, has some worrying news. Sarkozy has dispatched one of his private doctors in haste to the hospital in Toulon, and he is concerned.** "Go, go, go"** says the caller from Number 10.** "Get on the bloody plane."** At the same time, Sarkozy is speaking to Fletcher: **"Do your job and send him, just send him."** Fletcher calls the PM again and reasons with him: **"Why take the risk? Sarko is telling you to come."** Cameron calls Clegg and talks it through with him. The deputy prime minister readily agrees to stand in for him at PMQs. The two party leaders have become quite close. The prime minister's convoy turns around again and heads back towards City Airport. They are now running very late. It is touch and go if they will make the British Airways flight in time. The convoy speeds through the security gates and goes straight up to the aircraft. Cameron runs up the boarding stairs with his security team and staff and settles at the front of the plane. It takes off just after 10.a.m. They touch down in Nice shortly before 1.p.m. French time. The party are escorted to a French army helicopter laid on by Sarkozy to fly them to Toulon, where waiting French police drive them to the Font-Pre hospital. There he meets his mother and rushes to the bed to see his father, who dies shortly afterwards._

_Cameron has taken the right decision. In the hospital ward in the south of France, the world of Westminster politics seems a million miles away. He is able to say goodbye properly to his father. He adored him. Much of Cameron's philosophy of life can be traced back to the head of this very close, old-fashioned, very English, upper-middle-class family. They grew up in Peasemore in Berkshire, a small country village with a parish church opposite the house. The upbringing gave Cameron his sense of community, which was later to blossom in the Big Society's advocacy of localism. During the election campaign on Sunday 18 April (2010), Samantha's birthday, he had spoken in his parents' presence of their influence, at the Sun Inn, near Swindon. **"The Big Society...is thanks to my mum and dad. It's down to them"** he boasted proudly, before going over and kissing them._

_His father taught him the value of pragmatism. A Conservative, though not an ideologue, and a stockbroker, he imparted to his son the merits of fiscal conservatism and prudence with the importance of balancing the books. Earlier in his son's career, he advised him on investments; when Cameron became prime minister, it was deemed wise to sell them and it horrified Ian that it was done at such an inopportune point financially. Despite his disability, Ian remained a formidable figure, never letting his difficulties act as an excuse, and exuding throughout his life a calm authority and decisiveness, inherited by his younger son. **"My father is a huge hero figure for me"** Cameron says in an interview during the 2010 election campaign. **"He's an amazingly brave man because (of) his disability. But the glass with him was half full...I think I got my sense of optimism from him."** Ian was a huge bon viveur, a lover of a punt on the horses and the good things in life. He was completely single-minded about whatever he turned his attention to. Cameron would often talk about him, and how his confidence, grit and zest shaped him.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Sarkozy's timely intervention cements their relationship, which bears fruit in the months to come, notably over Libya. That early September night, Sarkozy offers the Cameron family use of the president's official residency on the Mediterranean coast, the Fort de Bregancon. The world's media has descended on the hospital so they welcome the seculsion. Cameron and his brother Alex stay up late drinking the fine wine that Sarkozy has instructed they are given. The loss brings the brothers even closer together._

_Ian's funeral is held on 16 September at Peasemore. The ceremony coincides with Pope Benedict XVI's speech to Parliament. Cameron has to miss the papal address but meets the Pontiff subsequently at a private audience. Cameron is institutionally, but not spiritually, religious. He enjoys the ceremony and rhythm of church services, but does not derive profound solace from them. His staff worry how the seismic blow of the loss of his father might affect him in the busy autumn political season now upon them. **"I am the sort of Englishman who cries at weddings, not funerals"** he says to reassure them. There is barely any time for grieving: He fits in a European Council between the death and funeral, and makes it clear it is business as usual. But there are to be many moments in the coming years, notably during the Jubilee and Olympics summer of 2012, when he becomes sad and nostalgic that his father cannot see him leading the country. He is distressed too that Ian never had the chance to see his grandchild, Florence Rose Endellion, born in Cornwall on 24 August, just two weeks before he dies...To have lost a much-loved son and a powerful and adored father in little more than a year, and entering Downing Street at such a young age, would have been a daunting prospect for any prime minister. Cameron is the linchpin, the steadying presence, who holds his whole family together. These formative experiences draw him even closer to Samantha, to his brother Alex, to his mother Mary, and to his three surviving children, as well as to his close circle, above all Llewellyn, Fall, Hilton, Osborne and Coulson.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon,_

_My dad was an extraordinary man, and a huge influence on me. He was born with a pretty odd deformity. Legs that were far shorter than they should have been, no heels and three toes on one foot, and four on the other. Sitting down, you would have thought he was well over six foot. Standing up, he was just over five. Obviously, we children never knew any different, so it didn't seem odd at all. It was only as we got older that we started to understand what a stigma had been attached to disability when Dad was growing up. I remember the shock when he told me as a teenager that his father Donald was so ashamed about the disability that he had forbidden his wife, Dad's mother Enid, from having any more children. Much later, my father's aunt, a wonderfully eccentric woman we called "Gav"-short for Great-Aunt Violet-told us that after Dad was born she had sat outside the hospital room night after night, worried that one of the other relatives would sneak in and "snuff him out with a pillow over the head." As a result, Dad grew up an only child, with a father who struggled to love him and who would leave his mother for a beautiful Austrian aristocrat who, just to make things complicated, was married to Great-Aunt Violet's brother-in-law. None of us children ever met our grandfather. Severely diabetic, possibly depressive and quite probably an alcoholic, he died in 1958, Dad's stories of playing sport at school, determined not to be held back by his disability, were both inspiring and amusing. As hooker in a rugby scrum-or in the similar position, "post", in the Eton Field Game-he would grab the ball between his short legs, heave himself up with his incredibly strong arms and shout at the rest of the pack to carry him over the line. Looking back, you wouldn't have had to be a psychoanalyst to predict that his condition, his start in life and his subsequent success would make him the most wonderful "can-do"optimist. And so they did. He was a glass-half-full man, normally with something pretty alcoholic in it. We all inherited his optimism-and his love of a good drink. But he taught us all more than optimism and a sunny outlook. He believed in hard work and responsibility. I recall him telling me that one of his proudest moments was looking after his mum and buying her a car after she was deserted by his father...So, family first, hard work, do the right thing, take responsibility. These were all part of his make-up-and things he wanted us to take on too._

_Us? When my parents were married they were told that they might not be able to have any children at all. The doctors didn't know if my father's condition was genetic, and Mum had been given warnings that she might not be able to conceive. But in the end there were four of us children. And that was a big part of the happiness: the large, argumentative but loving family...Dad kept us entertained with his great sense of humour and his eccentricities. He really did believe in fairies at the end of the garden. In later life he commissioned small statues of Oberon and Titania. I have a clear picture in my mind's eye of him tottering off down the garden, even after he had lost both his legs, armed with a whisky and soda so he could spend quality time chatting to them and to any others that might turn up. He also loved to impose obscure but apparently immovable rules, some based on his own experience, others seeming to come from nowhere. He forbade us, for instance, from becoming accountants, because he had found his own training so boring. Others were more obscure. **"Never sleep with a virgin." "Don't get married til you're twenty-six." "Never eat baked beans for breakfast."****"Always travel in a suit."** And the perennial-and probably essential, in a large family-**"Nothing in life is fair."** They tripped off his tongue and made us all laugh, and most of us obeyed most of them, most of the time.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_But for me those early days were disrupted by great sadness. On 8 September 2010, my father died. He had been an enormous influence on my life and was incredibly proud that his son had become prime minister, but I think he always worried about the effect it might have on Samantha and me and the family. I remember being so happy that I had got Mum and him to come to Downing Street and also to Chequers in August 2010 before we went on holiday, and before they made what had become an almost annual pilgrimage to a very pretty hotel in the south of France each September. At Chequers we made up a bedroom downstairs, because Dad was finding it increasingly difficult to move, but he was determined to see all of the house. So three of us helped to get him up the stairs and into the Long Gallery, where I could show him Oliver Cromwell's sword and Nelson's pocket watch. I know it meant a lot to him to have time alone with me then, and to talk about everything I was doing. By then Dad had had both his legs amputated, and had also lost his sight in one eye. He was becoming increasingly infirm-and it troubled him. He knew he was already a difficult person to care for, and that he would be an even trickier invalid. He said to me at the time,** "I'm feeling old and tired, nothing really works any more and I feel I'm going a bit dotty. The list of things I can do is getting shorter."** It wasn't a "goodbye" moment because I didn't know he was going to die, but I did feel that he was on quite a steep downhill track. Anyway, off we went to Cornwall, and before we got back with the newly arrived Florence, off they went to France. Early on the morning of 8 September, I was getting ready to prepare for Prime Minister's Questions when the phone by my bedside rang. It was my mum telling me that Dad had been taken ill-possibly some sort of stroke-and she was very worried. I immediately feared the worst and thought I must get over there with the rest of the family. Phones buzzed between all the siblings. Alex, Clare and I agreed to go. I called Ed Llewellyn to ask Nick Clegg to stand in for me at PMQs and rang Liz Sugg to see what flights were available to the south of France. The family converged on City Airport, and we were all about to board the BA plane when we rang Mum one more time to find out the latest news. She thought things had stabilised; he had had a stroke, but he wasn't getting any worse. At that moment I thought it best if I stayed behind, and I said goodbye to the others. But as I headed back towards Downing Street and PMQs there was an amazing intervention. Nicolas Sarkozy came through on the car phone to tell me that he had heard my father was unwell, and his office had spoken to the doctors concerned. They were worried that the stroke was potentially fatal. He said, **"Whatever you do, David, turn around and get back on the plane, and I will get you to your father."**_

_And that's what happened. As we stepped off the plane at Nice Airport, a helicopter was waiting to take us to the roof of the hospital where Dad had been taken. We all got to see him, but he was in a pretty desperate condition, having had what turned out to be a bad stroke and a substantial heart attack. We were able to briefly grip his hand before he was wheeled into one of those large lifts to be taken to an emergency room. At the very moment the lift door closed it seemed as if he suffered a further seizure. I remember Mum saying,** "Poor Ian. I hope they don't try and save him. I know that he's going."** When you have been married to someone for forty-five years, I suppose you're so close you even almost know when they want to die. It was extraordinary._

_Sarkozy then called to insist that we all stay at his official house, Fort de Bregancon, which is on a small and beautiful isthmus of its own fifty miles from Marseille. We were cooked a delicious dinner and sat reminiscing about Dad, drinking some of the president's best wine and brandy. We drank long into the night, telling more stories about our father, and telling each other that such a quick departure when he was happy and in a place he loved would have been what he wanted. Mum pointed out that while us remembering him over drink and food was **"what he would have wanted, he would have loved to have been here too." I**n the bay outside, two French navy patrol vessels stood guard, as did French soldiers over my father's body in the mortuary. These were extraordinary gestures, which I will never forget. Sarkozy and I were to have some great collaborations, particularly over Libya, and some ferocious rows, almost always over the EU. But without his intervention I wouldn't have seen my dad before his funeral. I will never forget that act of compassion.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Despite sharing his parents' atheism, which he says he did not inherit from them, Ed was also aware of his Jewish roots from a very early age. As children, both David and Ed accompanied their mother to Israel to visit their maternal grandmother, Bronislawa, who had settled there. Ed also went to friends' Passover dinners when he lived briefly in America. But there were moments of confusion: when he was seven years old, and a pupil at elementary school in Newton, Massachusetts, Ed was asked by his American teacher if he was an Episcopalian. Hesitating, and unsure of the distinction, he told her that he was, only to return home and recount the incident to Marion who threw her hands up in the air and told him: **"No! We're Jewish."**_

_Both the Miliband brothers would grow up to be proud atheists, with Ed telling a journalist after his victory in the Labour leadership election: **"I don't believe in God personally, but I have great respect for those people who do."** As for his Jewish identity, he has said that he feels Jewish** "because it's an important part of my heritage, but my parents were not religious and neither am I."** Ed is keen to tell friends and colleagues that his parents never told him what to believe or how to think, but that they did instruct him in the importance of having strong beliefs and thinking critically. This wasn't just a result of passively observing the meetings and discussions with Tariq Ali, Tony Benn and the rest; Ed's whole childhood was one long and intense lesson on the meaning of politics, the left, and the Labour Party. In one particularly revealing letter to Ed in November 1981 on the latest developments affecting the Labour left, Ralph wrote:** "If anyone else read this and did not know the way we talk, you talk; they would think I was crazy to be writing this to a twelve-year-old boy; but I know better, and find it very nice."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_(Catherine) O'Rawe's relationship with Ed was strictly platonic and they didn't ever date; in fact, she says **"He was just someone who always struck me **_ _**as being not that bothered about that kind of stuff."** Other friends say Ed did not have a single girlfriend during his three years at Oxford-nor did he go on many, if any, dates. **"I think maybe he was just focused on everything else."**_

_One exception to Ed's seeming obsession with politics was his fondness for soap operas. Again, childhood habits die hard. His Oxford friends remember him slinking off to the college TV room to watch Dallas, Neighbours, and occasionally, Eastenders. But beyond his soft spot for soaps, contemporaries struggle to cite any specific cultural interests.** "He went to see what everyone else went to see in the cinema"** said O'Rawe. "**He would come to the bar, but he didn't drink very much. It just never seemed to interest him. He would have a few drinks, but he would always be very in control. I remember him dancing-he was a terrible dancer." **_

_**"He didn't smoke or do drugs and he drunk very little" s**ays a friend. "**But I do remember him agonising over which chocolate bars to buy from the machine in the graduate common room."** Some of Ed's contemporaries from his Oxford days have described him as a **"geek"-**it is a charge that is denied by Gautam Modi: **"Edward was serious, but to say he was geeky-that wasn't him, because he didn't have his nose in a book."** Yet Mody also testifies to the fact that, unlike other undergraduates, Ed had no posters on the walls of his college room; he wasn't interested in movie stars or pop singers. He did, however, have a postcard of C.L.R. James on his side table. **"Our concerns were fundamentally political"** says Modi, defending his friend's seeming lack of a hinterland. "**Politics was at the centre of our lives."** For Ed, this focus on **"politics"** took several forms-the politics and political theory (from Marx to Rawls) that he was studying in tutorials with academics like Adam Swift, Andrew Glyn, and others; the practical politics and campaigns of the Corpus Christi Junior Common Room and Oxford University Labour Club; and politics at a national (and, for that matter, international) level-from the Poll Tax to the first Gulf War. Mody describes Ed's other, non-political interests as "**by the way.".....**_

_Ed's own Cambridgeport apartment was part of a "**triple-decker":** the three-story building common to the New England region of the United States, where each floor typically consists of a single apartment. It was minimally furnished and always neat and tidy. **"I remember thinking that this was a man who lives a life of the mind"** observes Fung. **"I don't know whether it was a condition of the scholarship but he spent most of his time reading and thinking and going to seminars and so on."** It is worth noting that, as in Oxford, Ed did not embark upon any serious relationships while at Harvard. Romance was not his priority. He knew why he was there: to read, study, think and reflect. **"He seemed to be completely focused on developing his politics for twelve or thirteen hours a day, which I found quite amazing"** says Fung-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan _

_Samantha, who describes herself as a **"New Testament Christian",** says that they **"could have been angry with God"**, but decided that they had been **"given"** Ivan to look after and had to do the best job they could...The graveyard by the church of St Mary Abbots is a surprisingly neglected place. Tucked away at the bottom of Kensington Church Street, an elegant strip of antique shops, patisseries and fashion boutiques, it is a piece of super-prime London real estate that appears to have been abandoned to the skeletons and weeds...Donations to the food bank are collected early on Thursday mornings, exactly the time Cameron sometimes visits. After dropping his daughter Nancy off at the Church of England primary next door, he occasionally takes a pew for some quiet reflection. Just how **"religious"** a Prime Minister he was has been the subject of considerable debate. Unlike Blair, whose administration famously didn't **"do God"** despite his strong personal faith, Cameron talked openly about his Christianity, with some honesty about the extent to which it expressed itself in regular church attendance. In his early days as leader, he answered questions about his faith in a circumspect, almost self-deprecatory way. In 2008, he borrowed Boris Johnson's line that his faith is **"like reception for Magic FM in the Chilterns: it sort of comes and goes."** A few years earlier, he described himself as a **"wishy-washy sort of Christian."** To Dylan Jones, he said hesitantly,** "I always find this difficult. I'm a typical "Church of Englander" and I believe there's a power greater than us and the life and work of Jesus Christ is an important guide to morality and action."** He went on to describe himself as a **"racked-with-doubt-and-scepticism"** believer. So he is religious, but no **"born again."** After becoming Prime Minister, Cameron seemed to become more relaxed about discussing his faith. He began making more frequent references to the Bible in speeches, and to the Gospels of Mark and Luke. **"The idea of a resurrection, a living God, of someone who's still with us, is fantastically important-even if you, as I do, struggle over some of the details"** he told Church leaders at an Easter reception in Downing Street in 2011. At a similar event in 2014, he went further in explaining his faith. He revealed that his **"moments of greatest peace"** come** "perhaps every other Thursday morning"** when he slips into the sung Eucharist at St Mary Abbots.** "I find a little bit of peace and hopefully a bit of guidance"** he says. He cited the vicar of his local church in Chadlington, Mark Abrey, as **"the person who looked after me"** after Ivan's death. **"I can't think of anyone who was more loving or thoughtful or kind"** he said. Then, in an article for the** Church Times**, he called on Christians to be **"more evangelical"** about their faith. To some observers, his faith is primarily cultural. Chris Patten, himself a prominent Roman Catholic, says: **"I think he's like a lot of members of the Church of England. He likes medieval churches, singing hymns, the Church Of England ritual...I wouldn't have thought God was a frequent household conversation, but I don't say that critically. I think he regards all that as a great part of national life."**_

_Certainly, Cameron had a firmly religious upbringing. As he explained in his piece for the **Church Times, "My parents spent countless hours helping to support and maintain the village church that I grew up next to."** Today, his mother is still on the flower-arranging rota of that church, while his brother Alex is chairman of the parish council..Yet despite his personal faith, Cameron's relationship with both the Church of England and the Vatican was strained as a result of his social liberalism.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_**"In terms of trying to "understand" what has happened, in some philosophical sense, actually I don't think you do need any explanation for it. I mean, some people do, and it does affect their relationship, their religion, either strengthening or weakening it, but I don't think in this case it has. His religion, while there in the background, is not the driving force of his life"** said (Ian) Birrell. Cameron has described himself as** "a pretty classic Church Of England" "racked with doubt and scepticism"** believer, although, until Ivan's arrival, it would have been hard to imagine Cameron being racked by anything. Indeed, Cameron's lightly worn Anglicanism is such that it has produced moments of unintended humour. The Catholic Herald, seeking to get a handle on the depth of his faith, asked Cameron if he believed in the resurrection. **"Yes, but I sometimes struggle with the big leaps"** said Cameron, as if coming back from the dead was a piece of cake. Cameron says he believes in God and is a Christian **"and I worship-not as regularly as I should-but I go to church."** A close friend, asked whether Cameron's view of the world had been altered by the birth of Ivan, said:** "He believed in a God before it happened, and he believed in a God after it happened, but he was pretty pissed off with Him."** When asked about it in late 2006, Cameron said to a journalist:** "A merciful God? These things are illogical. If anything it made me more religious. Obviously I pray for him. The truth is, the first person who says "some good will come of this", you want to thump really quite hard, but actually some good does come even of terrible things like this."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Ralph could often come across as a more austere figure-in public, if not in private. **"It wasn't a cold house"** Ed would later remark. **"It was warm, full of t**_**_he spirit of argument and conviction...the conviction that people of courage and principle can make a huge difference to their world."._._"The boys were treated as adults and equals and with respect from a very young age"_** _says Richard Kuper, a friend of Ralph and Marion's...It meant that both David and Ed matured much faster than other kids their age, and were more disciplined and driven...Overall the mood in the house was rational and analytical...While outwardly giving the impression of being relaxed about it to enquiring MPs-he told (Peter) Hain he would **"never forgive"** himself for not running just because his brother was-Ed was acutely aware of the problem. He thought about the personal implications. He knew David would, at best, be bitterly disappointed. But he wouldn't let his elder brother's disappointment prevent him from standing. Ed wanted it too much-and he believed he had every right to stand. Since he was a young boy, he had been encouraged by his parents and, in particular, his father, to be cool, dispassionate and analytical. There is no reason to believe David, brought up the same way, would have behaved any differently had the roles been reversed. Though Ed did agonise out loud to confidants about** "the David issue"**, he took a rational and intellectual, as opposed to an emotional or sentimental, approach...In the end, Ed put party before family-or, as his critics would say, he put himself before his brother. Did he think through the implications of his decision? Did he underestimate the risks to his family relations?...Anji Hunter...approached Ed. She told him to look out for his family, especially his mother, because the press, she said, would be all over that element to the contest. According to one guest, Ed appeared taken aback, as if he had not thought through how damaging the contest would be for Marion-and the family as a whole.** "Good point"** he said pensively._

_That is not to say that Ed did not think long and hard about **"the David issue"** but, as he himself now admits to friends, he "**underestimated how difficult"** it would be to go up against his own flesh and blood...Either way, the truth is that Ed Miliband, who doesn't like the word** "ruthless",** let nothing, including his immediate family, get in the way of his exceptional determination to be leader of the Labour Party.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_It wasn't a cold house, he'd said. But it had been, in truth._

_Or maybe not a cold house. Cold wasn't right. As David Miliband had said-or was going to say in his own speech-it could frequently be a rich and stimulating and lively house. Not a cold house. A political house. That was it. A political house. That was the source. The whole Brother Thing. It was just a politics thing. Everything in Ed Miliband's house had been a politics thing. Everything in his life had been a politics thing...The only thing that had real resonance in their young lives was politics. Girls. Toys. They were there in the background. But they weren't going to fight over them. Because at the end of the day, it was only politics that mattered. And yes, Ed Miliband had realised at a young age that politics was the way through to his father. And his mother. But politics was his route to everything. It was his route to his father. It was his route to his mother. It was his route to his brother. It was his route to university. It was the route to his career. It was the route to his friends. It was the route to the books he read. It was the route to the films he saw. It was the route to everything. It was the road map of his life.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition, And The Price Of Power_

_Half a century earlier, the actor David Niven had been expelled following a misdemeanour with a marrow. In the 1970s the principal target was strawberries-or more particularly the strawberries grown by Bar Edwards. Determined groups of small boys, David Cameron prominent among them, repeatedly mounted midnight raids on her kitchen garden, with a view to devouring her produce back in the dorm. This classically jolly jape ensured hours of hilarity spiced with the fear of discovery. Deep into the night, formidable matrons with torches would prowl the sleeping quarters in the knowledge that those whose beds were empty would most likely be found whispering among the soft fruit. Cameron more than once felt the sting of the clothes brush. Simon Andreae recalls similar escapades: **"Dave and I used to creep out of our dormitory windows to go midnight swimming in the school pool, which was freezing. Or we would have trysts with girls from nearby Heathfield School, in the graveyard which lay between the two."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_There were few luxuries at Heatherdown. The environment was tough. These were the days of corporal punishment, as Cameron Mi learned to his cost...Edwards admitted he was** "not wholly opposed" **to administering the odd thwack, though he claimed it happened rarely, and said he never used a cane. His tool of choice appears to have been a hairbrush, the sting of which Cameron experienced **"a couple of times"** for various misdemeanours, including once stealing strawberries from Mrs Edwards's garden. Speaking about such punishments (Rhydian) Llewellyn said **"The worst thing about it was that it was never done on the spot. It was scheduled for after breakfast the following morning. I was a pupil at the same time as Prince Andrew and he was beaten regularly. But then he was fairly bumptious."** Daniel Wiggin, another former pupil, has spoken of being beaten simply for **"taking my teddy for a walk in the corridor after lights out."**_

_Far darker forces may have been at work. One of Cameron's former masters was recently exposed as a paedophile...who appears in a formal school photograph with Cameron. (It is not known whether any former pupils have ever complained about his behaviour.).. Though there are no reports of abuse having taken place at Heatherdown, some former staff feel, in retrospect, that aspects of the regime were unduly harsh for very young children. **"Things have changed so much...In those days, corporal punishment wasn't frowned upon, and the parents were always in agreement. The view was that if there had been a misdemeanour, it was their fault and they had to be punished for it. When I became a mother, I realised I was probably quite hard, quite tough, on children who were really quite small. The thought of sending my own child away to school was horrendous."-**Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Today, very few children are sent to boarding school so young..He (David Cameron) says that it was an **"absurdly young age"** to be required to leave home. It was some comfort to him that his elder brother Alex was already a pupil...But Christine Calder, the school matron, said (it) was no easy place to start:**"The pupils only had thin blankets, the ceilings were full height with lino on the floors. The huge sash windows had icicles on the inside in the depths of winter...I must admit looking back now it was an unbearably young age for them to start."-**Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

_When I tell my children today about the schools I went to, and some of the things that happened in them, it all seems incredibly old-fashioned. For starters, going away to boarding school aged just seven now seems brutal and bizarre. Of course I was homesick at first. I remember having one of those plastic cubes with pictures of my family on that I would look at in bed at night with tears welling up in my eyes...._

_To say that Heatherdown was antiquated would be underplaying it. At bath time we had to line up naked in front of a row of Victorian metal baths and wait for the headmaster, James Edwards, to blow a whistle before we got in. Another whistle would indicate that it was time to get out. In between, we would have to cope with clouds of smoke from the omnipresent foul-smelling pipe clenched between his teeth. The school was tiny-fewer than a hundred boys-and the gene pool of those attending was even smaller. One contemporary of mine recalls that his **"dorm captains"** (yes, we had those too) were the Duke of Bedford and Prince Edward._

_The food was spartan. I lost a stone in weight during a single term. There was one meal that consisted of curry, rice-and maggots. In the school grounds were woods and a lake where we could play unsupervised in green boilersuits-it is something of a miracle that no one drowned. Punishments were also old-fashioned. They included frequent beatings with the smooth side of an ebony clothes brush. If I shut my eyes I can see myself standing outside the headmaster's study, hearing the ticking of the grandfather's clock and the thwack of the clothes brush on the backside of the boy in front of me, and feeling the dread of what was to follow.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_Cameron explained the complex, under-resourced and unhelpful bureaucracies parents faced in getting any sort of education for a disabled child. **"Even I, with a university degree, English as my first language, and three years in Parliament, taking up complex constituency cases, am finding the process of getting the right school for my son an impossible battle."** In the most moving passage, Cameron wrote: **"Ivan's only self-conscious movements are to raise his eyebrows and to smile. And his smile-slightly crooked, sometimes accompanied by a little moan-can light up a room. It never fails to make me both happy and immensely proud of him."** He wasn't to know it at the time but even as Cameron wrote those words, Ivan was losing his ability to smile. In his first years, there was a sense that his parents could communicate with him. They learned to make some sense of the slightest of signals. Little signs (a stretch, or a smack of the lips) seemed to mean **"more food."** Chief among these signals was his smile. Often Ivan would smile as soon as he heard one of his parents coming into the room. It was the sign that they were doing something right, that beyond the seizures and the contortion, there were moments of mild serenity. Through this slender but vital channel of communication they found that he liked animals (they took him to a neighbouring farm either at Peasemore or at Dean) and that he enjoyed feeling the wind on his face (so they took him for plenty of walks in his specially-adapted buggy) and going swimming (a constituency neighbour kept his pool suitably warm.) But now, awfully, the smile was fading. Over a three-month period when he was two he gradually stopped smiling. It went down to four or five times a day, and then nothing.....In one six-month period, Ivan had sixteen overnight stays in hospital. Two days after his sixth birthday Cameron cancelled a planned trip to Wales after rushing his son to hospital. On another occasion the boy's hip was broken during a particularly violent fit. Children with severe epilepsy are at constant risk that a seizure may go out of control, perhaps even fatally. And many of the sudden unexpected deaths in such cases occur at night. Ian Birrell put it starkly: **"Every morning you go downstairs and you are not sure if you are going to find your child alive or not in bed."** Ivan's fading smile wasn't the only sign of his condition's inexorable progression. By early 2006 he had lost the power to hold his head and could no longer cling on to a finger. In late 2008 there was an apparent breakthrough that seemed almost miraculous to Cameron-a new set of medicines unlocked Ivan's smile.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Since his birth in 2002, David and Samantha had spent days and nights with him in hospital, trying to control his seizures and make his life more bearable. Their terrible anxiety was that he might be in pain but they would not know. How could he tell them-not being able to speak or really move? More painkillers, while allaying their concerns in this respect, lost him his beautiful smile and his parents a great deal of joy. For while Ivan could not sit up and I never saw him eat other than through a tube in his stomach, he was a beautiful child with a serene presence, always watching his parents from his chair or from the special mound they had made for him in the garden...On the many occasions David has spoken with grateful respect for the men and women who work tirelessly in our health services, he often singles out the doctor who worked so patiently to bring Ivan's smile back. A little tweak here and there to the dosage, the doctor said, might just bring the light back into Ivan's face and cause him no additional pain.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_From an early stage, the Camerons had decided not to torture themselves searching for miracle cures. They accepted the medical consensus: that Ivan's disability was so severe he would always be wheelchair-bound. Rather than attempting to prolong his uncertain lifespan, they focused on his quality of life, learning by trial and error, and the smile that would light up his face, what made him happy. It was a frustrating process-Samantha has recalled taking him to the zoo only to find he slept through the whole experience-but it was worth it when something worked. He liked being in swimming pools-a kindly neighbour in Dean who has a private pool would keep it heated for him-and enjoyed feeling the wind on his face and looking at animals. Bruce Anderson recalls: **"They made him as happy as could be. He liked gurgling at pigs. There were pigs in a neighbouring farm at Dean, which belonged to a wonderful farmer, a splendid country character, who had only been to London twice. He would let his animals graze on the side of the road and was completely chaotic. They would take Ivan to see his pigs."** Cameron would also take his son to a family service at the local church, during which Ivan would sit on his knee. In the evenings, the pair would take a bath together, Cameron gently lifting the little boy in and out of the water without the aid of a hoist, not least because his son was **"lovely to pick up and cuddle."** He would joke with friends that Health and Safety types would have a heart attack if they knew. Though the strain was enormous, the Camerons found caring for Ivan hugely rewarding, particularly when they discovered something he found stimulating. He would turn to them and beam, which delighted everyone. His smile was slightly crooked, and sometimes accompanied by a little moan. It never failed to make Cameron, in his own words, **"both happy and immensely proud of him."-**Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_He used to take Ivan to a family church service where the boy would sit on his knee and he enjoyed being with other children and his father. **"I get a good hour with him, and we bond"** Cameron said. Someone who saw him regularly in church testifies to the warmth of that bonding. Giles Andreae witnessed the couple's love for Ivan from close quarters.** "It's amazing, quite surreal, when you see Ivan sitting on their knee"** he said in 2005. **"He's huge and they have him sitting like a little baby. There is utmost affection in their eyes. The way they have responded to that has been deeply and utterly extraordinary. You can only collapse into cliche. They think every day is a bonus. The material affection is tangible. It's unlike the parent of a normal child. There's nothing he can do, so what manifests itself is a kind of angelic aura, supported by the fact that he has a very beautiful face-big dark eyes and big eyebrows and full dark hair. The set of his face is very composed, which you kind of translate as "sweet." He's like a great big angel. You're kind of drawn to that goodness. They are genuinely passionate about him. It's a really moving thing to see."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

* * *

_ ** When you did Desert Island Discs, did you pick those songs yourself or did you get a little help with them?** _

_Ed:** I think-I sort of-errrrr-(close to home, giving himself away)-I got some help.**_

_-Ed Miliband speaking about his Desert Island Discs selection in 2019_

* * *

_""Why'd you talk to me every day?" she asked me, one day in the spring on the way to school._

_I didn't know whether to say it was because she talked to me every day or because I didn't have anyone else to talk to, or because I had a crush on her._

_"Why not?" I said and grinned._

_She shrugged. "Lots of reasons, really.""-Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_When I was young, her refusal to submit to me confused and wounded me, especially as I felt none of the usual reasons for refusal applied. I was her only child and she had no job, not back then and she hardly spoke to the rest of her family. As far as I was concerned, she had nothing but time. Yet still I couldn't get her complete submission! My earliest sense of her was of a woman plotting an escape from me, from the very role of motherhood..More than she knew or cared to know, she was someone who lived in her own dreamscape, who presumed that everyone around her was at all times feeling exactly as she was._

_Saturday was her "day off". Day off from what? Us.-Swing Time, Zadie Smith_

_Katie: Why are you being nice to me?_

_Effy: Life's too short._

_Katie (laughs): You are such a fucking cliche._

_-Skins,s4ep4, "Katie"_

_""Why do you keep saying that?"_

_"Because I see the way you look at me."_

_"Oh my God. You are unbelievable."_

_He laughs..._

_I shout over the noise, "I don't like you either." But he just laughs."-All The Bright Places, Jennifer Niven_

* * *

The Champs-Elysees is quieter than it would usually be, the Arc De Triomph lit up overhead, as they walk under the trees, but there are still some people about. Ed keeps his head down, every so often glancing at David next to him.

David gives him an amused glance. "What are you looking around for?" he says, with a laugh.

Ed glances at him, aware of the protection team a few feet behind them. "Don't you get nervous?" he asks, without thinking.

"You mean of getting recognized?" Cameron laughs a little. "You get used to it, I suppose."

Ed glances at him, the lights pouring from the Parisian windows around them, and David grins a little, head on one side. "Measuring the curtains again, Miliband?"

Ed rolls his eyes and swallows as he catches sight of the cut of Cameron's suit again.

When he'd looked up as Cameron opened the door, he'd had to pause and swallow, because Cameron-

Well-

He'd just looked-

Good.

Really-

His hair had been washed and brushed back, and his smile had dented dimples into his cheeks.

And his eyes had just been so _blue-_

Ed had stared at him, because the suit just fitted him so well, and-and it had just looked-

_You look lovely,_ Cameron had said and the words had flamed in Ed's cheeks, made him bite his lip and look down and pull at his suit, because-

It just sounded so-

And it was true when he said it back, he'd realised even as he spoke the words, and he's thinking it again now, heart hammering as he glances at Cameron next to him. Because Cameron just looks-he looks-

Cameron glances at him and grins again. Ed hastily averts his eyes, feeling colour flood his cheeks.

"Where are we going anyway?" he asks a little too snappily, his heart beating uncomfortably fast. He fixes his eyes on the Arc De Triomph, the golden lights that creep up the side of it, the lights that beam down from the trees overhead.

But when he glances again, Cameron doesn't look perturbed-indeed, his dimples deepen even further at Ed's tone."Just a restaurant I know. I've brought Sam and the kids here a few times and some others." He glances suddenly at Ed. "Incredibly posh. Five-star. Very exclusive."

Ed feels the heat rise to his face. "Oh. God."

"Something wrong?"

"I w-wish you'd th-said-" Ed glances down at his suit, plucking at it anxiously. "I-are you th-sure thith is all right-?"

Cameron doesn't answer. Ed glances up at him anxiously. "Do I-do you think I should go back and-"

He trails off at the sight of Cameron's teeth sinking into his bottom lip, barely suppressing a grin, shoulders shaking suspiciously. Ed stares at him for another moment-and then, the penny drops.

_"C-Cameron!"_ It comes out as a furious splutter. Ed's hand catches futilely at Cameron's sleeve, and Cameron waves his own hand, shaking with laughter. "I'm sorry" he chokes out, cheeks creasing in a grin as Ed glares at him. "But you should have seen the look on your face-"

He bursts out laughing again, as Ed glares at him. "It'th-s not _funny!"_ He glowers over his crossed arms and Cameron takes a deep breath, clearly struggling to restrain himself. "I'm sorry. Honestly."

Ed huffs, feeling like a child, and Cameron catches his sleeve. "Honestly. It was just a joke. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not _upth-set."_ The words sting a little. _"You_ don't have to worry about fitting-"

He snaps his mouth shut. David stares at him.

He falls silent for a moment-then, as Ed ducks his head and carries on walking, Cameron tugs at his sleeve. "You shouldn't, either."

Ed glances up at him a little sulkily. "Th-sorry?"

David tugs at his sleeve again, gently. "You shouldn't. Worry about fitting anywhere."

Late-winter early darkness makes it difficult for Ed to make out David's features clearly, but he thinks he can make out a tinge of colour appearing in his cheeks.

"Well-" Cameron clears his throat suddenly, voice a little more clipped. "Why wouldn't anyone like you?"

Ed laughs before he can stop himself. "I'm sure some of your friends could give them plenty of reasons."

The words hang in the air between them and Ed's laughter dies away quickly.

It's Cameron who says quietly "Well. I wanted to talk to you about that."

Ed feels the colour rise to his cheeks again. He bites his lip.

It's Cameron who squeezes his arm. "Honestly" he says, a little quieter. "You shouldn't worry about that."

Ed laughs again, this time with even less humour than before. "You're the only one that thinks so, then."

Cameron's brow creases. His fingers squeeze Ed's sleeve a little tighter. "Why wouldn't people like you? I do."

Ed blushes. He knows he's blushing, and that makes it worse. He glances down at his feet.

"Thankth" barely comes out and when he glances up, there's a definite tinge of colour in Cameron's cheeks now-

Cameron gives him an awkward little tap on the arm (_Awkward._ When was the last time he saw Cameron look _awkward?)_ and they keep walking, but a little closer this time, their shoulders brushing.

It's Cameron, once again, who breaks the silence. "You have to admit, Miliband, you weren't surprised that I'd take you to a fancy restaurant-"

"I wath-I wath-sn't _not_ surprised-"

"You thought typical _Etonian,_ would take you to a fancy elitist restaurant-" Cameron's grin is teasing and Ed can feel his own aching at his mouth. "I'd have thought you'd pick me up on all that Bullingdon privilege-"

"I wath-s about to-I was just-"

"Ah, so you _do _think I'm a typical old Etonian-"

"Oh, shut up, Cameron-"

The argument takes them the rest of the way there, giggles breaking loose in their chests and their arms bumping each other every few moments and, despite the events of the day, despite where they are, for the first time in a while, Ed feels like he's having fun.

* * *

The restaurant is quiet, which Ed expected. Cameron greets the waitress with the customary grin and a flicker of a wink, and Ed watches him a little enviously.

Not just enviously.

Cameron always looks so relaxed. As if he just fits his skin.

Ed doesn't exactly not fit, but-

It can feel as if he's trying to work out _how_ he fits, and-

Ed's pulled out of his thoughts by the waitress showing them to a table.

It's near the back of the restaurant-private, but not too private. But it is far back from the windows, which, Ed suspects, was probably Cameron's motive for picking it.

The waitress has given them menus, and pours glasses of iced water. Cameron gives Ed a quick grin and says something to her in something which, to Ed, doesn't sound much like French.

The waitress frowns, tilts her head to one side. _"Pardon?"_

A tinge of colour appears again in Cameron's cheeks, and he gives Ed a rueful grin. "I'll wait" he says, adopting the louder tone that the English often do, as if that might translate better into whatever foreign language they have failed to master.

The waitress's brow creases at that, before suddenly clearing. "You wait for your friend? Fine." She gives them a smile, the words having been uttered in near-perfect English. Ed can barely stifle a smirk.

Cameron meets his eyes, already grinning, cheeks still flushed. "Go on, Miliband. Let's hear it."

Ed just smirks at him. "It was similar to how it is every Wednesday, Prime Minister-you try to sound coherent-"

"Hilarious." Cameron looks distinctly unruffled, as he takes a sip of his water. "I was never much cop at French. If Nick was here, he'd still be having a conversation with the staff."

"He speaks more, doesn't he?"

"Four, I think. French, Spanish-Dutch. I can't remember if there's another one." Cameron shakes his head. "God knows how he does it."

"I never much liked languages." Ed takes a sip of his own water. "I liked Maths. Well-numbers, anyway-"

He's always been fond of numbers. He loves how much sense they make; how there's always a logical, incontrovertible answer, if you work long and hard enough. That eventually, whatever the question is, it will make sense, proof on the page, in black or white.

Cameron's grinning, Ed notes with some trepidation, but it isn't the usual teasing grin. There's something softer in it-almost fond.

The thought sends a prickling up and down Ed's spine, and he speaks a little too quickly. "What about you?"

"Art." Cameron speaks almost without hesitation.

"Oh yeah, you said-"

"Loved art." Cameron grins. "Took myself off to Florence one holiday, spent three days taking in the museums. Dad always encouraged it."

Ed loves the way Cameron's eyes soften when he talks about his father. It's something that gives him a pleasant squirming in his chest, a sudden, deep fondness that makes him avert his eyes for a moment.

He blinks. He _loves?_

"How old were you?" he asks quickly, hoping to disguise his own sudden discomfort.

Cameron's perusing the menu. "Can't remember exactly. Fifteen or sixteen, I should say." He grins suddenly. "Thought I could be an artist, then. Or an art historian."

"Why didn't you?"

Cameron stares at him for a moment, and then bursts out laughing. "Would that have suited you, Miliband? Cleared the path a little-"

"N-no-" Ed's mouth twitches treacherously.

Cameron points. "See. You thought it, even for a second-you did-"

_"Didn't-"_ It comes out sulky and through a reluctant smile, and Cameron grins again.

_"Did._ _And_ you thought I was going to take you to a fancy, five-star restaurant where you have to book seven months in advance-"

"Th-seven _months-"_ Ed's laughing now. "You wouldn't have imagined seven monthth-s ago-"

His voice trails off. Cameron's still laughing.

"Still. No-one can say I don't _know _you, Miliband."

His voice too trails off and Ed meets his eyes slowly. "Yeah" he says, a lot more quietly now. "I th-suppose."

Cameron doesn't try to recapture the laughter of a moment ago. Instead, he tilts his head, taking Ed in curiously.

"What is it, Miliband?" he asks, a little quietly himself this time.

Ed swallows, glances at his empty plate, then takes a deep breath.

"It'sth just-_this" _he says, gesturing across the table between them. "Thith-this. Us. How does this work? How do-

_How do we work?_

But that's ridiculous. He and Cameron aren't a _we._

Are they-?

Cameron opens his mouth, and Ed speaks quickly. "I mean-come on. Look at us last week-" He takes a breath. "I know we're going to th-say things about each other. Of course we are. But-I don't know-we say things about each other and then we're like _thisth."_ He gestures between them once again across the table. "I mean-I don't know-" He looks down at his plate, at a loss.

Cameron speaks slowly. "Are you saying you don't want-to be like this?"

Ed's head jerks up. "No!" The word comes out a little too quickly, and Cameron-

Well, his _face-_

It just _brightens._

It had been tense. The smile had been careful. But the second Ed speaks-

It just _lightens._ The tension falls away. He looks just-almost _incredulous._

Ed stares at Cameron for another moment and then remembers it's his turn to speak. "I mean-no, I don't want us not to be like this." He can feel colour creeping slowly up his cheeks. "I like us being like this-"

He stops dead. He can't look up. He's blushing, he knows it.

He can feel Cameron's eyes on him and he has to count to five before he lifts his head to meet Cameron's gaze.

Cameron's just watching him, with his head tilted to the side. His eyes are creased a little. There's a hint of a smile playing about his mouth.

Ed has to speak. "But we are going to th-say things about each other-"

Cameron's eyes are on his. "Well, yes. Of course we are. I believe we've both already _started_ to, Miliband-"

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it begrudgingly. "But it's going to make things difficult, ith-sn't it?"

Cameron grins a little. "Why do you think I needed to talk to you?"

Ed shrugs, and Cameron takes another sip of water.

"We could always try not meaning any of it" he suggests, eyes widening deceptively in such a way that Ed can't entirely tell if he's joking or not. "The insults, I mean-"

"But I _do_ mean it-" Ed stops. "I mean-I don't. Not the insults, obviouth-sly. But-" He meets Cameron's eyes. "You _know _we mean to attack each other's policies. We _disagree_, Cameron."

"Of course." Cameron doesn't look perturbed in the slightest by this. "But that doesn't mean anything personally."

"I know. It'th juth-that-"Ed chews at his lip. The waitress deposits a basket of French bread on the table while he's thinking, and he reaches for a piece unthinkingly.

"Here-" Cameron takes it from him, even as it reaches Ed's mouth. Ed stares, surprised. "What are you-"

Cameron winks and begins buttering it for him. Ed bites his lip. "Oh. Thanks." The wink seems to flutter in his chest.

He watches Cameron buttering for a moment, and then it almost bursts out. "But th-see, it's going to get _complicated._ We'll be th-sitting here, knowing what we're going to be th-saying and being nith-ce and you know, when we're planning some _attack-"_

Cameron sets the bread down on Ed's plate, with a thoughtful "Hmm" in the back of his throat.

"What if-" He pauses, buttering his own bread with exaggerated care. "What if we made some sort of deal?"

Ed frowns. "A deal?"

"Yeah." Cameron takes a bite of his own bread, and Ed, remembering, picks up his own. "A deal."

Ed stares at him suspiciously over his own bread for a moment-then freezes with it halfway to his mouth. "I'm not telling you campaign th-secrets, Cameron!"

Cameron, yet again, bursts out laughing and consequently almost chokes on his bread. Ed gets up and makes his way round, awkwardly patting Cameron on the back.

Cameron manages to recover his breath and his sense of humour at almost exactly the same moment. "See, Miliband-" He grins, even as Ed rolls his eyes and, with a final, awkward pat on the back, resumes his own seat.

Cameron's still grinning. "We go out for dinner and you try to kill me-"

"Tried to _kill_-_you're_ the one who can't _shut up_-_suicidal _more than anything-"

Cameron's shaking his head mournfully. "Honestly. It could be an elaborate murder plot-" He winks.

"Tried to kill you_-bullshit_ I tried to kill you-"

Cameron, who had seemed to be regaining some control over himself, now dissolves into more laughter. _"Bullshit?_ Did you just say _bullshit?"_

Ed feels the heat creep up his face and scowls.

Cameron's still laughing. "Rather rebellious, aren't you, Miliband-"

"Oh, shut up."

Cameron laughs harder and then seems to regain some sensibility with a considerable effort. "Talking of campaigns-" He wipes at his mouth with a napkin. "I'm not asking to know your campaign secrets. I don't need to know how to lose-"

"Is that your area of expertise? You did _nearly _get a majority last time-"

"Because Labour defended their record so _brilliantly."_ Cameron beams. "As I was saying. I meant some sort of deal where we-I don't know-warned each other. If the attacks were going to be-personal." Cameron meets Ed's eyes before he can protest. "Which they are."

Ed swallows. He looks down at his plate.

"Shouldn't you have taken me to Granita for this?" he mutters, and glances up hopefully when Cameron laughs.

"It's just-this wouldn't be betraying our campaigns. And it would only apply to personal attacks."

Ed eyeballs him, mulling the offer over. It could work. But-

"We'd have to trust each other" he says, not looking away from Cameron. "Wouldn't we?"

Cameron grins. "Problem with that?"

Ed arches an eyebrow in return.

"You can do better than that, Miliband-"

"Well, you _know _what I mean. It's not that I _don't _trust your word-"

Ed purposefully doesn't look at Cameron.

"It's that I'm not meant to" he says, more quietly than he means. "Neither are you."

He glances up to see Cameron too, looking thoughtful. His lips are pursed and Ed finds himself watching them, noticing how pink and full they are.

"I've got an idea."

Ed blinks and jerks himself out of his daze. Cameron's watching him, looking smugly triumphant.

"What?"

"You tell me one personal thing you're going to say about me by the end of the night." Cameron beams. "And I'll tell you one. Just to start us off."

Ed blinks. "How on_ earth_ does that mean we can truth-trust each other?"

Cameron shrugs, reaching for another piece of bread. "It doesn't. But it helps to break us in. And I'll be going as much on trust as you are." He arches an eyebrow at Ed. "You could just as easily hold back on your end of the deal as I could. And it's not as if we're giving each other any advantage by doing it. It's just-bracing each other for anything personal. Nothing to do with techniques, or anything like that."

Ed is silent, thinking.

"You don't have to tell me it now" Cameron says, correctly guessing the trajectory of Ed's thoughts. "Just by the end of the night."

Ed hasn't enjoyed not speaking to Cameron. And this could be just as damaging to Cameron as to him.

And as mutually beneficial.

He'd have just as much power as Cameron does, in this, at least.

And if Cameron doesn't misuse it-doesn't break his word-

Well.

Ed doesn't think he will, either.

He meets Cameron's eyes across the table. "All right" he says. "Deal."

Cameron grins and extends a hand. Ed watches him for a long moment before he takes it and slowly shakes, up and down.

Cameron's fingers are warm and strong around his own.

The thought makes Ed's heart rapid, for some reason.

When they break apart, Cameron gives him a grin. "Excellent. Now let's order some wine, I'm gasping."

Ed rolls his eyes. "You can choose" he says, when Cameron extends the menu. "I don't-really know much about it."

Cameron grins. Ed blushes. "I th-suppose we don't have much at home."

Justine's never been a big drinker. Neither's he. That had been another reason they'd seemed right together. Another box ticked.

Ed frowns.

Another _box-?_

But Cameron's musing over the menu with a little crease between his eyebrows, and a purse of the lips that sends a faint little wriggle through Ed's chest, and it's easier to lose himself in this for a moment, than think about himself and Justine, or indeed, why he doesn't want to think about them.

* * *

Marion put the boys to bed, and by the time Justine's been home a few hours and goes to check on them, they're both fast asleep. She closes the doors, relieved.

Justine often feels as though she's trying to feel her way through when she kisses them goodnight. It was easier when they were smaller, when their chatter came in the sound of baby gurgles and they could get used to anyone or anything holding them, waving in front of their eyes. She made sure they did, as soon as possible, handing them over to Marion as often as she could, and a nanny as soon as they were sure it wouldn't make the headlines, along with the kitchen and bathrooms and first-class plane seats they've kept hidden safely away from reporters and press officers and whispers of _champagne socialism._

Justine hates the words. She doesn't think she's a socialist, though she'd hidden that from Ed when they'd first met, careful to make herself sound ambiguous, and he'd heard what he wanted to hear, as maybe she'd relied on.

But she's always done her best. She has, and so's Ed, and it was easier when the boys were tiny enough that she could burble her way lackadaisically through _Goodnight, Moon_ with them, hoping they were too little to notice the boredom stretching her tone, the struggle to widen her eyes with sufficient enthusiasm at each intonation of the childish words.

She goes downstairs and feels her shoulders sink with relief the moment she casts her eyes over the legal briefs waiting for her on the sofa, as she folds herself down carefully onto the brown cushions. She knows work. She understands work. It's the way she can slot things together. The way she can conjure a sense of the world.

She can put the arguments together and gather up far-flung facts from hours of painstaking research and assemble them into sentences, into a speech, into a verdict. A verdict that she won't give, but that she'll have helped shape.

She'd managed a few days off with each boy-endless cooing and always holding them a little too tightly or a little too loosely, and not even being disgusted by the constant changing of nappies.

She'd have welcomed _disgust_. _Disgust _would have broken up the monotony.

She'd lain awake, instead, and felt only a creeping sense of terror. Terror at the thought of the cases crawling on without her, at the assignments she'd be missing. She'd told Ed it was new mother's worry, because he took fitting themselves into parenting roles even more seriously than she did, and then he'd suggested bringing the baby_ in_ with them-she can't remember which one it was, Daniel or Sam, she thinks it might have been Sam-and whichever one it was, she'd had to take a deep breath and force a smile, so she didn't grab the pillow and scream and scream and scream at the thought of the baby being_ in_ with them, of the mewling, squirming, _needing _little baby being _there_ at the side of her bed, so near to her skin, seeping even into her dreams.

She'd managed to say no and soothe him and then she'd turned her face into the pillow and bitten down on it so she didn't cry out at the thought of all the work at the office that would be slipping away from her, all the ways that she'd be being left behind, that she wouldn't _matter-_

When she'd been able to go back to work the second time-because that was the worse time, somehow, with everyone knowing and cameras wanting interviews and pictures and wanting her to be smiling, smiling, smiling at the baby-after the days had dragged out and out, until she'd wanted to shake them when they cried, scrub the tears off the precious little face that everyone had _oohed _and _aahed_ over after that photo shoot, Daniel squirming in her arms, blond little head butting back, digging into her chest, and not looking at the camera, not making it easier and just _looking_, even when she tried to _point_ for him, for pity's sake, and all whilst she was trying to force herself to laugh and gaze at the baby (it had still felt like _the baby_ then, even with _Samuel Stewart Thornton_ scribbled on his birth certificate) the way a new mother_ should_ gaze at her baby-she'd had to force herself to press her lips to each of their heads in a quick kiss, force out a promise that she'd be back later, and once outside the door, almost fall back against it, weak with relief and the words wrapping themselves around her brain-_Thank God. Thank God._

It's normal, she tells herself now, putting these things firmly to the back of her mind, the same way she did when their friends laughed after Ed's _Desert Island Discs interview_, the one they'd carefully sat down with Tom and Marc and the others to plan out in their living room, and said they'd never heard either Ed or Justine listen to _Angels_, and Justine had laughed and shrugged and made a note to herself to play the song a couple of times, just to remind herself how it goes.

She needs to work, because work is how she shapes things, how she stands up for people. Work has always been here, her way to do something, her tool to grab hold of.

She remembers back when she was little, her father going to work in the morning, often when she and Alex were still in bed. He wouldn't be home until late, and sometimes Justine would creep down and sit on the stairs and peer through the bannisters in her nightie. Her father would be talking in the kitchen and Justine would listen, trying to catch the words, the same way she tried to catch onto her father's name, _Stewart_, slid between her own on her birth certificate, _Justine Stewart Thornton_, because her parents had wanted a boy. It just meant they thought she was as good as one, that's all, and that's why it didn't matter what the girls and boys at school said, because they didn't understand what mattered.

Her fingers would curl around the bannisters and she'd press her head against them, trying to pull her father's head round with her thoughts, grab his eyes and pull them round with the words _Please, please, please,_ trying to drag his gaze round and up, to make him look up at the stairs and see her and smile.

He only ever looked up when he came upstairs and Justine would already have fled back to her room, burrowed away under the covers, something hard and aching in her chest.

She always hoped he'd come and look in on her, brush her hair off her face, even just crack open her door to look at her, but he never did.

She worked hard to make herself forget it and remember that didn't matter and what mattered instead, and when she brought home spelling tests with full marks and she was the first in her class to know her times tables, he nodded approvingly, which made Justine feel as though her chest was swelling. She'd known, then, what work could do. It wasn't Dad's fault. He had to work and Mum had to teach, and so she and Alex had to be grown-up, and she'd just been slow and stupid and not mattering to not realise it, the sort of person who _doesn't make a difference._

Alex wasn't as grown-up as her, but then Mum hugged him more and he was smaller, but sometimes, just sometimes, their dad would take Justine into his study and teach her the names of different parts of the skeleton or translate a few sentences into Latin for her or get her to recite the periodic table. Once, he patted her hand after she recited every element correctly three times, without making a mistake, and Justine had cradled it to her chest, not wanting to wash it until she went to bed that night.

Work was important. Justine knew that. She would get good marks and her father would be happy. She would take drama as an extracurricular activity that might make some money for university, because that was showing original thought. She would have a great job, that did something her father thought mattered, that would make a difference. She would marry someone responsible and sensible and suitable, that her father would like. She'd have two children, so they weren't spoilt, but there weren't too many.

She would do these things and she would matter.

Work was the most important thing. She knew without having to be told. And it had to come first, the way that she told herself when she walked to school-_You're old enough to take Alex, aren't you, sweetie? Only Daddy and I really do need to get going-_fingers folded tight around Alex's wrist, because he didn't understand, he wasn't grown-up enough, and he needed to learn to, and her breath held tight in her chest, so she wouldn't breathe in any of the car fumes and damage her brain, because her brain was what she needed for her work, and her work was what would make her matter.

_It wasn't a cold house_, Ed had said to her once, when they'd first known each other, and she'd asked him about his family. That was one of the first things he said, quickly, immediately, for all the world as if she'd stated it to him. And she'd shaken her head, as he glanced at her nervously, because _no,no, no, of course not_. It was one of the things that had made Ed a suitable boyfriend, she had thought later. He understood work, he understood what had to come first-and he was Labour, which was another good thing, another thing that would slide together well with her parents' lives, with her father.

Now, Justine thinks about the night she told him he should stand, and then firmly picks up her own papers and begins to read them.

It's people like her and Ed who can make a difference. To show all the people who said they couldn't, that there's something better, that they can make a change, make things matter. The boys will understand. She did. They will, too.

That's why now, when her father rings every two weeks, and asks about the boys, she tells him they're fine, well, healthy. She'll slip in occasionally a detail about school, or a walk in the park, the way they're learning to for Ed's speeches, _so people can relate more_, Stewart says.

Then she'll move on to the work she's doing, whatever case she's working on, and she'll sense his approving nod, and she'll swallow, shoulders sinking in relief.

She loves them, of course she does. She must do. Mothers love their children. So do fathers, so he must love her, he must do.

She begins reading the brief, folding her legs over, feeling again the gratitude sinking into her shoulders that the boys are asleep.

She just has to make priorities, and it's easiest when they're away. Asleep, quiet, safely in Marion's flat, down in the basement with their nanny-just _away_ so she can work more easily, away from her.

* * *

"How did you, then?"

David glances up at Miliband over the bowl of escargot.

He'd persuaded Miliband into ordering it. _Persuaded_ might be too mild a term-Miliband's eyes had stretched comically wide when David had suggested it.

_"Snails?"_ he'd spluttered, in a tone that suggested David had just asked him to lick the pavement.

It had been an effort for David not to burst out laughing. "They're delicious. Thought you were supposed to be open-minded-it's _multi-culturalism_, Miliband-"

"Open-minded, not _suicidal-"_

David _had_ burst out laughing, then. "Suicidal? _Suicidal?_ They're _snails-"_

Miliband had been giving him that look of exaggerated patience David is all too familiar with from across the chamber, but tonight, it had teased him into the jibe that comes easily, because he'd loved the indignation that had narrowed Miliband's eyes.

"Chicken, Miliband?"

Miliband's eyes had narrowed still further and David had been able to order a bowl for them to share-_"You're _eating them if I don't like them, Cameron-"

Now, David grins and reaches for a snail, stabbing it carefully with his fork. "How did I what?"

Miliband shrugs and toys with a snail cautiously. David grins, slipping one into his mouth. "You were talking about th-Sam-"

"Oh-" David grins, mind drifting back to that holiday, Clare gesturing to Sam next to her-"This is Sam. You know her, you idiot, you've met her before-"

"Actually, when she was sixteen" he says, taking another snail. He feels his brow furrow. "Or eighteen, maybe. We have a slight disagreement on that, neither of us can remember properly. Though we didn't talk properly the first time we met. She was at one of Clare's parties-they were friends at school-" He chuckles at the memory of the young girl Sam had been then, the girl whom Clare had rolled her eyes at when David had asked her name, as if David's very existence was something she needed to apologise for. "This is my brother, David. This is Sam-" and Sam had looked up at him a little uncertainly, dark blue eyes almost drowning in black eyeliner-their gaze wavering a little, perhaps from a little too much of Clare's pilfered alcohol-from under a curtain of dyed black hair, and muttered a little "Hi, David", chewing at her lip as she did so. David had stifled his amusement with great difficulty, taking in the handmade-admittedly well-skull-patterned black skirt and the chipped black nail varnish with a stab of something like fondness as they shook hands awkwardly.

"She was a sulky little goth, then" he says, taking another snail on his fork. "I was at Oxford. We didn't properly get to know each other until she came on holiday with us a few years later. She was at art school, then. I was working for Lamont."

Miliband's eyes drift to the snail, and then away, and David grins and waves it tauntingly. "Come on, Miliband. You said you'd try-"

Miliband rolls his eyes, reaches out for the fork, and nearly knocks his glass of orange juice over. He blushes, a deep, fiery scarlet. David acts as if he didn't notice, then deliberately, as he proffers the fork, knocks his own knife into his lap.

He grins at Miliband, picking it up. "Sorry. Always doing that-"

It's a complete lie, and David drops it again, thinking he might as well.

It's a complete lie, but it makes Miliband smile, so David considers it worth it.

"Here-" he says, and maybe it's because the table's so small or maybe it's the relief of seeing Miliband smile again, but somehow-

Somehow, David leans over and puts the fork up to Miliband's mouth.

He catches himself a second too late, but there's nothing he can do about it, now. Nothing except-

"Open." He says it in the same singsong voice that he uses with Flo, when she won't eat the last two spoonfuls of baked beans.

Miliband's eyebrows arch incredulously. "I'm not a _ch-"_

David slips the fork gently into his mouth and has the satisfaction of seeing Miliband's eyes stretch impossibly wide, his cheeks flushing so beautifully that-

Wait.

_What?_

_Beautifully?!_

_Miliband?!_

David's still reeling when Miliband gives him an impatient look and gestures. David pulls the fork back a little too fast, his mind still screaming at alternate moments _beautifully?!_ and _Miliband?!_

Miliband hardly has a beautiful expression on his face now, with the scowl he's giving. David has to fight not to burst out laughing, even as Miliband chews reflectively.

"Knew it." He leans back triumphantly. "Knew it. You like it. _You like it-"_

"I didn't th-say that-" Miliband says it in his usual slightly huffy tone, and something about it makes David want to laugh even more.

"You didn't have to."

"And you could have _choked_ me."

"It was a necessary evil, Miliband. I was expanding your horizons-"

Miliband snorts. "Neth-eth-"

He blushes. David feels a pang of something. Something that's-

Miliband's gaze moves over his shoulder. "Doesn't that ever bother you?" he says in an undertone, his eyes drifting to the tablecloth. David glances over his shoulder, but sees only his protection team.

He glances back to see Miliband hurriedly helping himself to three snails at once. He freezes, and David hastily pretends to be fascinated by a piece of artwork on the wall, suppressing a laugh with great difficulty.

"The protection team?" he asks, taking a snail for himself and surreptitiously turning the bowl towards Miliband. "You get used to it, I suppose. Sam was a bit like that-" He nods at the way Miliband is peering over David's shoulder. "The first few times we went out after the election." Saying "After I became Prime Minister" sounds a little odd.

"Must have been difficult."

"The first time, she asked me who the strangers watching us at the next table were because she'd kept seeing them the whole night, and should we call the police. I think she panicked more when I told her they _were_ the police."

Miliband laughs a little and David waits for the question. He waits for Miliband to bring up Justine. Because when he brings up Samantha, Miliband should bring up Justine. Because that's how this works, isn't it?

Then again, Miliband doesn't seem to work the way everything else does, or at least, not with David.

He doesn't bring up Justine, and David could ask but he stops himself. The silence isn't awkward.

It's never really awkward with Miliband.

He could ask, but he doesn't. Instead, he just sits back and grins to himself, and watches Miliband steal more than his fair share of snails.

* * *

It's not until the steaks come that Ed thinks to ask "What did you like about her?"

"Who?" David's already tucking into his French fries. Ed helps himself to his own, only now realising just how hungry he is. The escargot only filled a very small part of the hole.

"Sam." He stuffs the fries into his mouth, only to feel the heat rise to his cheeks. "Um-th-sorry-" He can feel the chips bulging in his cheeks.

Cameron just smirks, then reaches for a handful of his own chips and does exactly the same thing. Ed feels himself smile so hard his cheeks ache.

"What did I like about her?" David's cutting his steak as he talks, while Ed chews at his French fries. "She was lippy, sometimes. Feisty, when she wanted to be. She was-challenging, I suppose you'd say. She didn't let me get away with things."

For some reason, Ed feels his cheeks flame.

"But she could be quiet, too. Well-" David puts a piece of steak in his mouth and chews thoughtfully. "Not quiet. Or rather, quiet and-knowing. I suppose she looked at the world and knew the answers to whatever you were saying, but let you work it out for yourself. If you know what I mean."

Ed stares at him, swallowing slowly. "That sounded like poetry, Cameron."

Cameron laughs. "I'm not a poet, Miliband. I'm pretty hopeless with_ reading_ it."

Ed laughs, and Cameron grins suddenly. "Didn't you have e.e.cummings at your wedding?"

Ed swallows. "Not perth-sonally."

Cameron snorts and Ed feels a rush of something almost gleeful in his chest that he's made Cameron laugh. He ducks his head, hiding his smile.

"But yeah. I think so."

Cameron's still laughing but his brow furrows. "You think so?"

Ed swallows. "Well. I didn't choose it."

He hadn't. Neither had Justine. Someone else had suggested it. A wedding had seemed a lot to organize, even when he'd been trying to tell himself it should be enjoyable.

Cameron's brow furrows deeper. "You didn't choose it?"

For some reason, Ed feels a little nettled by this, discomfort sinking into his chest. "No, I didn't" he says, a little shortly, cramming a couple more fries into his mouth.

He avoids Cameron's eyes for a few moments, and when Cameron doesn't say anything, Ed looks up a little defiantly.

Cameron is chewing reflectively on a piece of steak. Ed stares at him, waiting for some comment.

But Cameron just keeps staring, head on one side, lips pursed a little. Ed finds himself staring at Cameron's mouth a little too long, and the sight makes him feel oddly distracted.

"What?" he asks, a little more sharply than he intends.

Cameron just smirks a little and carries on staring. The intensity of the blue eyes and the smirk makes something curl in Ed's chest, an almost pleasurable irritation.

"What are you doing?" he asks, trying to sound unruffled, but gripping his fork a little too tightly.

Cameron smiles a little, then, smiles and cocks his head to one side. "Watching you."

The words are slightly teasing but they're soft and-

And-

Ed can feel heat creeping up his cheeks. He snatches up his knife and fork and begins attacking his steak, bitterly fantasizing about picking it up and smacking Cameron about the head with it.

"Don't know why" is what he mutters, furiously, mostly to the steak.

"Why I'm watching you?"

Of course Cameron would hear it.

He raises his head then, eyes skittering up from the steak, which has suddenly become a fascinating dinner companion, to meet Cameron's. The teasing edge is still there, but his eyes are soft. Too soft.

Ed has a sudden memory, then-it must have been three or four years ago-of walking across a lobby with Cameron-it might have been for a State Opening, something like that-and glancing at him, just noticing the blue of his eyes, under the dark of his hair, the smoothness of his skin. Just noticing, and something about it had just-stuck.

"You're watchable, Miliband." Cameron gives him a grin. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"Why are you telling me what you think I want to hear?" Ed pauses now, knife and fork still stuck in the steak. "You never do that."

"Isn't this a welcome change, then?" Cameron gives him a quick wink, takes another bite of his own steak.

Ed has to think about it for a minute before he replies, truthfully "Not really, actually."

Cameron stills only for the slightest moment. Then, meeting Ed's eyes, he smiles, lifts another forkful of steak to his mouth. "I see" is all he says, and Ed bends his head to hide the grin suddenly pushing at his own mouth.

"Don't think of using that next time you don't want to answer a question" he says, a little more huffily than he means to.

Cameron grins. "You're interesting."

Ed jumps, halfway through spearing a chunk of steak. "What?"

Cameron points a French fry at him like a weapon. "You. Are interesting. Which is why I was watching you." He gives Ed another grin, and bites the end off the chip.

Ed can't think of a single thing to say, so he shoves the steak into his mouth as quickly as possible.

For a moment, he thinks Cameron is just going to stare again, but then Cameron grins. "Forgotten your questions, Miliband? It's like Wednesday lunchtimes all over again-"

"Oh, shut up."

Cameron bursts out laughing and Ed chews at his steak, the word_ interesting_ shining in his thoughts.

"So-" Cameron grabs another fry. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What did you first like about Justine?"

"Oh-" For some reason, the question makes Ed feel oddly off-kilter. He takes a gulp of orange juice to hide it.

"Um-" He thinks, trying to remember when he first met Justine. Usually, when he's asked this by journalists or press officers getting him to rehearse his answers, he knows what qualities to go over-they go through it beforehand with Tom and Stewart.

This isn't the same, though, and it's not as though it's an interview.

(He has no idea why he feels more comfortable with Cameron than a journalist.)

"She was stable."

Ed blinks.

What?

Cameron's eyebrow twitches. "Stable?"

"No. No, not stable-well, yes, stable, obviously, but-you know-" He waves a hand. "Steady. Um-"

Come on, there's got to be more than that-

"She's a good counsel-"

What the fuck.

(The words actually_ sound_ like that, when he thinks them-deadened in Ed's mind. They don't even sound like a question, because really,_ that's _the-_that's_ the first thing that comes to mind-?)

"I mean-she gives good advice-I-" He can't look at Cameron. "I'm saying thith-s wrong-I-"

I'm making her sound like a table.

"She's a good-er-"

Not that again.

He trails off, then meets Cameron's eyes.

Cameron's just watching him again, head tilted to the side, but there's a slight furrow in his brow. For once, Ed doesn't blame him.

"So she's reliable?"

Ed feels himself nod, and hates that it's so uncertain.

It's just-he's never really-

It's not that Ed doesn't _believe_ in the overwhelming, head-over-heels type of love. It's just that-

He's _tried_ to feel it.

He's tried to _make_ himself feel it.

But it just-

He _does_ love Justine, he tells himself. She's steady, reliable-there's a-a humanity-

She-

He _cared_ about her, he knows, and-

Well-

And that's enough-that counts, of course it does.

He's never been absolutely head-over-heels with anyone, anything. And that's normal. That's completely normal and healthy and logical. It's logical.

Maybe it's just something about him.

(He doesn't _need_ it, anyway.)

Cameron gives him a grin. _"Corrective_ sounds good, though. You _need _a corrective-"

"Shut up." Ed holds out a fry, warningly, and Cameron grins, holds up his own. "No new comebacks, Miliband?" He hits Ed's fry with his own.

"Cameron, _what_ do you think you're doing-"

_"You're _the one sticking a fry out-"

"I was _pointing at you-_

"With a _fry?"_

Ed hits his fry back. It snaps in two and half nearly drops in his orange juice.

Cameron bursts out laughing, and Ed shoves the chip onto his plate, his own shoulders shaking. Cameron's eyes twinkle at him, and it sends a spark of something, something bright and grinning and happy through his chest.

* * *

It's when they're looking at the dessert menus that Cameron says "Don't you drink?"

Ed takes a gulp of juice. "Well-yeth, a bit. I just-was never particularly-interethted. They made me drink beer once for an interview and I had to pour it into a plant."

Cameron bursts out laughing. "Ever tried wine?"

"Of course I've _tried wine._ I've been to as many of those bloody receptions as you have."

"What, so you've been the leader of the Labour Party since 2005, have you? No wonder you lost the last election-"

"You know what I bloody mean-and it's not as if _you _managed to win it-"

"Who's in government, though?"

"Can I bring that up again, come May?"

"You're not answering the question-" Cameron's voice is singsong.

"Cameron, _you're_ one to talk about not answering questions-"

"Don't want to be a hypocrite, do you, Miliband?"

Ed rolls his eyes. "No, Cameron, I don't drink. At least, not often."

Cameron points at his own glass. "Want any?"

Ed swallows. "I'll pas-th, thanks."

Cameron winks. "What? Afraid you won't be able to control yourself if you're mildly intoxicated?"

The words hover between them. Ed blushes. Cameron smirks, but there's a hint of colour in his cheeks.

Ed tries to laugh. "H-hardly, Cameron."

Cameron grins at him. Ed glares, then reaches for Cameron's glass.

He can feel himself scowling. "I'm not going to like it" he warns, and Cameron just grins.

He tips the glass to his lips awkwardly, and gets ready to wince as the wine tickles his tongue.

He doesn't wince. Instead, his eyes open a little wider in surprise, because the wine's far sweeter than he expects, and then fresh and cool on his tongue.

His eyes have fallen shut and he hears the "Mmm" sound come from his own throat before he can stop it.

Cameron's grin is horribly triumphant. Ed glares at him.

"It's not awful" he announces, trying to resist the urge to take another gulp of the wine before he hands it back to David.

Cameron grins triumphantly. "Well. Good thing I got the second glass, then-" He busies himself filling it.

"I didn't th-say I'd have a glas-"

"You didn't need to."

Cameron puts the glass rather ostentatiously near Ed's hand. Ed rolls his eyes, trying to resist the urge to grab it.

"It didn't come from our wine cellar" Cameron adds, with a wink. "Which I'm sure you imagined."

"If your only oppreth-sion is people thinking you're in possession of a wine cellar, then maybe you don't need-need to worry too much-"

Cameron gives him an odd smile, then-an odd, almost strained little smile. "Not quite my only oppression" is all he says lightly, but in such a way that Ed almost tells him then, even as he looks down at his menu.

"Why can't you th-see it?" The words burst out instead, almost before he can stop himself, but he looks up at Cameron, because he really wants to know. "I mean-you can't-" He bites his lip. "You're not-_bad,_ Cameron. You're not-but it's like you don't _th-see._ How-how _hard_ people can find it with things like-like, juth-st take the Bedroom Tax. It's like-I don't know how you can't _see-"_

Cameron's just looking at him, and somehow, that's worse. That's a lot worse.

Ed shakes his head. "I just don't underth-stand-" he mutters. "Because you're _not_ bad. I don't understand why you don't want to _see-"_

"I do see" Cameron says, and he doesn't sound angry. Instead, he sounds merely-curious. "The Bedroom Tax isn't a tax, Miliband. It's a small welfare cut."

Ed drops the menu, exasperated. "That'th-s _th-semantics_, Cameron. It leaves people worse off-"

"It frees up houses. Plus, a whole group of people will be exempt-"

Ed could scream. Another time, he might just walk out of the room, but that doesn't seem particularly appropriate right now. "Thith ith-isn't-_PMQs."_ The words burst out once again. "I juth-I know you _know._ I juth-st don't-I don't know _why-_or-"

"We have to save money and we have to free up space, Miliband." Cameron arches an eyebrow. "And it's just a small cut."

"But it's not small for _them."_ Ed forces his voice not to rise. "And if you'd just impose more taxes on the richest-"

"If this is your negotiating for a mansion tax again, Miliband, I think you'd remember how that went down with Myleene-"

"It'th-s not a _joke_, Cameron-the richeth-st _should_ pay the most-"

"We agree on that. I just don't agree that we should punish people for aspiring to do _well-"_

"But-" Ed's grasping for an argument here, because people keep _saying _this, and-

"But if people_ did_ thith-s-we could reduce inequality-"

"What, by not allowing the people who work hard to reap any of the benefits-"

"No-by-by-asth-asking them to _help-"_

"Just answer me this, Miliband. Why should someone who works hard have to hand over the money to someone who doesn't work at all?"

The words sound maddeningly reasonable.

"But-what about the people who _want _to work and just need _help-"_

"And what about the people whom you encouraged to keep relying on welfare?"

"But that's only _th-some_ of them-"

"And dealing with them shouldn't be a priority?"

"No, but-but-if you _helped_ people first-"

"Then hardworking people will spend God knows how long lining the pockets of people who've never done a day's work in their bloody lives-"

"But th-some of them juth-st have _bad luck-"_

"That doesn't answer the question." Cameron's looking at him now, and he could almost be smiling, but not quite. "Are you saying people who are working hard should be helping people who aren't working at all, even if they could be working?"

"That'th-that's not-"

Ed doesn't know how to answer. All he knows is that something has to be done and if people could just-

If people could just _understand-_

"This isn't even about the Bedroom Tax" he manages, lamely.

"That's it, isn't it?" David is staring at him suddenly. "You really think that there can be this-this _world_ where everyone is a complete altruist and that-everyone else just has to _believe_ it and this will happen-God, you really, honestly _believe_ it-"

David's staring at him. He doesn't sound mocking. He sounds...a little wondering. Almost incredulous.

Ed nearly throws the menu down, but only just remembers he's in a restaurant. He glares at Cameron, searching for an answer.

Cameron, however, seems to be suddenly absorbed in his menu. "What are you having?"

Ed blinks. "What?"

"What are you having?" Cameron gestures at the menu, arching an eyebrow. "I mean-I'm quite partial to cheesecake, usually-"

He trails off when he sees Ed staring at him. "What?"

Ed just stares at him. "What-how you-"

He does throw the menu down this time, almost flinging it. "How do you do that?" he demands.

Cameron stares at him. "Do what?"

_"That."_ Ed gestures at him impatiently. "Switch off. Forget. Change the subject. How do you _do _it?"

His voice trails off, and it's only then that he notices the small, nagging feeling in his chest-the small, nagging feeling that feels a lot like _envy._

He expects Cameron to give him a line, a grin, but Cameron just looks at him. "Well" he says, and there's an attempt at a grin. An attempt, and something about that makes Ed's heart squeeze sympathetically. "That's easier, isn't it?"

Ed opens his mouth, and then sees the genuine confusion on Cameron's face. Ed stares at him, then looks down at the menu. "Not for me" he says, and his own voice is quieter this time. "Is it for you?"

This time, when he glances up, Cameron's brow has furrowed again. "Well, yes" he says, looking at Ed as if he's a creature from another planet or a UKIP voter. "You can't-I can hardly let it _bother_ me, Miliband." He laughs, but it's a little quieter than usual. "I mean, this is the way it's going to be. The way it _is"_ he adds, a little quietly.

Ed opens his mouth, then, looks at Cameron sharply. For some reason, he's remembering Cameron sitting in his dining room munching toast, talking about a six-year-old boy, sent across the Atlantic Ocean alone.

He looks at Cameron, suddenly. "How do you do _that?"_

"Do what?"

_Make me feel sorry for you_, Ed thinks.

Aloud, he says _"That. _Look all down-in-the mouth."

The furrow in Cameron's brow disappears immediately and Ed curses himself, though not as much as he'd expect. Indeed, seeing the grin spread over Cameron's face, Ed feels something like relief sinking slowly into his shoulders.

_"Down-in-the-mouth?"_ Cameron's laughing already, his eyes creased, and Ed shakes his head. "You _know _what I _mean-"_

"Rather an Etonian turn-of-phrase, that, Miliband-not dropping your class war act, I hope-"

"Claiming it as your class phrase now? Didn't know class ownership had gone that far-"

"First, we're the _same class_-second, _Etonian_ isn't a _class_, Miliband, though I've no doubt _you_ think it is-"

They're arguing , laughter breaking out of their mouths in little snorts that could almost make Ed forget the conversation of a few moments before, when there's a very pointed clearing of the throat and they both look up to see the waitress standing there, looking from one to the other with a distinctly amused expression.

Ed stops immediately, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks, but Cameron just grins. "Do you know what you want?" he says, and Ed glances quickly at the menu. "Um-how big are-"

"We could share one."

Ed almost jumps a little. "What?"

Cameron's smiling, but he looks a little tense suddenly. The waitress seems to be smirking slightly.

"We could-um-share a dessert. If you wanted, that was-"

Ed clears his throat. "Well. Um. Yes. Yeth-yes. If you feel like it."

Cameron gestures at the menu. "You pick."

Ed stares at the menu. The waitress appears to be biting her lip and staring with utter fascination at her notepad. "Um-you're sure?"

Cameron nods.

"Nutella crepe?"

Cameron leans over, glances at the menu and nods again. "With ice cream?"

Ed nods eagerly. Cameron glances at the waitress, who in turn is glancing between the two of them, a grin deepening as she scribbles down the order. "Two spoons" she says, which isn't a question.

It's only when she leaves that Cameron meets Ed's eyes. "Hope that's all right with you, Miliband. I mean, I'm rather aware that you hate me-"

Ed feels himself flinch. "What?"

Cameron's mouth twitches, but he says nothing.

When Ed speaks, his voice is much louder than he expects. "I do _not."_

Cameron, who had been lowering his eyes, looks back up at him slowly. He just looks and Ed feels the same squeeze of sympathy that he'd felt a few moments ago, remembering Cameron in his dining room.

"I-" Ed swallows. "That's the problem" he manages.

Their eyes meet very slowly this time, and Cameron's eyes are bright, his mouth parted a little. He stares at Ed, and there's this light in his eyes and-

"Oh" is all Cameron says, quietly, but he's smiling a little.

Ed's heart is pounding and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doesn't know whether to meet Cameron's eyes or not.

He needs to say something. He _needs_ to-

"There's a letter" he blurts out, and then he reaches for his glass of wine and takes a large gulp. It's as nice as it was before, which Ed isn't sure if he likes or not.

"A letter?"

Ed keeps his eyes on the table. "From me and Nick. And Farage. About the TV debates." He picks up the wine glass again, but doesn't drink from it. "A letter. Asking you to take part. A public letter." Ed's fingers tighten around the glass. "To attack you. Telling you that we'll go ahead without you."

Ed takes a longer gulp of his wine this time. It saves him having to meet Cameron's eyes for a few moments.

"All right."

Ed takes a moment to look up, he's so surprised.

Cameron's leant back in his chair, the crease in his forehead smoothing out, taking another sip of his own wine. "Thanks for telling me" he says casually, as if Ed's just remembered to inform him about a change of signature required on a document.

Ed stares at him. "That's _it?"_

Cameron stares back. "Well-yes." He frowns. "Unless there's something else?"

Ed shakes his head slowly. "No. It'th-just-"

_How do you do it?_ he thinks again, but less bitterly this time.

Instead, he just takes another gulp of wine and it's then that Cameron, examining his fingernails, says "Your brother."

Ed freezes with the glass at his lips.

Cameron looks at him. "Your brother. That's one of the things they're going to have a go at you about."

Ed can't look at him for a moment. He keeps his eyes on the tablecloth, lowering his wine glass with exaggerated care.

"You said _they're."_ He keeps his eyes on the tablecloth. _"They're."_

"Yes."

"Not _we're." Not you._

When he looks up, Cameron's watching him. His blue eyes are fixed on Ed. They rove up and down Ed's face, and then he says quietly "Well. I don't hate you, either."

Ed freezes once again, hand closed tightly around the stem of his glass. Heat rushes to his cheeks.

"Right." His hand trembles a little. He bites his lip. "Right."

There's a pause, then "Told you I wouldn't lie to you, Miliband."

Ed laughs. He thinks he laughs, a little nervously. "I didn't say you would."

Cameron's eyes sparkle and he-well-

He holds out his hand again. Ed takes it, and they shake awkwardly.

"See, I did keep a promise, Miliband-"

"So you admit you've only kept one? Even a stopped clock gets to be right twice a day, Cameron-"

"I believe it was you who said I've kept others-" Cameron's hand is so warm around his own. Ed's hand seems to fit strangely around and in Cameron's fingers. "Though it's hardly a good sign if you can't remember your own declarations-"

"This from the Prime Minister-" Cameron bites his lip. "Th-stop laughing, Cameron-" He can feel a giggle making its' way treacherously out of his own mouth, even as he notices that his lisp is reappearing more and more often these days. Maybe he's just not paying as much attention to it as he should.

"Ahem."

They both look up to find the waitress, barely concealing a grin, clutching their dessert. Her eyes flicker down a little pointedly to his and Cameron's hands.

Which are still joined across the table.

Ed almost yanks his hand away as if he's been burnt, and his only comfort is that Cameron snatched his hand back just as quickly. The waitress raises an eyebrow.

It's Cameron who says something. Ed's blushing and he doesn't even know why.

He barely hears what Cameron or the waitress say, and manages to mumble out a "Thank you" in the general direction of the table.

He doesn't know _why-_

It's not as though he was-

They _weren't-_

It's nothing, he tells himself firmly. It's nothing.

He's still blushing.

* * *

David tries not to look at the colour that's high in Miliband's cheeks. He tries not to notice how the candlelight is casting them a soft pink.

(The _candlelight_. He hadn't noticed there was so much of it.)

He picks up a spoon and takes a cautious mouthful of the ice cream. "Mmm-" His eyes flicker closed for a moment. "God, that's gorgeous."

He realises Miliband hasn't reached for a spoon yet. "Not hungry?"

Miliband blinks. "Oh-yeah-just-"

David, on an impulse, reaches for the other spoon, and loads it up with some crepe and ice cream.

"Open wide, Miliband-" He keeps his voice light and teasing, waves the spoon a little tauntingly. "Come on-"

Miliband just stares at him for a moment. "You muthst-must be-"

David just grins at him, arching an eyebrow in a silent challenge.

Ed looks back at him and then arches his own brow and opens his mouth a little-a challenge of his own.

David has to admit he's grudgingly impressed, but he has no intention of letting Miliband know that, so he simply leans over and gently guides the spoon into Miliband's mouth.

Miliband's eyes flicker, then close as his lips close over the spoon. His eyebrows arch a little and then his eyelashes flutter blissfully. "Mmm." The sound seems to come out of his throat without him even noticing and his eyes flutter again.

David swallows, his heartbeat suddenly heavy and rapid. Miliband looks almost ecstatic-his eyes fluttering and his head tilted back like that-

David lowers the spoon carefully and Miliband, eyes opening, takes it a little too quickly. "Um-wow." He stares at the crepe. "That's gorgeous."

David beams smugly, choosing to forget that Ed chose it. Ed rolls his eyes , but takes another spoonful, and David digs in himself.

"I loved these as a kid" he remarks, relishing the coldness of the ice cream, wincing at the shiver it sends through his teeth. "Didn't get to have them too often, though. Didn't really go abroad, much."

Miliband frowns. "I thought you went to Florence? And the Concorde-"

"Yes, but that was just me." David takes another mouthful. "And the Concorde thing was with Peter, remember. When I was a kid, we mostly just went to Cornwall. We didn't start to go abroad until we were teenagers. Our late teens, actually." David glances at him. "What about you?" He tries to picture a Miliband family holiday-perhaps a visit to the birthplace of Karl Marx or some obscure museum of socialism.

"Oh, not much. We went to Majorca a couple of times, but mostly just-" Miliband shrugs. "Yorkshire-the moors and things. And Scotland, a couple of times. Apart from when we lived in America."

"And you became a baseball obsessive-"

"Not an obth-sessive." Miliband takes another defiant bite of crepe. "It'th just-fascinating. And to study, statistics-wise, too."

Only Miliband could make supporting a sports team sound like a university project, David thinks with, he's surprised to realise, a complete absence of irritation, and instead, a pang of something a little like fondness.

"But it was nice, in Boston." Miliband takes another bite of crepe. "Dad was away for work a lot, so it was nice just to be with him."

David stares at him. "I didn't know that."

"What?"

"That your dad was away a lot."

"Well-" Miliband licks at his spoonful of ice cream, his tongue darting out. "It's juth-st-what he had to do-he was trying to make a difference-"

_That's what happens when you have_ _principleth._

"Still, though-" David chooses his words carefully. "That must have been hard."

Miliband shrugs. "We juth-st-had to get on with it" he says, in an odd tone, as if he's learnt the words by heart many times. David frowns, but decides not to press the point.

"What was your dad like?" Miliband asks the question quietly, taking another spoonful of ice cream as he does so.

"Dad?" David cuts off another piece of crepe. "He was fun. Kind. Cheerful. He didn't let things get him down, even when they got difficult."

"Difficult?"

"He was disabled."

Miliband pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. "I didn't know that."

"Well, you wouldn't." David reaches for another spoonful of ice cream. "He had a club foot. He was born with it-"

"Oh. So it wasn't related to-"

Miliband stops dead and his cheeks flush almost painfully. He drops his eyes to the plate, staring at the crepe as if he wishes he could vanish into it.

David keeps his eyes on him and his face calm and pleasant. "It wasn't related to the condition Ivan had, no."

Miliband nods quickly, and then glances up at David awkwardly. "Sorry."

"What are you sorry for?"

Miliband bites his lip. "I didn't mean to bring it up-"

"It's all right." David's voice is softer now. "I don't mind talking about him."

"Your dad?"

"And Ivan."

Miliband's eyes meet his, dark and soft in the candlelight. "Your dad passed away, didn't he?"

David nods. "Five years ago. Just after Flo was born."

"I'm sorry."

David shrugs. "We didn't know before it happened, but he'd had a good life. I just wish he'd got to see more of Flo. And she of him."

Miliband nods. "Dad didn't meet Daniel or Sam. Or David's kids, either" he adds, almost as an afterthought.

"He passed away when you were young, didn't he?"

Miliband's lips tauten. "When I was twenty-four."

"Did you know it was going to-"

"Not really." Miliband's voice is a little shorter, the words quick, as if they hurt his throat.

David notes the whitening of his knuckles, the compression of his lips, and decides to drop the subject.

"Quiet, isn't it?" he remarks, glancing about. "I suppose people are still scared."

"Understandably. It'th-" Miliband glances about. "I mean-do you think it's all right?"

"What?"

"That we're out." Miliband glances around again. "Do you think it's-you know-"

David frowns and takes another forkful of crepe. "I mean-I think so. And-I mean, if we let them frighten us...well, then they've _won_, haven't they?"

Miliband looks thoughtful. "I suppose. I mean-"

He takes another sip of wine. "I suppoth-se-it must feel awful-I mean-you might not want to let them win-but-"

He meets David's eyes. "It'th scary" he says, his voice a little smaller. "I suppose-it's-"

David feels something squeeze in his chest at the wide-eyed look Miliband's giving him.

David's hand sneaks across the table, almost without him noticing. "I suppose-" His own voice sounds a little tight. "I suppose that-well. We've got to be the ones who get on with it."

"That muth-must be hard, though." Ed just looks at him now, and his hand creeps an inch closer. "I mean-for you."

David blinks. "Well-"

Ed's fingers brush his. A rush goes through David's chest. "I-"

"All done?"

David's fed up of jumping when the waitress comes over.

(He's also fed up of snatching his hand back from Miliband's.)

(And that should not have happened more than once tonight.)

* * *

It's when they're paying that the waitress glances between them, and then just mutters something out of the corner of her mouth. She's smiling, and her eyes glint wickedly as they dart between them, but the colour rises in Cameron's cheeks, and Ed doesn't know whether to ask him if he heard her or not.

Outside in the street, he asks instead "Do you think she recognized you?"

David shakes his head, glancing at the protection team hovering behind them. "No. I thought maybe she had at first, but-no." It might be Ed's imagination, but he thinks he sees the colour in Cameron's face deepen the slightest bit.

For some reason, Ed finds himself a little flustered and grasping for something to say. Then, Cameron catches at his sleeve. "I-um-I'd like to look at something. Do you mind?"

Ed shakes his head, and is surprised to feel a sense of relief settling into his stomach. Somehow, the thought of the night already being over leaves him a little unsettled.

A smile lights up Cameron's face then.

Literally _lights up._

His eyes crinkle. His dimples deepen. His cheeks crease.

Ed knows he's grinning back. He looks away, tries to stop himself, but something about-

Something about that _grin-_

Ed looks away hastily but something about the look makes him bite his lip, something squeezing pleasantly in his chest.

There's even fewer people about the Champs-Elysees now. Ed reflects, with a stab of guilt, that usually it would be packed, surely.

The few people he and Cameron do spot are walking with their arms linked. He and Cameron seem to notice at the same time.

Cameron glances at him quickly, then away. "Um-"

"I suppose-it's a th-symbol, isn't it?" Ed speaks a little too quickly. "I mean-of today-"

"Yes, um-" Cameron glances at Ed, then away again. "I-um-do you think we-"

Ed is silent. His heart is thudding. Suddenly, he's not entirely sure how he's putting one foot in front of the other.

"Well-" Cameron clears his throat. "I-ah-I just thought-since-um-"

Ed nods, eyes on the ground, because if he stays silent and does nothing, this just gets bigger. If he stays silent, then it feels like there's some _reason_ to stay silent.

And Cameron's the one suggesting it, they both know that, and maybe that's why Ed's arm is suddenly moving, fumbling its' way through Cameron's.

Cameron jumps a little and Ed stares straight ahead, heat rushing into his cheeks in the icy air. He stares straight ahead, because he can't look round, he can't, for some reason, he can't bear to look at Cameron right now-

Cameron's arm is fumbling and then slides through Ed's and they're linked.

Ed can't look. Cameron's arm is warm. A tickling, tingling sensation spreads through Ed's chest. He can feel himself smiling, smiling so hard that it hurts, a shrill ache in his cheeks. David's hand nearly brushes his.

They don't speak. They're walking with their arms linked and they're not speaking-and God, Cameron's warm. He's lovely and warm and-

"Here-"

And they're on a bridge. Ed blinks, momentarily distracted from how warm Cameron is by the sheer vastness of it. He stares down the bridge, even as they take their first steps onto it.

"Wow." The bridge is lit up, lamp after lamp after lamp lined up along the edges, making Ed blink against the darkness. "God, that's-"

"It's lovely." Cameron's voice is so soft that Ed can't help but look at him. Cameron's staring at the lights, his eyes very, very blue. There's a softness to him, a dreaminess, and Ed suddenly just-

Well-

Squeezes his arm a little.

He can't help it. Because it's _this_ Cameron that he-

Well, partly-

"Look-" David's voice is softer now, and he tugs Ed gently over to the edge of the bridge. "Look." He points gently. "Look at that."

Ed looks. Below them, the Seine shimmers under the city, almost black, but lights ribboning their way across the dark water, illuminating the liquid path.

"Wow." It comes out like a breath as Ed peers down over the river. "Wow."

"Yeah." Cameron's own voice is a little breathless. "It's fantastic."

He doesn't sound polished and smooth and Prime Ministerial. He just sounds-a little awed. When Ed stares at him, Cameron's blue eyes have caught the light. The sight makes Ed's breath catch in his chest.

Their arms are still linked but their hands rest on the bridge. They're gazing at the water. It looks strangely beautiful under the Parisian sky. From here, Ed can see the Eiffel Tower, lit up in red and blue. He stares at it, then the water.

"It's strange." Cameron's voice is low, a little wondering. "It's like seeing something like this. Or nature. The countryside. I don't know, something about it makes me feel-"

He trails off a little, and Ed glances at him. This close, he can smell Cameron's aftershave, his shampoo. He smells good.

"Better?" he asks quietly, without thinking. Without having to think.

Cameron breathes in, tips his head back. "I suppose. I just suppose-" He looks down at the water. "It's like-I just-" He sighs and turns his head so that he's staring out over the river. Ed does the same, listening to Cameron's voice at his side. "I can't help thinking about things. When something like that happens. You know. Why do they happen? And-when I see-I don't know, something about-seeing things like this-it makes me feel-feel as though-"

His hand brushes his arm, as he makes a small, rueful noise. "I don't know. Like there's something good there."

Ed can feel his heat against his arm. Cameron's voice seems to vibrate in the air, tickling his skin. He risks one glance, taking in the line of Cameron's jaw in the dark, the softness at his chin. He looks away, feeling Cameron's arm again, warm and tight through his own.

"You mean like faith?" Ed's voice sounds a little wondering, and he winces at the words.

But David says "Maybe. I suppose so."

"You believe in God?"

David nods, with only the slightest hesitation. "Yeah. I mean, I've thought about it a couple of times-" Ed feels him tense a little. "But, yes."

Ed stares at him, then at their hands.

They're lying next to each other. Ed watches his own hand move an inch closer, almost of its' own volition.

"Do you?"

Ed shakes his head, turning his gaze back to the river. "No."

"Never?"

Ed shakes his head. "Well. When my dad was ill, I-ah-I tried to."

His voice shakes a little in his throat. "Then he died."

His voice cracks. He stares down at the water, swallowing hard, a faint feeling of horror rising in his chest at the thought of crying _here_, in front of _Cameron_, of all people.

Cameron's hand moves, just out of the corner of his eye, and then it covers Ed's own.

Ed swallows past the lump in his throat. Cameron's hand is warm, and gives Ed's a gentle squeeze.

Ed can't look at him. He hears his own voice, a little wavering. "It must be nith-ce. To have something to believe in."

To know that you were going to see people again. That you could ask them things.

If it was enough-

"You have things to believe in." David's voice is low and firm. "Just-the fact they're not religious doesn't make them mean any less."

"I suppose so."

Cameron's hand squeezes around Ed's, and then Ed says "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Showing me this."

Ed expects Cameron to say something, to make him laugh, but Cameron's hand just tightens a little over his own.

Then, David's voice is low in his ear. "Do you really think I don't care about people?"

The words tickle Ed's ear. His heart is banging furiously against his chest. He stares down at the water at those lights tugging his eyes in, shimmering in the middle of all the blackness.

"I don't." He doesn't know he's going to say it. "That's what makes it worse."

Cameron's hand is still over his. His fingers have tightened. Ed wants to grasp it back.

(He's never really wanted to hold hands, before.)

(He's never really thought about holding hands. It's just been something you have to do.)

But-

This is-

It's _Cameron._

Why's he-

_Holding his hand-_

_Why's he-_

His eyes are meeting Cameron's and Cameron's staring at him and-

One of the protection team makes a vague noise-they're not watching, but they're huddled together at the end of the bridge.

They're not watching but he and Cameron each step back a little. Ed stares at the water.

"It's beautiful." The words catch a little in his throat.

Cameron's voice is only a breath. "Yes it is." Ed can feel Cameron's gaze, heavy on his face.

He shivers, an icy breeze biting at his cheeks. His fingers fold in on themselves, stinging now that Cameron's hand is no longer covering one, and he blows on them, wincing a little.

"Cold?"

"Yeah. Forgot my gloves-"

Cameron's already carefully pulling out his own, and Ed bites his lip. "No-no, you need them-" Cameron's fingers, in the glow of the lights, are as red as his own.

"You're cold-"

"So are you."

"Expect Etonians to be selfish, do you?" The joke's a little laboured, but Ed laughs, a little too relieved at this familiar ground.

"Fine." Cameron pulls on one glove, and then reaches for Ed's hand, lifting it before Ed can put it in his pocket.

"What-" Ed's voice trails off as Cameron's hand tucks the glove over Ed's hand.

"There. This should appeal to your Labourite sense of fair play-" Cameron gives him that grin that makes Ed's insides crinkle pleasantly.

"Here-we'll have one each-"

"What about the other hands?"

Cameron glances down and, with a grin, gestures to Ed's hand. "Come here-"

He slides his hand down, lifts Ed's and tucks it into his pocket, then places his own inside Ed's pocket.

Ed stares at him, dumbfounded. _"Cameron!"_

"What?" Cameron's eyes twinkle. "Surely that Labourite sense of fairness isn't letting you down-do as I say, not as I do, all that sort of thing-"

"Oh, shut up" Ed retorts, more out of habit than anything else. But, as if in defiance, his fingers sink a little deeper, stretching luxuriously in the sudden warmth.

Cameron merely arches an eyebrow, but his eyes crinkle a little and that just makes it harder for Ed not to smile.

* * *

David knows that his arm's been linked with Miliband's since they left the bridge, but he doesn't want to think about it.

He tells himself it's just respectful and that makes it easier not to think about it.

It's when they reach the British residence that David realises, quite abruptly, that he doesn't want to say goodbye to Miliband just yet.

(Their arms aren't linked anymore.)

(When did that happen?)

David glances at Miliband once, then again. He's wracking his brain for a way to persuade Miliband to stay with him a little longer. Maybe something they need to discuss, something they-

(What's he _doing,_ trying to think of ways to hold onto _Miliband?)_

But he is, and as they reach their floor, he realises his chance is rapidly slipping away.

"Well-"

They've stepped out of the lift, and they're standing, looking at each other.

Fuck. He's going to have to ask.

"So. Ah. What are you-doing with yourself this evening?"

David could wince. If he was anyone but him, he would.

Miliband blinks at him, looking a little bewildered. "Um-nothing much. Went over my speech on the plane-just thinking of reading, really-"

"Oh? What were you-ah-what are you reading?"

The truly pathetic part of the question is that David really wants to know.

He's just suddenly-he just wants to _know._ What Miliband's reading. What he thinks.

God, as if he doesn't have to put up with _enough_ of what Miliband thinks-

Miliband blinks-then grimaces. And blushes.

David feels himself cheer up instantly.

_"Oh._ _Oh,_ what are you _reading-" _And he feels himself cheer more because there's no _way_ Miliband will leave while David's teasing him, he'd outlive _God_ if he's trying to have the last word with _David-_

Miliband blushes deeper. "You're being _childish-"_

"That means you're reading something you shouldn't be-" David makes his voice singsong, knowing he is being childish and taking an odd sort of pleasure in it. "What is it?"

"No, it doesn't." Miliband's now blushing so deeply, he closely resembles a tomato.

"What is it?" Maybe it's the wine going to his head, but David feels a little giddy. Maybe it's the build-up of emotion that's been happening throughout the day.

Whatever it is, David grins at him, keeping his voice light and teasing. "Not a _magazine,_ is it-"

Ed blushes even deeper. David stares at him.

"O-of courth-se not!"

"What is it, then?" David grins. "Is it some Jackie Collins novel?"

_"No!"_ Ed's squirming. It's a lovely sight. David feels as though he's tickling him.

"Not a-" He gasps and leans forward, arms either side of Miliband's shoulders. "Not one of _Thatcher's memoirs,_ is it?"

Miliband blushes even deeper and all he manages is something that sounds like an _"eep" _in response.

David feels his own eyes widen. _"Is_ it?"

Miliband manages to clear his throat. It still comes out as a mumble. _"Hardly."_

"So what is it?"

He waits for Miliband to tell him it's none of his business.

Instead, Miliband's eyes flicker down to his mouth, so quickly David isn't sure if he imagined it or not.

Then he sighs. "Wait here."

David can hardly stop himself from grinning, even as Miliband rolls his eyes as he sets off round the corner. He becomes aware that his cheeks are aching with it, that his protection team are watching him with some amusement. A minute or so later, he realises he's been staring straight ahead of him, grinning, ever since Miliband left. That look on Miliband's face was just-

"Here."

Miliband's back at his side.

"What?"

"Here." Miliband's blushing so deeply now that it makes something squirm pleasantly in David's stomach.

Miliband holds out a book. A book that David recognizes.

"Oh." His voice is quieter than he expected, as he reaches out to take it. "Oh-"

Miliband bites his lip.

"This is the one I got you-"

"Yes."

"For your birthday."

"Yes."

David swallows. The pages are clearly already well-thumbed. A few corners are folded down.

"They're-um-the parts I like the most" Miliband manages, the babbling David hadn't realised he liked so much until now starting to take over. "And-there are a few-it's a brilliant book, really informative-"

"Would you like to come in for a bit?"

David winces.

Miliband stares at him, brow creased in confusion. "Oh-come in-"

"Um. My room. Just for a bit. Only if you'd like to-"

David has no idea why he feels as nervous as he did at Heatherdown, right before they'd sneak out, knowing that there was a girl waiting for him in the bushes, girls and his friends' laughter and slaps on the back ringing through the air around him.

"Only if you-"

"Y-yeth, I'd like-"

Miliband blushes furiously. David feels his stomach do a swooping sensation, as if he's just gone down a loop on a rollercoaster.

"Good" he says, Miliband's eyes meeting his a little uncertainly, as David wonders why his heart is suddenly pounding so loudly. "Good."

* * *

Ed suddenly feels, the second the door closes behind them, as if he's never seen Cameron's suite before, which is bizarre since he saw it this afternoon.

This afternoon feels strangely long ago now.

He clutches his book a little more tightly than usual. Cameron just drops his suit over an armchair and turns to give him a slightly tired grin. "You can sit down, you know, Miliband."

Ed's about to sit down on one of the armchairs and then Cameron's taking a seat on the bed.

Ed doesn't know if it's the wine or the way Cameron grins at him but he sits down on the bed next to him.

They sit there for a moment in silence, and then Cameron breaks it by laughing a little. "You look like you're waiting for me to shove you off."

Ed glances up, and then down at his own arms, which are crossed defensively over his chest.

"Oh-" He unfolds them slowly, which is when Cameron asks "Want a drink at all?"

Ed blinks. "Oh, um, yeah-thanks-"

Cameron gets up and heads over to the drinks cabinet. "I've got some of that wine we had in the restaurant if you like-or orange juice-"

"Oh-the wine's fine, it's-" Ed rolls his eyes at the slight twitch of a smile at Cameron's mouth. "Hilarious."

Cameron manages to refrain from comment until he's sitting on the bed next to Ed, and then he says, passing him the glass, "By the way, you haven't told me I was right, yet."

Ed rolls his eyes. "About the wine? God, your self-esteem can hardly be that fragile-"

"Oh? My Bullingdon-bolstered, Eton-cultivated self-esteem-"

Ed rolls his eyes again, trying not to gulp the wine too fast. "So you think there's th-some truth to that?"

Cameron laughs. "See? It's almost like PMQs, Miliband."

"What? Me making point-th-s and you not coming up with anth-answers-"

"Don't you mean you not understanding the answers?"

Ed draws in a sharp breath, feeling his eyes widen indignantly, but then Cameron gives him the smirk. _The_ smirk, with his head tilted to one side.

That smirk does odd, pleasant things to Ed's insides, he suddenly notices. He takes a sip of wine quickly, before he can feel that grin make its' way to his mouth. That grin, that Cameron somehow pulls out.

"So you like that book, then?"

"Yeah." Ed takes another sip. "It's brilliant and it's really informative about the 2004 Red Sox victory-it was fantath-stic, it'll go down as one of the moth-st hith-storic-"He can hear his voice trembling suddenly, with the details. "I wanted to go but-I'd only juth-st come back from Boston and I couldn't really go back-and we didn't have all the live TV feeds and everything, so I had to wait until the next day to find out-"

He trails off, because Cameron is looking at him with a smile a little different to the smirk-his head tilted on one side, his smile smaller and softer, his eyes crinkled. He doesn't look as if he's laughing-instead, he's just smiling quietly-but Ed trails off, feeling his cheeks flush scarlet.

"Anyway, the book's really good" he says, in rather a rush, and quickly takes another gulp of wine.

"I never knew much about baseball-" Cameron props himself up on one elbow, leaning back on the duvet. Feeling hot, Ed wriggles out of his own suit and lets it fall onto the duvet next to him.

"Knew about cricket and football-you got into it when you lived in Boston, didn't you?"

Ed frowns. "Been checking up on me, Cameron?" He takes another gulp of wine. He feels oddly light-headed and it doesn't bother him nearly as much as it should.

"It's hardly difficult, Miliband." Cameron takes a sip of his own wine. "It's not as if you aren't constantly talking about it. You could write a book on that baseball team."

Uncertainty tugs in Ed's chest as he tries to work out, whether Cameron is annoyed or not. "Sorry?" he tries, the question in his voice giving him away.

This time, Cameron laughs a little, blue eyes narrowing. "Why are you sorry?" His brow's creased as he takes another sip from his glass. "It's nice when you talk."

Ed feels a wave of something rise dizzyingly high in his chest. His heart is suddenly rapid.

Cameron clears his throat, a little more colour appearing in his cheeks. "Well. I'm glad you like the book, anyway. Had to ask Frances for help, I was convinced I'd end up getting you the wrong one-"

"Oh, yeah-you said, I think-" Ed takes another gulp of wine. "Did you th-speak to Justine about it?"

"Er-no, actually, I don't think I did-" Cameron wriggles back a little further on the bed. "I think Frances might have. Didn't she say?"

Ed takes another sip, and casts about for a way to change the subject. "What do you read?" he asks, draining his glass and looking at it with some surprise-Cameron grins a little and refills it for him and his own, but this time makes no comment on his own correct guess on Ed's taste for wine.

"Not much, unfortunately. I used to read more when I was younger. But I suppose-you just run out of time for things. Sam's a great reader, though. And Nancy." Ed tenses, but David doesn't hesitate over his daughter's name. "I used to like novels, though. _The Book Thief_ was good. And _The Kite Runner."_

"I meant to read that. I read _One Day-"_

"Oh yeah-I think Sam read that. She probably nagged me to read it, but I never got round to it. Is it good?"

Ed feels himself make a face. "Depreth-dep-depressing, really. She dies at the end."

Cameron bursts out laughing. "Fantastic. That's one book I don't have to read."

Ed curses himself. "Oh. Oh, God-th-sorry-" He can feel himself blushing scarlet. "Th-sorry-I didn't mean to-"

Cameron shakes his head. "Why are you apologising-" His hand catches Ed's arm. "God, Miliband-" He shakes his head and suddenly his eyes are far softer, and he says quietly "You really are-"

Ed's heart is suddenly rapid. His teeth clink awkwardly on the rim of the wine glass. He wants to say "What?"

He should be able to say _"What?"_

Cameron's eyes are on his. Somehow, Ed's forgotten to look away. They're just...staring at each other.

Cameron's hand brushes his.

The touch is warm and soft and gentle, and sends something like a jolt up Ed's arm. Something that tingles, makes his heart suddenly rapid.

They both pull away at once. Ed's heart is pounding and his face is hot. He's suddenly clutching his glass of wine very, very tightly.

"So-" Cameron's voice is a little more hesitant than usual.

Ed blinks.

"What about you?" Cameron's taking a sip of wine, suddenly very carefully not looking at Ed. "What do you read?"

_What just happened?_ The words ring over and over again in Ed's head.

_What just-what was-_

Cameron's looking at him and Ed suddenly becomes horribly aware that he's staring.

"Oh-" He swallows, takes a sip automatically. "Um-a few. A lot of history mainly-biography, economics-" Cameron's mouth twitches again, but he's watching Ed now, his head on one side. "Thing-ths like that-and J.K. Rowling-"

_"Harry Potter?"_

Ed eyes Cameron suspiciously, waiting for the laugh, but Cameron looks perfectly serious, even as his eyes twinkle a little.

"Yee-ees" he says slowly, cautiously, still watching Cameron for any signs of teasing. "But some of the crime novels, too. You know-the ones under the pseudonym-"

"Oh yeah-"

"And some books on the economic crash." He eyes Cameron once again, knowing that there'll be a jibe this time.

Sure enough, Cameron's mouth twitches. "Do you ever find your Shadow Chancellor's name in there?"

Ed glares at him, feeling oddly relieved at the familiarity of this. _"You _should read them-you might _learn _th-something-"

"And then renounce our wicked Tory ways and start singing The Red Flag?" Cameron's eyes are dancing mischievously. They shouldn't look as good as they do with that smirk.

Wait-why's he thinking that Cameron's eyes look good-

Ed's head's spinning a little.

"Maybe you'll-" He fumbles for a remark, but all he can come up with is something about _wicked_, which he doesn't think would go well.

Cameron grins. "PMQs again, Miliband?"

Ed takes another furious sip of wine.

"Then again, I did quite enjoy Tony Benn's works myself-"

Ed rolls his eyes-and then spots Cameron staring at him.

Cameron shakes his head. "No, seriously."

Ed chokes on his wine.

"Bloody hell-" Cameron almost spills his own as he wriggles across the bed to pat Ed on the back. "Calm down, Miliband. That's the sort of reaction you give if there's a man standing behind me with a _gun-"_

The words hang too heavily in the air between them and Ed sees that ceremony again today. Cameron clears his throat and bangs him a little harder on the back.

Ed clears his own, but it's still several seconds before he can sit up and stare at Cameron, his brain scrabbling madly, one of Cameron's hands still resting awkwardly in the middle of his back. "You've-you've-" He can barely get the words out. "You've read-"

Cameron is looking at him with an expression torn between amusement and consternation. "Yes, _I've read"_ he chuckles, giving Ed one final pat on the back. "I am capable of that, you know, Miliband."

"But-but-but-" Ed's tripping over the words, there are so many questions fighting to get out. Amusement is definitely winning on Cameron's face now; his grin is growing more and more pronounced by the moment.

_"But,_ Miliband?" Cameron's watching him with his head on one side and that grin that _annoys _Ed so much-that sends that wriggle through his chest and makes him want to just-

_Grab _Cameron-

_Grab _him and just-

_(What?)_

The words burst out of Ed's mouth, high-pitched and indignant. "But you're not a _socialist!"_

Cameron's jaw drops. (Literally-his mouth actually falls open. Ed didn't know that actually happened. Certainly not to Cameron.)

For a moment, he just stares at Ed with his eye stretched wide-and then they sparkle, and his mouth slowly closes, his face positively brimming with glee.

"You little _snob."_ Cameron's voice cracks joyfully on the last word.

Ed feels himself pout like a child, even as the heat rushes to his cheeks.

Cameron's beaming at him, delight etched into every crease of his face. _"But you're not a socialist_-so people have to be_ socialists_ to read Tony Benn's books now-there's a _criteria-"_

The grin is sending crinkles of electricity through his chest, pulling out one of Ed's own against his will, making his cheeks ache.

_"Th-stop_ it-" A giggle wobbles treacherously in his throat. "You know I didn't mean it like _that-"_

"Oh?" Cameron nudges him now-Ed feels like he used to being tickled as a child, shrieking and begging for it to stop, but at the same time never wanting it to end. "I juth-st meant-your under-th-standing of it-"

"My _understanding?"_ Cameron's eyes stretch comically wide. "So anyone who's not a socialist is incapable of _understanding-"_

Cameron's shaking his head. "You're meant to be a man of the _people,_ Miliband-and here you are, exercising class hierarchy on intellect-it's _awful-"_

"Oh, would you _shut up-"_ A few drops of wine splash onto Ed's shirt, but for some reason, the sight seems suddenly hilarious, and a giggle breaks treacherously loose from his throat, then another, until a full bout of laughter is shaking through him.

Cameron is laughing almost as hard as he is. "Clearly, I'm just _incapable _of reading-" He seizes the remote control and points it at the TV. "I'll have to just flick through-"

Ed's still sniggering, cheeks aching with laughter. "You're just proving a point-" He shakes his head, trailing off as Cameron arches an eyebrow with an affronted look.

"So now you're patronizing the daily television habits of the average British voter-" The channels are flickering by one by one, and Ed's thoughts are doing something similar-each time he manages to grab hold of one, he can only hold it for a few seconds, and then it's gone, darting away through his fingers. He feels almost giddy.

"Nothing about you's average" he manages to snort, even as Cameron cocks an eyebrow, giving Ed that grin that confuses him.

"That could be an insult or a compliment, Miliband." Cameron's watching him with a hint of his usual smugness, but his cheeks are flushed, his eyes unusually bright.

"Well-" Ed can't quite seem to get his words in the right order. "Well-it was meant-well-"

He can't decide what he wants to say, and he laughs again, a little uncertainly. Cameron's gaze is darting between him and the TV, and Ed thinks one of them's about to say something-what, he doesn't know, but then Cameron's eyes flicker back to the screen, and he stops channel-flicking, attention apparently caught by something.

(Ed still isn't sure what either of them was going to say.)

"Wait-I think I know this film-"

Ed peers at the screen, where Steve Coogan and Judi Dench are sitting at a table together. "Oh, yeah-_Philomena-"_

"That's it." Cameron wriggles back on the bed a little, reaching for the control. "Have you seen it?"

"Yeah, when it came out-" Ed wriggles back himself a little, draining his glass. "I saw it in the th-cinema actually-"

"I think we might have, as well-"

Ed stares at the screen. Cameron glances at him. "You don't mind if we leave it on, do you?"

Ed shakes his head, his ear already picking up the dialogue. "I like it-"

"Sad, though." David nods at Steve Coogan. "He hates me, doesn't he?"

"He doesn't_ hate_ you" Ed says, wriggling a little further back on the bed before he can think about it. "He just-doesn't vote for you."

"And thinks we're evil." Cameron's making his voice sound annoyingly singsong. "Like _you_-"

"I don't think you're evil!" The room spins a little as Ed turns to stare at David indignantly. "I don't think you're evil at _all-"_

The wine makes his words a little louder than usual.

Cameron just watches him for a few moments before his mouth twitches. "Glad to hear it."

He turns back to the screen and so does Ed. They watch in silence for a few moments and then the words trip out of Ed's mouth, almost bumping into one another. "I hate it when you th-say things like that."

"Like what?" Cameron doesn't look at him, but he wriggles a little closer, their legs nearly touching.

"When you th-say I hate you....." Ed's watching him. He can't remember when he first looked at David. "You must know I don't."

Cameron doesn't look at him for a moment and then says, a little more carefully, "I know."

"Unleth-ss you hate me." The words feel a little too big for Ed's mouth.

This time though, Cameron looks at him, with an arched eyebrow. It sends a tingle of something through Ed's chest. _"You_ know I don't."

For some reason, Ed feels something squirm pleasantly in his stomach.

They watch quietly for a moment, and then Cameron says "Could you pass me that pillow?"

Ed glances back and wriggles further up, reaching for the pillow. He overestimates his own reach and promptly loses his balance, falling back onto the bed. The room spins around him.

"Ah-" He tries to sit up but only manages to succeed in dragging himself a little further up the bed.

Cameron bursts out laughing. _"Miliband-"_

Ed manages to prop himself up on one elbow, with a grin and a shrug, and then Cameron's wriggling up beside him.

Ed's drunk too much wine. He's.....drunk far too much wine.

"Here-" Cameron reaches behind Ed, and for a moment, his arm's behind Ed's shoulders as he pushes a pillow up. Ed's head falls back against it.

Cameron's tugging a pillow out himself and Ed becomes aware that they've somehow ended p sitting at the top of the bed. Next to each other.

A vague part of Ed's brain notes that this is unusual, but his thoughts are bumping into each other.

He leans back. Cameron's still holding his wineglass. Ed glances down at his hand, wondering when he finished his own drink. His eyes fall back to the screen and he lets himself watch quietly.

Cameron's leaning next to him. His leg brushes Ed's. Something like a shock of heat goes through Ed's stomach. He stares straight ahead at the screen, feeling his lip catch itself between his teeth, suddenly intensely aware of how close Cameron is to him.

He doesn't know if he wishes he still had his suit on or not.

The hairs on his arms are prickling. Cameron's bare arm is there, warm and-Ed can feel his body heat. His heart is rapid.

He keeps his eyes on the screen. Keeps himself as still as possible. Feels Cameron's arm just a few inches from his own.

He feels like he's holding his breath. He's only just noticing how dim the lights are, the TV screen casting a glow on the bed. His thoughts feel like they're dancing.

"I've never drunk that much before" he says, somehow, the words wobbling. "Never drunk-" He laughs a little.

Cameron's eyes are soft then. He's smiling, but his eyes are soft and blue and-

"Wouldn't have guessed" he says musingly, but gives Ed that grin-

Ed nestles back into the pillow and then sits up. "Exth-cept at university. Once. On tequila."

Cameron laughs then. "God, Miliband. You're so-"

He trails off. Ed turns to look. "You do that a lot."

"What?"

"Say that. You're _th-so-"_ Ed's tripping over his words a little. "And then you th-stop. You never say what I'm_ th-so."_

Cameron doesn't look away. He just keeps watching, and his eyes are even softer now. "I suppose I don't" is all he says, and his voice is-

It's just-

Ed wants to reach out and touch it.

"Not anth-swering the question." Ed's own voice is softer. He feels strangely sad, though he isn't sure why.

Cameron-

Cameron looks sad, too.

"Maybe not" he says quietly and Ed feels a lump swell in his throat. He blinks.

Cameron's hand brushes his. Ed's breath catches in his throat.

"I wish you would" he says, looking at the screen. "Sometimes. I really wish you would."

He's staring at Steve Coogan on the screen and remembering how his voice had sounded on the other side of the phone and how it sounds now, through the words of a character on a TV screen, and something about that reminds him of what he's just said to Cameron-

But he's not sure why or even what he just said.

"So do I" Cameron says softly. It could be in response to whatever Ed just said or to some thought of his own.

Ed leans back. The characters play on the screen, words crashing into one another. He listens, taking an almost childlike comfort in the words.

"I think Justine cried at this part." He remembers Justine's hand going to her eyes in the cinema.

He'd sat there and wondered what to do, he remembers. He'd thought about reaching out to comfort her, but the thought itself had felt odd, bizarre. Like putting a jumper on his legs.

"Or maybe it was another part. She doesn't usually cry." Ed glances at Cameron.

"I think Sam did. She often does, at films."

"I think Juth-stine cries because she should." Ed's not quite sure if he just said that aloud or what he meant.

Cameron's watching him, but Ed stares at the screen. He moves a little closer. Cameron's leg presses itself against Ed's. Ed can smell his aftershave-that soapy smell that's just-Cameron-ish.

"My head-th spinning."

"Mine too. A little-"

Ed laughs. They've fallen further back into the pillows. Cameron's leg is still pressed into his own.

Cameron looks at him with a grin. "God, you sound Milibandy."

Ed watches the film, and then turns slowly to David. "What did you just call me?"

Cameron smirks. "Milibandy."

The word makes Ed bite his lip. There's an odd warmth in his chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think?" Cameron arches an eyebrow annoyingly.

"I don't know." Ed lets his head fall back. "I don't know what you think ith-is a compliment, Cameron."

Cameron doesn't look at him for a few moments-and then does, slowly. His mouth twitches in a grin. "I think it's a compliment" he says, and it's a moment before Ed says "Thanks" and then wonders if he said it at all.

* * *

It's after a while of watching the film in a comfortable silence that Ed's thoughts start to clear a little. The room stops spinning when he raises his head. Slowly, apart from a vague feeling of unreality, of contented sleepiness, some of the strange feelings are starting to recede a little.

He's still lying on a bed with Cameron, and that should bother him more, but he settles back onto the pillow, feeling heavy, almost content.

They watch quietly, an odd sort of peace between them, and then Ed glances down and sees Cameron's leg pressed against his.

It seems to take a little while to hit him and then it does, sharp and sudden. _Cameron's leg is against his._

He freezes, waiting for Cameron to notice and move away. He waits for Cameron to look.

Why isn't he-

Why isn't Ed moving-

It doesn't mean anything. Of course it doesn't. They're just-sitting together. That's all.

(On a bed.)

It doesn't mean anything, because Ed won't let it mean anything-

And it doesn't, anyway-

God, Cameron's leg is warm-

Ed suddenly feels a little hot. He tugs at his collar awkwardly. He's doing anything he can not to look at Cameron.

He tries to focus on the screen. Not to listen to his suddenly, almost audible heartbeat.

And then he catches the dialogue.

_The sex. Oh, it was wonderful, Martin._

Oh God.

Ed feels himself still. A smile's tugging at his mouth, but his cheeks are burning. Words are stuck in his throat.

Because that word. That word, between him and _Cameron_-

Ed suddenly can't bear to look at him. His cheeks are far, far too hot.

He laughs a little awkwardly. Cameron's laughing next to him. Ed can smell his aftershave, his soap-

God, he smells so good.

His leg is still pressing against Ed's.

_And I thought I was floating on air._

Oh God.

(This is _Judi Dench _talking, for God's sake.)

(Ed's never felt like that.)

(He's always thought it was a myth, or at least an exaggeration.)

(He's tried-he's _tried _to make himself feel like that, but sex has always just been-)

(Just-)

Now, his fingers curl and grip into the duvet hard. His heart is thumping. His fingers curl and uncurl.

(Just an _addition_, really. Just something that's there.)

(Like a starter before a meal.)

(Quite nice, sometimes. Other times-more times-just something to get through. A necessity, before going on to something more interesting)

But his cheeks are so hot and he can't breathe properly and his smile feels awkward.

(What the hell's _happening_ to him?)

He wants so badly to look at Cameron, to see if he's feeling like this, to see it-

But oh God, he can't look at Cameron. He doesn't know why, but he absolutely cannot look at Cameron.

_He was so handsome and the way he held me in his arms-_

Oh God, shut up.

(And suddenly, he's wondering if Cameron has ever felt like that, if Cameron has felt like he's floating, like he's, he's-)

(Something hard and tight gnarls in Ed's stomach at the thought.)

_And after I had the sex, I thought anything that feels so lovely must be wrong._

Ed's eyes skitter to Cameron and his mind grabs onto the thought, the thought which had sneaked in and grabbed him when he'd first seen Cameron tonight.

_God, he looks good._

Ed's eyes drop to Cameron's forearms. They look strong, warm-of course they're _warm_ for God's sake-

Steve Coogan's talking, now. _It's just that, why would God bestow on us a sexual desire which he then wants us to resist? Is it some weird game that he's invented to alleviate the boredom of being omnipotent? Baffles me..._

Cameron's leg moves a little against him. Ed feels a tingle creep through his whole body at the contact. Everywhere their bodies are touching feels electric. Ed sits as still as possible.

(Oh God, has Cameron felt like that-)

(God, it's _Cameron_, why's he thinking about-)

_I thought I was floating on air-_

Cameron, with his posh, clipped voice and that curl of the lip and the way he can be so _cocky_ and-

_He was so handsome, and the way he held me in his arms-_

Ed can't look at him.

His face is so hot.

He stares at the screen. Their legs are pressed together.

He can't move away.

It's only when the scene ends and Cameron laughs uncertainly that Ed manages a tentative, wobbly smile.

(Their legs are still pressed together.)

(Ed still can't move away.)

* * *

_What was he like?_

_Erm, well, I can't remember, it was a Republican thing-_

_But you must remember something-?_

David feels the tears burn in his eyes a little.

_I-well-he was by the door when I went in, I shook hands with him-_

_Well, what kind of a handshake did he have?_

He remembers Ivan's little eyes crinkling, his cheek nestled against David's chest. Almost a smile. The closest Ivan usually got to a smile.

_No, so he had a firm handshake. What else?_

_He was smart-?_

_Oh, I always kept him smart._

David blinks and feels a tear trickle down his cheek.

_"You're smiling today, aren't you?" Sam had been rocking Ivan back and forth while his eyes drifted, one finger stroking his cheek rhythmically., her own eyes red and tear-stained. "You gave us a lovely smile, earlier, didn't you?"_

_And-did you remember anything he said?_

_"Hello?"_

_"Hello?" "Hello"-_

_It might have been "Hi"-_

_"Hello-"_

_He was polite-_

Ivan's eyes would move just a little. And David would hold onto it, the tiniest bit of movement that showed that his son's brain was still working, that he was still there. While he waited for Ivan's smile to come back.

_No, well-he was smart. And he had a firm handshake._

_He said hello._

_And he-he said, hello. Hello-_

_He was polite._

_Oh, Martin-_

David doesn't realise he's crying for a few moments. It's only when he feels the tears on his cheeks that he realises, and he puts his hand up to his face, surprised.

Miliband turns and stares at him. His eyes are big and dark. "You're crying" he says baldly. His voice wavers a little.

"David." Just his name, breathed between them.

And Miliband's hand touches his cheek.

His hand catches a tear and he wipes it gently off David's cheek.

David tries to laugh. It catches in his throat.

"I suppose so" is all he says, when he realises the silence has dragged on a little too long.

Miliband tilts his head to the side. And then his hand presses a little closer into David's cheek.

"Don't you cry?"

David isn't sure which of them asked it for a moment.

Miliband's eyes are fluttering. And then, "I don't know. I'm not sure-I just-"

Miliband blinks a few times, looks back at the screen. The light casts his face in a glow, reflecting in his dark eyes. "Didn't even cry when my dad died." His voice is like a ghost. Just taking a breath between them.

David can't not look at him. Miliband's hand is still on his cheek. Something about that-

"When it's your child-" He's not even sure what he's saying. "You want to know everything."

He thinks he sees Miliband nod, but he's not sure.

"It was always like that with Ivan, when he couldn't smile."

Miliband stills next to him. Against him.

David isn't entirely sure what he's saying. All that he knows is that the tears are trickling down his cheeks and he isn't sure why.

"Sorry" he says, to Miliband's big, dark eyes. "Sorry. Didn't know I'd-"

"It'ths fine." Miliband speaks before David can finish the sentence.

His hand moves up and wipes at his tears.

(The worst times were when Ivan couldn't smile.)

Miliband's turned over, staring at him. The film is still playing. David thinks about it for a long moment-the details you cling to about your child. Not just little things, like what cereal never to serve them, what cartoon character they love probably more than you. Different things. The things you scramble for when you can't touch them anymore. The details you cling to, even as they start to slip through your fingers.

"It's weird" he says. "When you start to forget."

The words hang there, ringing between them.

"I know." Miliband's voice is quiet, and then "But not like that."

_Not your son._

Because no one knows. No one knows until it happens and if it does, it is far, far worse than you will be imagining.

"No" he says and then "I don't want you to know it. I don't want anyone to know it-"

The wine is playing with his words. He doesn't know what he's saying.

The film's playing and somehow Miliband's hair has ended up against his cheek.

Just for a moment, and he's not even sure why or what's happening.

And then they pull away from each other.

It's after a while that David's thoughts start to clear. Miliband's quiet now. His head's tilted to the side, watching the screen. His fingers are sliding in and out of each other, like a kid's would. David watches him, amused, for a few moments, before he turns back to the screen.

(His hand was on his cheek.)

It doesn't matter, David tells himself. It doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter.

(His hair was against my cheek.)

(It doesn't matter.)

(Their legs are still pressed against each other.)

* * *

It's when she hugs her baby son tightly that David hears Ed's breath catch. He doesn't look purposefully , noting the way Miliband's fingers have dug tightly into the bedcovers.

When his breath hitches again, David debates with himself. Maybe it's the wine and maybe it's-

(the way Miliband's hand pressed itself clumsily into his cheek)

but David clears his throat. "Ah. Miliband. Are you-um-are you all right?"

Miliband's breath catches a few times. He swallows. David watches the movement of his throat.

He takes in a harsh, shaking breath. Then another.

"Um-Miliband-" David looks at his own hand, daring himself to place it on Miliband's shoulder. "Um-"

Miliband scrubs at his eyes a little frantically. His cheeks are crimson.

David searches for words, a little clumsier than he should. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to have problems with crying?"

A moment of silence, then a slightly muffled "What?"

"You know. The old boarding school question. Does boarding school completely addle your brains, that sort of thing-" His voice is light, amused.

(Those scars burn a little, but there's nothing to burn them, now, anyway.)

Miliband knuckles at his eyes like a child, and David says "I cried the first time I saw it."

"Well, th-so did I." Miliband's voice is sharper and lisping-_Miliband's_ voice, a little sulky and defiant.

"You said Justine did-"

"Not because Justine did" Miliband manages, and suddenly he laughs. "Actually, not. _Not_ because Justine did. Should be-"

He murmurs something that sounds like _opposite _or the _opposite._ David frowns.

Then, settling back against the pillow, Miliband says "You bring the boarding school thing up a lot."

David blinks, unusually wrong-footed. "What?"

"You often mention the boarding-school thing, how happy you were" and Miliband's words are running into each other, and they've drunk too much. They've both drunk too much.

"You're one to talk about mentioning the boarding-school thing." David's voice struggles to sound light. _"Can the boy from the Bullingdon Club, etc., etc.-"_

Miliband winces but then he says "Exth-cept at mine."

"What?"

"You always say you were happy at school, except at mine. On my birthday." Miliband's voice is softer, looser than usual. He's watching David, head on one side. "You were different, then."

"You're different _now."_ The words come out without thinking.

Miliband's mouth twitches, an eyebrow arches. The credits are playing on the screen now, and Miliband lies back suddenly.

(Their legs are still touching.)

"It was hard, today." His voice is more nasal than usual. That isn't a bad thing. "You were right."

David reaches for the control, turns the volume down. "So were you."

"How?"

"Nobody knew what to say."

They watch each other for a moment, Miliband's dark eyes peering at David over a pillow.

"I do say I was happy."

Why the hell's he saying that?

Miliband's rolling onto his back, but somehow he feels even closer. "Were you?"

David takes a breath.

_(burning burning ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts)_

(cigarette glowing, struggling, hands digging into skin, knowing it'll hurt, _knowingknowingknowing)_

He looks back, straight into Miliband's dark eyes.

(_Come on, take it like a fucking man.)_

"Were _you_ always happy at school?"

Miliband just looks and then says "Not anth-swering the question, Cameron?"

David laughs and then Miliband says "That wasn't even the same queth-stion."

It starts out as a laugh. It ends in almost a whisper.

"Well?" David's lying on his side, watching him. "Were you?"

Miliband laughs a little, then. "Do you think I was?"

"Copying my tricks again?"

"So you admit they're tricks?"

David just laughs, because typical Miliband.

"It wasn't like that" he concedes, pointing at the silent screen. "But it was-ah-"

He laughs a little again. He's not sure why.

Miliband's just looking at him when he stops laughing and just looks back.

"So?" he manages, voice cracking a little. "Are you going to tell me this just proves your point about boarding schools? That they're all morally corrupt institutions that should be shut down?"

"You th-said it, not me." But Miliband's voice is low and soft, and David can't listen to that for some reason, because this is not how he and Miliband are supposed to sound.

"Don't worry, Miliband" he says, voice a little louder than he means. "I'm sure I managed to end up relatively unscathed, without cuddles and teddies and bedtime stories, all that sort of thing-"

He trails off at the look on Miliband's face.

Miliband's brow has furrowed. For a second, his face almost contorts and he looks so-

Then, suddenly, it's cleared, and Miliband is just watching him. "Well. Maybe bedtime stories are overrated."

His voice is almost inaudible when he says "I wouldn't know."

David goes quite still before he rolls over to look at Ed. "What?"

"Oh-" Ed falls back a little, staring up at the ceiling.

"It's just-I thought you said your dad used to tell you stories. Those stories about the sheep on the moors." David stares at him. "You know. The ones you were telling Flo and Sam-"

Ed laughs a little. "Booboo and Heehee. Yeah."

David ponders quite how to ask his next question. "Then-ah-how-"

"I mean, my dad told us stories" Ed says suddenly, reaching down to tug at his sleeve. "He used to make them up when we were little. But I th-suppose-other things were more important. And there were nannies and things. Before we got old enough."

Something about the phrasing jolts oddly in David's mind, but before he can say anything, Ed says "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Didn't anyone read you anything at school?"

_(Take it like a man.)_

David feels himself tense only for a moment before he says, voice a little smaller then he'd like "The first few nights. But only for the littlest ones. Sometimes, just the first night. Before we saw where we were sleeping, though."

(Ice on the windows, shoulders shivering, aching and shivering from the cold, teeth won't stop hitting each other, tears too hot on your cheeks)

"What?" Miliband's watching him, head tilted and David curses his own mouth.

"Ignore me" he says, voice a little too light to fool Miliband.

(God, how has _Miliband _become one of those people who can't be fooled?)

Miliband's lips part a little. He stares at David for a moment. The skin on the back of David's neck prickles because he knows Miliband is about to say something, he just _knows_ it-

"Um-"

"I-ah-" Miliband leans back on the bed. "I-ah-"

He bites his lip and reaches for his book.

_Wait, don't go_ is what David nearly says. _Don't go. Not yet._

(But if not yet, then _when,_ because it's late and he's got to be up early, and, and-)

(Why doesn't he _want_ to-)

"Thought you were remedying the situation for a moment, there" he manages, as Miliband's fingers close around his book.

Miliband blinks, then glances at the book. "Oh-"

David immediately wishes he hadn't said anything. "It was-ah-"

Miliband's opening the book and David's about to say something, to shake his head, because no, he was joking, and Miliband's taken it literally-

(typical Miliband)

(typically Milibandy)

But then something makes him stop, let Miliband flick through the pages, because something-

(Curiosity?)

just makes him want to-

_"Although the Sox seemed capable of beating New York, every single time they had a chance to make a definitive statement about the Yankees, they failed to-"_

Oh God.

Miliband's actually reading aloud.

To him.

Something about that is just-

Very-

Miliband trails off, and then his eyes flutter up to David. His teeth sink into his lip and his eyes open wide, colour rushing up his cheeks.

"Oh. Oh. Y-you didn't m-mean it-o-oh God-I-"

"Ed." And maybe it's the wine or just that feeling David got when he saw Miliband gazing at his book, his eyes so intense and his hair falling forward a little and that lisp, or maybe it's just the whole day, but-

He ends up-

Well-

He's touching Miliband's sleeve.

"I wasn't" he says, and then Miliband's eyes flicker up to his, wide and dark.

"Wasn't what?"

David isn't sure he's going to say it before he does. "Joking."

They stare at each other. Their legs are touching again. (When did their legs start touching each other?)

Miliband swallows. David can't take his eyes off the movement of that smooth, olive skin.

"You mean-you-you want me to-"

"Only if you want to-"

Miliband's eyes widen a little, then narrow. "Are you-" He trails off, flushing again. "Are you-um-"

"I'm not making fun of you!" It comes out a little more indignant than it should.

Miliband's cheeks flush even deeper. David bites his lip at the impasse.

Maybe if it was another time, he wouldn't have managed it. Just made some joke, managed some line, told Miliband not to worry about it, gone to bed and both pretended to forget about the whole thing.

But it's not another time. It's here and now and after this day and they've both drunk too much and Miliband's there on the bed next to him, so close.

"Look" and he's stumbling over the words. "It's been a bad day. It's been a bloody awful day. And when you started reading, then. Don't know. It just felt nice. And you don't have to-I know you don't, but-I don't know. I just thought if you wanted to read it-then I'd like you to."

Oh God. He's never felt this uncomfortable. He can't have done.

But then, he's never had a conversation like this before.

(And with _Miliband_ of all people-)

(Though maybe that shouldn't be a surprise. This whole conversation is rather Milibandy, after all.)

Miliband's blushing and shrugging and then he huffs, almost pouting. "Th-sorry it was so _bad"_ and he's sulky and scowling and almost childish, and oh, for God's sake-

David just says it, because at this point, there's no reason not to, and the wine's made the words a little easier anyway. "Yeah, well, the best parts were with you anyway."

He doesn't look at Miliband. He doesn't look anywhere near Miliband.

(It's true, he knew that. How true it is still surprises him.)

When he looks up slowly, Miliband's watching him. His face is scarlet and his eyes are dark but he's watching David and David can't quite read his expression this time.

(Can he usually?)

(Does he want to know the answer?)

Miliband just looks back at him and then, in barely a breath, says "OK."

He picks his book up and David-

David leans his cheek on the pillow before he can even think about it.

(It's natural. They're on a bed, after all.)

(That shouldn't be natural, not for them.)

God, the bed's comfortable. His head's heavy.

Miliband's turning over so he's facing away from David. David frowns and then Miliband's voice says, haltingly, "My shoulder's tense-it helps me-"

"It's fine." David's mouth is suddenly dry. The room is rocking a little.

For a moment, he thinks Miliband is going to say something else, but then there's just a silence. And then, _"In the end, stripped of all the spin and stats, this Red Sox team was really not a whole lot different from a lot of Red Sox teams over the years-"_

David watches for a while. Occasionally, he'll lean up on one elbow, faking a cramp or a stretch, because then he can get a glimpse of Miliband's face for a few moments and there's something-

There's just something about it. His eyes widen a little, getting lost in the pages. His eyebrows arch, as though he's never heard the facts and figures and story before, though David would bet he knows the tale back to front, even if not in this particular form. Even his voice rises and falls a little, as he seems to sink into the reading, into the story of an unexpected victory when everything else seemed lost.

It's not difficult, really, to see why Miliband likes it so much.

(Though typical Miliband. Heroes and villains.)

David's not sure when his eyes shut but they do. And then it's just Miliband's voice, nasal and faltering occasionally, and lisping. David just listens to it, lets it ripple through his ears.

It's doing something to him, that voice. That voice is just-filling everything up. Like David's feeling the story through it. And his eyes are heavy and shut and all there is is Miliband's voice in that warm dark inside his head.

He can picture it, in amongst the faltering syllables and the lisp that creeps in every other word. The furrow of the brow. The slight pout of the lips. The brush of eyelashes against his cheek.

(It's _Miliband.)_

(God, he missed his voice.)

David's hand creeps out before he can notice.

His fingers are touching the shirt before he knows what he's doing. His fingers are brushing material and David's eyes open the same moment Miliband's voice trails off.

"There's some dust on your shirt-" The words jerk out of David's mouth even before he's fully awake. They're what wake him up, stringing together an explanation.

It's true. It must be.

His eyes must have opened, and he must have spotted-

Of course he-

His hand's still stroking Miliband's shirt. The material crinkles under his hand. He can feel the warmth of Miliband's skin through it.

"Here, I'll stop-"

"No."

Miliband's voice is tiny and caught between them and David freezes. He freezes, his hand still pressing, pressed against Miliband's back.

(Pressed against Miliband's back. He can feel Miliband's skin all over his hand now, through that shirt-far too thin for January, what was he thinking-the only thing between them)

"I mean-it'th-s all right. If there'th dust. You might as well-"

(When he brushes the side of his hand down, he can just stroke the sharp knobs of Miliband's spine.)

"Get it-finish-"

Miliband isn't finishing, but that's OK.

That's-

David slowly brushes his hand down Miliband's back, and then he manages, almost in a whisper "Go on."

This time, when Miliband's voice begins again, halting and a little uncertain, David feels it, feels the vibrations through his skin, through his hands.

(He likes it. Like Miliband's speaking those words from inside his chest to David. Telling him a story, dredged up from somewhere inside his ribs.)

(God, what a stupid thought.)

His hand keeps moving.

It feels as though David's heartbeat is wrestling in his chest. Every few moments, his hand catches Miliband's back, smoothes over his shirt, the warmth of his skin soaking through.

Miliband's voice is there in his ear and David's a bit closer to him, somehow. His hand strokes a little higher. His breath catches in his chest.

_(It's Miliband, it's Miliband, it's Miliband-)_

(There's no way there could be this much dust on Miliband's shirt.)

He can feel Miliband's words and something about it's almost painfully close, to be touching his back through his shirt. Something aches in his chest. He feels as though he can't quite get his breath.

He and Miliband are so close. The pillow's soft against his cheek. They're so close.

David doesn't dare move. He doesn't dare breathe too loudly. He feels like he did as a child when a butterfly landed on his arm, or when Ivan's smile flickered out for a moment-_don't breathe, don't pray, don't think. Don't break it, don't breathe too loudly, it'll be over, it'll be over..._

So he doesn't. He lies there, heart rapid, light drumbeats, barely breathing, his hands working slow, gentle circles into Miliband's back.

* * *

Ed keeps reading, somehow. He has to, trying to fill his eyes and mind with the words, anything to keep his breathing slow and steady, as Cameron's hand keeps moving.

It feels so nice. That's the thing. Cameron's hand moving in slow circles like that feels really _nice._

He's just cleaning Ed's shirt. That's all he's doing. He's just cleaning Ed's shirt.

He keeps reading. It feels as though his mind and his thoughts and his feelings have just raced to his back. All his attention's focused itself there very suddenly, under each brush of Cameron's fingers. A strange heat prickles pleasantly at his skin. Every time Cameron's finger brushes his shoulder blade, a strange tingle goes through him.

Ed's eyes flicker and he stumbles over a word. "I-ah-"

Cameron's voice is soft and low. "Do you want me to read for a bit?"

Cameron's so _close-_

Ed should be saying no. Ed should be _wanting_ to say no.

But Cameron's so close.

He's passing the book back wordlessly, and then speaks a little too quickly a moment later. "Yeah, if you-"

He doesn't look round at Cameron.

(He can't look round at Cameron, he absolutely can't.)

But Cameron's fingers brush his as he takes the book and then he's staring at the wall, his heart rapid, because _don't stop, don't stop-_

Cameron's hand strokes his back again, almost reassuringly.

It's a moment before his voice is there, low and smooth and careful. _"It was unspeakable, unbelievable and completely predictable. In a way, it was like every other loss in Red Sox history-"_

Ed's eyes fall shut before he can stop them. Cameron's voice is smooth over each word and careful around the pronunciation, and something about hearing stories of baseball he knows so well in Cameron's voice is just so _bizarre-_

It does something to Ed's heartbeat. It makes something contract pleasantly in his chest. It makes something swoop in his midriff, makes him bite his lip, because just the_ sound_ of Cameron feels so close, _he_ is so close, and-

His hand's still stroking gently, back and forth. He keeps reading. Ed's eyes are heavy and his thoughts are pleasantly hazy. He's warm and tired and his head's spinning a little. And Cameron's warm and close and his hand is so gentle.

"Best parts were with you" he thinks he whispers, but he's not sure if he really says it.

Cameron's hand only stills for a moment, then keeps going even more slowly than before.

It's when Cameron's hand taps his arm gently, and Ed reaches blearily for the book that his eyes fall closed again. He'd been lulled into some kind of daze by Cameron's voice and the familiar words and the friendly warmth of it all, the soft rubbing of his back.

_"There they were, Boston and New York, taking aim at-_sorry, _taking aim on each other, still falling-_sorry, _still playing game seven before t-the-_" He shakes his head as the words fumble out of his mouth. His eyes are so heavy.

"Hey-" and Cameron's hand tightens a little. "You can put it down. S'all right." His own voice is thick with sleep.

Ed should be asking, because when did they get so close, and he has his own bed somewhere, he knows he does, and he should probably go and find it, but he's comfortable and warm here-

"You sure?" The words come out slurred with tiredness, and he feels Cameron's nod, even as his own head nods forward too, the book slipping from his grasp a little.

"Shh" he thinks he hears, but his eyes are already closing.

They're already closing when the hand brushes his hair too, finger skating the back of his neck. Fingers combing through his hair-

"Sleep now" he thinks he hears, but his eyelashes are brushing his cheeks, eyes gratefully shutting, and he's already sinking.

Cameron feels warm and close like this. Ed's sinking into it.

* * *

He pats at Miliband's hair automatically, hand straying up of its' own accord, but David's own eyes are closing, even as his thoughts mumble and spiral a little.

He's lying far too close to Miliband, and he should notice that, but he doesn't really. His eyes are closing and his cheek's pressed into the pillow and it's so comfortable.

It's nicer with Miliband here, really.

He notices that as his hand just crawls up and strokes, as though he can stroke Miliband's eyes closed, stroke away those shadows, because he looks so tired.

And it feels good, lying here like this.

"Sleep, Ed" he thinks he says, or something like it, but the words come out in a mumble.

His hand strokes, then falls slowly. His own eyes close. The lamps seem to be flickering at him in a friendly way.

David's eyes are closed. He can feel Miliband's breathing evening out, his shoulders slowly relaxing.

He mumbles something and his cheek presses deeper into the pillow as he drifts, sinking into sleep. Miliband's so near him, almost against his chest, David's hand just touching him, fingers curling gently into the fabric of Miliband's shirt, as he drifts off.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Believe In Me-The Pierces-"Just when I was thinking I'd be moving on/Lay my eyes on a baby with a wounded heart/Said I think we're gonna get along/Said I want to find out who you are/Hey, believe in me/'Cos I believe in you...Heads playing tricks because you feel like mine/Never been so easy with a boy like you/Want to love you because you look so fine/Who knows, maybe one day you could be true"_

_Ball-Jointed Doll (Harry)-Nicole Dollanganger-"tried to bend your kneecaps and they shattered, tried to move your/legs but they bolted your joints together, and the more you tried, the/more you knew, this had been the way they'd built you, in the body of/a ball jointed doll, you're so fragile you can't move at all"_

_All Of This-The Naked And Famous-"I can't begin to explain/How we disassemble/The parts and frame/Maybe it's the same late morning?/The same no show?/It's the same fucking habits/I guess we don't know"_

_Last Smoke Before The Snowstorm-Benjamin Francis Leftwich-"This is just the start/You've got a cold heart/Don't you wanna spend/More time round here?...We are not departed/From the place in which we started/We just got up on the bridge/So we could see it glow"_

_Portuguese Voices-Spark Alaska-"And as a young boy, you were just an older man/You're the cold chill left in Southern sand/You're a young mind, old head in disarray/And please God, please no Novocaine/Calm down, you know you've gotta breathe in/And they speak in etereo voices/Far away from home with no return address/And you're a letter never opened and never read"_

_Hate To See Your Heart Break-Paramore-"And I, I hate to see your heart break/I hate to see your eyes get darker as they close/But I've been there before/And I, I hate to see your heart break/I hate to see your eyes get darker as they close/But I've been there before"_

_Bookends Theme-Simon and Garfunkel-"Time it was/And what a time it was, it was/A time of innocence/A time of confidences/Long ago, it must be"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The George V cafe they go to on the Champs-Elysees:https://bit.ly/2W6XBIF  
The bridge they're on is the Pont Alexandre III:https://bit.ly/2IK5Gen  
Some of the details about Justine's childhood come from here-Alex is her brother:https://bit.ly/2TOJkPl  
She did get extra tutoring because she only got 99/100 on a maths test:http://dailym.ai/3cWNGLB  
She was a child actress and has been described as "moderate" Labour:https://bit.ly/2w2Ys2c  
https://bit.ly/2URghcW  
She did intend to get married and have two children by the time she was 30-their wedding did have an e.e.cummings poem:https://bit.ly/2Wc4sRa  
Her holding her breath while she walked to school is true:https://bit.ly/2ILuSRC  
Her parents are Labour voters:https://bit.ly/39K9mZr  
Ed did describe her as a "good counsel" and it was Justine's idea for Ed to run for leader:http://dailym.ai/2U3xAXR  
When asked what he liked about her, Ed said her "humanity" and that she was a "very good corrective":https://bit.ly/2IHKCoD  
"It wasn't a cold house" was a line Ed used about his childhood that was disputed:https://bit.ly/2vjY13f  
David and Sam met on a family holiday to Tuscany when she was invited by his sister Clare:https://bit.ly/2WhAIlX  
A clip of Ed's dad:https://bit.ly/2TUCkAb  
David's father the day after he became PM and David with him:https://bit.ly/2QmREnc  
https://bit.ly/2QoOBuO  
https://bit.ly/39WtmIt  
https://bit.ly/2TVhCAj  
https://bit.ly/2WhGrYH  
https://bit.ly/2QloTXY  
https://bit.ly/3d5zHmQ  
https://bit.ly/2ISEYjW  
https://bit.ly/2TUKgBx  
https://bit.ly/2IQjN1A  
Sam was a goth and made her own clothes:https://bit.ly/33fsDQ0  
https://on.wsj.com/2Qf4e7R  
Sam did mistake the protection team for stalking them:https://bit.ly/33fjjM5  
Ed was always more into work than romance, apparently at one point completely unable to understand why a sex therapist would descibe that as the "fun" part of her job:https://bit.ly/2U3anoN  
Ed did go to Majorca as a child:https://bit.ly/3aSOcs7  
Ed's father went away frequently for work and Ed lived with him for a while: https://bit.ly/38KpOHX  
David's boarding school:http://dailym.ai/39QiYlk  
Ed did read One Day and find it depressing:https://bit.ly/3cSQ9a5  
He has read J K Rowling's crime novels:https://bit.ly/3aUm5ck  
Ivan's medication did render him unable to smile at times:https://bbc.in/2U4T5aY  
https://bit.ly/2w85cMr  
There have been reports of severe bullying at schools such as the one David attended:https://bit.ly/39KaOuR  
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/who-is-david-cameron-3230058nlq3  
https://bit.ly/2WcVjHK  
The photos Justine mentions are these:https://bit.ly/2w2Vo6c  
https://bit.ly/2QaQJpW  
https://bit.ly/3cYokgw  
The Philomena clips can be seen here:https://bit.ly/2Qdx2hg  
https://bit.ly/38Swx2h  
Ed did "well up" in the cinema:https://bit.ly/3cWBxqc  
The letter signed by Ed, Nick, and Farage urging David to go ahead with TV debates:https://bit.ly/33eKmXG  
Nick speaks 6 languages:https://bit.ly/39NLnsd  
Stewart is Justine and Sam's middle name:https://bbc.in/38LmhJ9  
http://dailym.ai/2IHxaBi  
https://bit.ly/2QbyDUs  
David is a fan of Tony Benn's essays, despite their opposing politics:https://bit.ly/2QfyQWZ  
Tony Benn was a close friend of Ed's father and gave him his first work experience:https://bit.ly/39PFwmm  
Coogan is a Labour supporter:https://bit.ly/2Wf1mvx  
David's father was disabled, and passed away in 2010, shortly after he became Prime Minister, and without ever meeting Florence:https://bit.ly/2Q84HZB  
https://bit.ly/2xtW0lI  
http://dailym.ai/2QdejSR  
Dave and Ed's varying religious beliefs-Ed's father died in 1994, when Ed was only 24:http://dailym.ai/2U4yxPJ  
https://bit.ly/38Ln1hp  
Ed claimed Angels was his favourite song because he'd seen it live with Justine-it turned out he said it because it was recommended in a focus group:https://bbc.in/3d6Mdma  
https://bit.ly/33eDjOK  
https://bit.ly/2wPJ89j  
Justine mentioned reading Goodnight Moon:https://bit.ly/2TQ0VpX


	7. Careless Confessions, A Sharing Of Suspicions And An Exploration Of Equivocation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which pipes are never a good excuse and telling someone they're gorgeous means nothing at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
Now, there are a couple of sections of reference notes at this one. That's because this chapter deals with "the election that never was", which was one of the turning points in David's leadership and the point at which Gordon Brown's swan-dived. It also led to lasting splits and divisions between Ed and the rest of the Brownites. Those quotes are at the end of the chapter. There's also a section of quotes relating to the AV referendum, which was a major fallout in the coalition government between Dave, George and Nick in 2011, and one relating to Gordon Brown's infamous temper (throwing phones, screaming, kicking, etc.) in Downing Street. So yeah, a lot of notes, but more drama packed into those notes than the average Eastenders storyline. The other notes deal with George and Nick falling out over the Budget, the huge dramatic fallout between Tony and Gordon, and the rift between the two Eds and the other Brownites. Also Ed B playing the piano.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_I consciously exerted every last impulse of charm and affection, not just persuading but wooing. Gordon and I had been well-nigh inseparable for over ten years. We were as close as two people ever are in politics. It was not simply a professional relationship, it was a friendship. Later, when things became difficult, then fraught, and finally dangerous, the wrench was all the harder because the intimacy had been so real. It was a political partnership, of course, but it was buttressed, possibly even grounded, in a genuine and sincere liking for each other. Neither of us had met anyone like that before.-A Journey: My Political Life, Tony Blair_

_Maybe it's easier for me because I'm a journalist, not a politician, and whatever happens I'll have a role writing about it. But it felt blindingly obvious to me from the word go that it would be TB, and all this agonising was really just messing around. GB was clearly moving towards pulling out. TB had said he was seeing him for dinner this evening and hoped they would have something to say tomorrow. ..TB called first thing. He said the dinner (at the Granita restaurant, Islington) had gone fine, and GB was going to make an announcement today that he was not standing. He said it would be very important what I write about it because people knew I was close. He said it was vital I talked up GB, and tried to get others in the media to do likewise, and it was also important I talked up the importance of the TB-GB partnership, that they remained good friends and would continue to work together, and the two of them working together was crucial to Labour's future success. He also wanted me to say that as they were both relatively young still, this was a selfless act which left open the chance of him getting the leadership at a later date. It was pretty clear GB had finally conceded, but driven a hard bargain along the way. That, or TB was just desperate to keep him onside and avoid a fight. In that first call of the day, he was almost exclusively concerned with GB getting what he called a soft landing. Then he called to talk about how to stage the photo of the two of them together, walking up from the Commons. I said they both had to be as natural as possible, but there is nothing natural about walking purely for the purposes of being filmed doing so. It didn't look too bad, but given it would be shown many, many times in the future, it was a shame it didn't look more natural. I saw them both briefly before they went out, and it was tense. GB was clearly pissed off with me, and the role I had been playing in recent days, but I felt this was ending where it was always going to end, from the moment JS (John Smith) died. Tony looked OK about it all but he was constantly fussing re GB and how he was going to come out of it...JP (John Prescott) called and was pretty caustic about the whole thing. "**Forgive me if I have total contempt for these press people writing all this shit about Brown. He pulled out for one reason only-because he finally realised he could not get the votes. End of story. So, to have all this bollocks about it being selfless and all for the party, come off it, it's rubbish."** He was also on the warpath about the idea TB had made a guarantee GB would stay in charge of economic policy. **"If he thinks he is going to be in charge of all economic policy, then they both have a fight on, I'm telling you."**-Tuesday 31 May 1994-Wednesday 1 June 1994-Thursday 2 June 1994"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997_

_The root of the evil in their relationship was the arrangement they came to over the leadership in 1994, a deal which programme a permanent power struggle into the DNA of the Government and led to years of recriminatory accusations of broken promises. Believing that he was an Esau, robbed of his birthright by Jacob, a smoother, younger brother, Brown never forgave Blair for taking the leadership and displaced much of his fury on to Peter Mandelson. The third musketeer later reflected: **"Within the New Labour family there has been a fissure from the word go. The reason is Gordon thought he should have succeeded John Smith, and he has never fully reconciled himself to not doing so. A very deep breach was opened up." **_

_The events of the traumatic days after John Smith's fatal heart attack became accreted with many myths. The biggest legend was that the bargaining took place on 31 May 1994 at Granita, a now defunct restaurant in Islington. The meeting there was actually the culmination of a series of highly charged encounters, at least ten in all. Brown initially and naively expected his younger partner to defer to him. Blair had to withstand the older man's fury and then manage his bitter feelings....It was some time before they met at Granita that Brown realised that he would lose a contest with Blair. After a Scottish leader who was preceded by a Welsh one, there was an overwhelming feeling in the Labour Party that it needed a leader with a feel for the centre ground and telegenic appeal to Middle England in order to win power after four election defeats. As Mandelson famously suggested in an interview with me at the time, Blair was the one who would **play best at the box office, who will not simply appeal to the traditional supporters and customers of the Labour Party, but who will bring in those extra, additional voters that we need to win convincingly."**_ _ That was seen as rank treachery by Brown, to whom Mandelson had originally been closer than he was to Blair. This rupture generated a hatred between Brown and Mandelson which was the more intense because it had been preceded by love. From it flowed fourteen years of venomous feuding. One witness who heard Mandelson's end of a hysterical telephone conversation with Brown in 1994 recalls him screaming: **I love you, but I'll break you! If you do that, I can destroy you!"** Michael Wills, who was one of the few people who managed to be a friend of Brown while remaining on reasonable terms with Mandelson, reckoned they were **"like scorpions in a bottle, only one of them will crawl out alive." **_ _Mandelson made the rational choice when he backed the more promising candidate. Blair was always going to win...That ought to have given Blair the strong hand in his negotiations with Brown. Yet he played it weakly. Before he left for Granita, Blair stood in the kitchen of his home in Islington discussing with Cherie and Mandelson how he should tackle Brown. Cherie was always worried that her husband would concede too much, telling him before an earlier meeting: **"If you agree with Gordon that you're going to do this for one term only, don't come back home."**_ _ Mandelson believed Brown had to be accommodate for the sake of their project. Blair concurred, says Philip Gould, because **"Tony was nervous about dividing the modernisers."**_ _ He left for the restaurant saying: **"I've got to give him something."**_ _ Blair ended up giving so much to Brown that the latter was encouraged to believe that they had effectively argued a dual premiership..._

_On the account of the negotiations that Brown gave to his friends, it was Blair who volunteered the idea that he wouldn't serve as Labour leader for more than a decade. Blair always denied that he said anything quite so explicit, but it is entirely plausible that he floated the notion that he would hand over after ten years, not least because that would have seemed a very distant prospect to him at that time. As someone close to both of them once put it to me: **Tony is a great one for saying what he thinks the other person wants to hear. Gordon is a great one for only hearing what he wants to hear."**_ _ The restaurant encounter lasted barely more than an hour; the consequences of the deal would remain undigested for more than a decade. Many of Blair's friends later concluded that he committed a cardinal error which compromised his premiership from the beginning. **"I think that the greatest mistake that has been made in politics in my lifetime was the deal struck between Blair and Brown that culminated in the Granita agreement"**_ _ argues Robert Harris. **"In the end, it ruined Blair's premiership. It ruined it politically and it ruined it for him personally."...**_ _The deal did not assuage Brown's dark wrath that he was denied the crown. It helped to feed the grievance that corrupted their friendship. He convinced himself that he was somehow cheated out of the leadership. From it came the toxic myth of the **"stab in the back"**_ _ which was assiduously spread by the Chancellor's lieutenants. Even great supporters of Brown such as Ed Balls came to agree that the deal was a great mistake. **"Tony gave away far too much and Gordon wanted to believe it too much"**_ _ says one of Brown's closest allies at that time and to this day. **"The history of the rest of their relationship is Tony trying to claw it back and Gordon trying to hang on to it."**_ _-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Ed brought youth and energy to the Brown operation. The 24-year-old still looked like a teenager: tall with dark hair, he had an earnest and fresh face and round glasses. Neal Lawson, who was working in the shadow Chancellor's office at the time and now runs the centre-left pressure group Compass, remembers Ed as "**a bit Harry Potter; nice, knowledgeable and clever.".**..It was in opposition, and not government, that Brown began to build up and promote his inner circle, his "**court",** as an alternative power base to Blair. The young Miliband found himself with much greater influence than he would otherwise have done-he had the ear of Labour's all-powerful shadow Chancellor. But he had competition. When Ed joined Brown's team there was already another Ed with his feet under the table. Ed Balls was a gifted and ambitious Oxford and Harvard graduate, two years his senior, and he had joined the shadow Chancellor's team from the Financial Times in October 1993. A trained economist and a talented political strategist, Balls was Brown's most trusted adviser and closest confidante. It was Balls, for example, who began inserting the repeated references to **"boom and bust"** into Brown's speeches and articles, as well as the infamous phrase "**neo-classical endogenous growth theory." "They were a pretty heavyweight team" s**ays Professor Paul Gregg of Bristol University, who advised Brown in opposition and later went on to work for him in the Treasury, as a member of the Chancellor's Council of Economic Advisers. **"I was impressed that they were, in a sense, running an opposition but also building a policy programme at the same time." **_

_**"Before 1997, the difference between us wasn't senior or junior, as some have tried to paint it"**, maintains Balls, "or **"I decide and he does"-the broad division of work was that Ed focused on the vital task of opposition while I started to do the longer-term work on preparing for government. Each of us were doing absolutely essential tasks ahead of the 1997 election."** Others have vouched for the fact that Ed's primary responsibility in opposition was to handle the party relations and party politics aspects of Brown's role as shadow Chancellor; Balls, meanwhile, **"prepared for government",** holding meetings with senior civil servants like Terry Burns (the permanent secretary at the Treasury) and Bank of England officials like Eddie George (the then governor of the Bank of England.) Ed's other responsibility in opposition was working on Brown's speeches, providing Brown's words with "presentational panache." It was Ed, joined by another young adviser, Douglas Alexander, and Brown's old friend from Scotland, Dr Collin Currie, who was tasked with working on the final drafts of Brown's crucial party conference and Budget speeches...The Brown gang consisted of more than the two Eds, however. There was (Yvette) Cooper-who would marry Balls in 1998-and Douglas Alexander, then a young solicitor and occasional speechwriter for the shadow Chancellor. The group was as driven as it was tight-knit-and ferociously loyal to Brown. Indeed, it was in opposition that the seeds were planted for what the Oxford academic David Runciman would later call "**the family affair"** (Balls, Cooper, Miliband, Alexander) at **"the heart of the Brown government."** As we shall see, these four key members of the Brown inner circle-Ed Miliband, Ed Balls, Douglas Alexander and Yvette Cooper-would go on to occupy the top four party jobs: respectively leader, shadow Chancellor, shadow Foreign Secretary and shadow Home Secretary.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Few would dispute the fact that it was Ed Balls and not Ed Miliband, who was the supremely dominant figure in Brown's Treasury between 1997 and 2004 (when he left to secure his seat in Parliament.) Senior civil servants referred to Balls as the "deputy Chancellor" while journalists called him Brown's** "brain"** and **"the most powerful unelected person in Britain." "Ed (Balls) is like an extension of Brown. You bolt an extra server and increase the capacity"** Andrew Turnbull, the then permanent secretary at the Treasury, remarked in 1999. Such was Balls's seniority that, of the two Eds, he was the one referred to inside the Treasury as **"Ed",** without the qualifier of a surname. Ed Miliband was referred to as **"Ed M"** or "**Ed Mili"-**and later took to self-deprecatingly calling himself "the other Ed." (Balls, however, would occasionally and jokingly call Ed "Teddy.") By 1999, Brown had promoted Balls to "Chief Economic Adviser To The Treasury." He was no longer, informally, first among equals but formally, a cut above the rest of Brown's advisers. He also had the corner office, which was bigger and with a nicer view than the rest of the advisers' offices. Ed's office, marooned between Brown's and Balls's, became a corridor for the latter; occasionally, Ed would shut the door and force Balls to walk around. "**Of such things are splits made of"** jokes a senior Brownite._

_And splits there were in the Brown gang, despite denials from the two Eds more than a decade later. Former Treasury insiders say that Brown's team of advisers divided into two rival factions, **"the boys and the girls",** perhaps reflecting the two sides of the Chancellor's personality: the more blokey, aggressive, hot-headed types-Balls, (Charlie) Whelan, Ian Austin and Damian McBride-and the more personable, sensitive, emotional types-(Sue) Nye, (Douglas) Alexander, Spencer Livermore (who would join the Treasury in 1998) and, of course, Ed. The two groups of Brownites have also been described, more bluntly, as **"the bad guys and the good guys" (**albeit, by a self-appointed member of the **"good guys.")**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Much ink has been spilled on the so-called **"Granita deal"** between Blair and Brown in the summer of 1994-a reference to the now defunct restaurant in Islington at which the shadow Chancellor and shadow Home Secretary met on 31 May 1994 to agree on which of them would run for leader in the wake of Smith's death. Hard-core Brownites believe their man was persuaded to stand aside by Blair and give the younger man a clear run for the leadership on the basis that Blair would hand over power to him within a decade and, in the meantime, give him wide powers over domestic policy. But the bigger question is whether Brown could have won in a head-to-head contest with Blair. In Brownite mythology, Gordon would have beaten Tony in 1994 had he stood. The facts suggest otherwise. Ed has told friends he was not one of these Brownite die-hards-like Charlie Whelan or the author and journalist Paul Routledge-who believed, or at least liked to claim, that Brown would have beaten Blair had he decided to run. Ed did, however, learn a lesson during this fraught period that would influence his own decision-making in the future: deals are to be avoided, pacts are counter-productive and leadership contests are ultimately good for the Labour Party. His colleagues, however, were bitter. **"Brown's small team, already introverted, became much more insular after the summer of 1994, almost as a collective act of defiance"** writes Richards.** "Together they had been through the trauma of betrayal as they irrationally saw it."** Ed was in a minority in believing, however, that Brown had not been **"robbed"** of the leadership in 1994. It is a view he maintains today...Ed was hugely popular with Treasury staff, many of whom admired him for not exploiting his position and relationship with the Chancellor.** "He didn't shout at people or look down on them"** says Andrew Turnbull, the chief civil servant at the Treasury between 1998 and 2002. **"Ed never threw his weight around." **Again, the instant comparison would be made with the other Ed, Balls, who was seen, in the words of one former colleague, as **"burlier, rougher, tougher."...**_

_Nonetheless, Blair's own relationship with Ed, if not with Brown, was a relatively easy one. A close ally of the former PM says that **"Tony always liked Ed Miliband and found him easy to get on with. He respected Ed's intellect and, during that whole period with Gordon in the Treasury, he considered Ed Miliband to be a man you could do business with."** Balls, on the other hand, is accused by one of Blair's closest officials of **"showing complete contempt for Tony. He would just lay into Tony at meetings."** (It is a charge that Balls has flatly denied.) Blair's positive view of Ed was shared by the leading Blairites-including Peter Mandelson who **"rated"** the Brownite, younger Miliband brother from very early on. In Blairite circles, Ed was known as the **"emissary from Planet Fuck."** He was the Brownite who didn't tell supporters of the Prime Minister to **"fuck off."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Ed became very close to Sue Nye. He would go on vacation with Nye and her husband, the then Goldman Sachs banker (and later BBC chairman) Gavyn Davies, and join them at their holiday home in the south of France, where he would methodically swim his lengths in the pool. He also became good friends with Spencer Livermore, who moved over to the Treasury from the Labour Party's Economic Secretariat. Aged twenty-three, Livermore saw Ed almost as a mentor and has maintained a close friendship with him over the years. As for Douglas Alexander, with whom Ed shared an office until the latter was elected to Parliament in a by-election in November 1997, he and Ed would holiday together in Scotland, Ireland, France and the United States. But Ed never considered Balls to be a friend, or treated him as such. They might have gone out for a drink together after work, as colleagues, or spent their weekends side by side in Brown's flat preparing speeches or policy statements for the Chancellor till the early hours of the morning; they might even have gone out for the odd dinner with their partners, Liz Lloyd and Yvette Cooper. But they weren't friends._

_For a start, Ed was well aware of the fact that Balls jealously guarded his status as Brown's number two and therefore saw the younger man as a rival, as a threat.** "Ed Miliband's career from the moment he joined Gordon to the moment he emerged as more likely to win the leadership than Ed Balls has been a battle to remain relevant and stop Balls from squashing him"** says a former member of the Brown inner circle who worked with both men. Then there were the two advisers' very different personalities and styles. **"I think Ed Balls is a supremely confident person. I think Ed Miliband understands doubt and so they are different personalities"** says a former senior Treasury official who observed the two Eds closely in the late nineties and early noughties. **"Ed Balls has a different way of operating than Ed Miliband has."** Balls was confident, aggressive and confrontational; Ed was shyer, more modest and less prone to rows or fights.** "There wasn't a fear factor with Ed Miliband, as there was with Ed Balls"** says another ex-Treasury official. **"You'd often come out of a meeting with Ed Balls with the fear of God put into you."** Ed and Alexander could often be overheard in their shared office **"slagging off"** Balls, using colourful language. Their dislike for the elder Ed was an open secret inside the building. (These days, Ed will only say, diplomatically, that he and Balls had a **"remarkably good working relationship"** at the Treasury.) But the resentment that Ed (and Alexander) had for the other, more senior, Ed related to issues of personality and process-hierarchy, meetings, access to Brown, perceived snubs and the rest-rather than issues of substance. Inside the Brown team there were rarely disagreements on substantive policy issues. **"We were united in our opposition to a common enemy-Number 10-and that found us to be quite unified. Once we'd lost that enemy, and Blair departed the scene, the team became a lot less cohesive."** Ed was, indisputably, the more junior figure; he was **"little"** Ed. **"Until he became Labour leader, he was always little Ed-little Ed to David, little Ed to the other Ed"** says a family friend of Ed.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Below the surface, idealist Miliband and more pragmatic and business-friendly Balls work to conceal their disagreements. Close colleagues in the court of Gordon Brown since the 1990s, now they are neither ideological soulmates nor even friends, and Osborne and Harrison are determined to squeeze every drop of political capital from their increasingly awkward relationship.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_In early 2012 I gave an interview to Patrick Wintour of The Guardian. As I talked to him beforehand, I mentioned that my children had recently taken up the keyboard, and how jealous I was. I'd always wanted to play the piano when I was younger, but I'd never lived in a house with one to practise on and so took up the violin instead. Patrick's face lit up, and he said he'd just begun. He encouraged me to rent a proper piano and learn...To my surprise, after Patrick's interview was published-mentioning my interest in taking up the piano, but my fear of learning a new skill in my forties-I found it resonated with many other people who had either tried or thought about trying to do the same thing. I spoke to Lola Perrin, my children's teacher, and she agreed to give me some lessons too. While she was clear that I simply had to enjoy my playing if I was to make progress, I knew that I would only really practise and commit if I had a challenge-so I decided I would do the official music board exams. Soon enough, I was ready for the Grade 1 test. Lola asked me whether I'd be happy sitting it with a group of her other pupils, which of course I was, although it gave me a bit of pause when she said the others were all under ten years of age....I passed my Grade 1 and went on to pass Grades 2, 3 and 4 while I was Shadow Chancellor. Of course, as more of the media found out about my new hobby, I was in prime territory to be ambushed by interviewers with a request to play live on air. I gave a less than impressive performance on Iain Dale's show, a slightly better one on Jeremy Vine's, then-most nerve-racking of all-came an invitation to play in a concert at King's Place with a mix of professional pianists and amateurs like myself..The performance itself however was probably the most frightening thing I have ever done. The piece I had agreed to play from Schumann's Kindersznen came at the end of the programme and my hands shook from the first note to the last. I remember vividly the aching silence of the packed audience before I played a note, and the huge relief when they finally applauded at the end.-Speaking Out: Lessons In Life And Politics, Ed Balls_

_I think Ed Miliband was always a bit unsure whether he liked me sitting next to him, or regarded it as a distraction. Every now and then a message would come through just before PMQs to say he was doing questions on some specific topic, and would like the responsible Shadow minister to sit next to him instead. But the economy and austerity were inevitably such hot-button issues in those early years of opposition that his line of questioning couldn't diverge much, plus later on-when stories started to appear saying he was considering sacking me-it would have become a problem if I wasn't sitting next to him. And he would usually dig me in the ribs and urge me to wind up Cameron to get our side going.-Speaking Out: Lessons In Life And Politics, Ed Balls_

_Nick Clegg was very sceptical, telling the Chancellor that while the proposition was **"seductive"**, he wasn't buying it. He made clear that he wasn't going to give the Conservatives a free ride in their final Budget-not least after their treatment of him and the Liberal Democrats over issues from the AV referendum to the row over the Sheffield deal._

_George Osborne wasn't giving up...He also sought to emphasise how much common ground he thought there was between his views and those of the Deputy Prime Minister. But Nick Clegg wasn't impressed, pointing out that he thought the two men had very different views on social mobility, education, welfare policy and Europe. He also pointed out the Conservatives were not facing an existential challenge to their existence in the election. George Osborne disagreed. He said that he and David Cameron had their necks on the line too, and that if they lost the coming election they were finished as leaders of their party. The Chancellor also noted that if Nick Clegg lost his seat it would at least be better for him than the fate that awaited losing Conservative leaders: staying on in Parliament on the back benches for five years in limbo._

_**"I hear what you say"** said Nick Clegg. **"But the answer is the same. No great giveaway Budget. We just need a steady-as-she-goes statement, with minimum content."-**Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition, David Laws_

_I was meeting with Oliver Letwin in the small restaurant tucked away in the basement of 10 Downing Street. There were only four tables here and it wasn't a good place for discreet conversations...-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition, David Laws_

_**"Why do we need to have a Budget at all? Why would I give that to you?"** says Clegg angrily to his Conservative colleagues. He is adamant in the weeks before Christmas that Osborne will not have his final showcase. The Lib Dems are thoroughly disillusioned with the big fiscal events of Autumn Statements and Budgets, sick of seeing the Conservatives take the credit when they go well while the Lib Dems are marginalised. **"They should have come to the realisation about Budgets earlier, frankly"** says Rupert Harrison. **"But they've finally realised they'd never got anything good out of them. It's George standing in front of Number 11, and it's basically seen as George's event."** Privately, Osborne thinks it is very stupid of them to let him have this Budget. David Laws, an increasingly strident figure for the Lib Dems, says that if there is to be a fiscal statement, it must be on a **"care and maintenance"** basis only (i.e. addressing matters that need annual attention) with no crowd-pleasing political content. Clegg is refusing to budge. But Osborne needs his Spring Budget-for the Conservative Party, with the election coming up; for himself; and, so he says, for the country. His acrimonious dispute with Clegg over Northern Powerhouse has badly soured their personal relationship since the summer. Osborne has always seen Clegg as naive but is now beginning to see him as a loser. Osborne, more than anyone, calls such shots in these final months before the election. The Budget is the most difficult of the three major arguments between the coalition partners in the final nine months...To officials trying to hold the government together, the greatest worries come from increasing differentiation, with the Lib Dems needing to be seen to offer alternative policies as the election approaches; squabbles over who would claim credit for initatives; and leaking, which first manifested itself after the boundary changes dispute, and which becomes considerably worse in the final months. Up to that point, the government has been less prone to leaking than many of its single-party predecessors. By the autumn of 2014, Lib Dems are sick of being pushed around and used as fodder for Conservative policies, and demand more say; the Conservatives are equally angry at the Lib Dems portraying themselves in the media as humanising the nasty, mean-spirited Tories.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Yet despite all this, Osborne gets his spring Budget, and a full-on one too. How has he managed to convince the Lib Dems to let him go ahead? Deception plays a part. He convinces the Lib Dems that an annual spring Budget is a necessity for reasons of income and corporation tax, and other necessary financial provisions. Osborne's team meticulously assemble the technical and legal arguments, such as the Office for Budget Responsibility's obligation to produce reports, which point to the Budget being inescapable. **"Surely it can be delayed?"** the Lib Dems pertinently ask. **"No, it can't"** they are told blankly. In fact, as Osborne knows all along, the Budget could very well have been postponed until after the general election. Over a series of Quads in the early weeks of 2015, Osborne sets to work battering away at remaining Lib Dem reservations, offering them what one Number 10 insider describes as **"a succession of goodies that he had for months squirrelled away under the table."****"Let's start on the things we can agree on"**, he says to Clegg and Danny Alexander, **"and let's see what comes out of these discussions and whether we can find things for you."** Further increases in the personal allowance...are indispensable parts of coalition Budgets, with both parties, as ever, claiming the credit. To soothe Danny Alexander's and Scottish Lib Dems' concerns over North Sea oil taking a battering from reduced oil prices, Osborne agrees to a cut in petroleum revenue tax from 50% to 35%, and a range of further measures to support the struggling industry. He then agrees to the idea of Steve Webb, the Lib Dem pensions minister, to allow people to sell their annuities. To placate Lib Dem worries about banks and multinationals moving profits offshore, Osborne assents to further restructure measures, and agrees to raise the bank levy. Finally, to meet the concerns of Clegg over mental health provision, he agrees that mental health services in England will receive £1.25 billion in extra funding during the next parliament. **"If you want me to do all this, fine, but we will have to have a Budget" **he tells them, like a clever schoolboy who knows he has just pulled off a cunning wheeze. Thus Osborne scales the first of his challenges over his final Budget: securing Lib Dem agreement for it to go ahead.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Exploratory talks began between the two parties that evening. The Conservative delegation comprised (William) Hague, an elder statesman before his fiftieth birthday; Osborne, who wielded the vital Treasury brief and the broadest political expertise; (Oliver) Letwin, the master of policy; and (Ed) Llewellyn, who brought a grasp of protocol and an affinity with the Lib Dems, whose team consisted of Danny Alexander, who served as Clegg's chief of staff, David Laws, Chris Huhne, their home affairs spokesman, and Andrew Stunell, an MP steeped in the party's ways and thoughts. Relations between the two sides were immediately convivial (Osborne and Alexander discovered that they had had mutual friends during their time at university) but more surprising was the alacrity with which they agreed on the pressing matter of fiscal policy...Although Hague was the Tory delegation's nominal leader, the Lib Dems found Osborne the most active negotiator. He understood the detail of many policy areas, and grasped the politics of absolutely all of them. He told them that his party would not wear proportional representation-the Lib Dems' eternal project-but said they were open to a referendum on the alternative vote (AV) system. Indeed, he then set about persuading Cameron, (Ken) Clarke and Hague behind closed doors that such an offer would be necessary to clinch a deal with the Lib Dems. He was also happy to give up policies of his own that he had come to regard as liabilities. His famous pledge to lift the threshold of inheritance tax was downgraded as a priority, giving way to the Lib Dem idea of raising the threshold of income tax to £10,000. **"G certainly didn't seem to be the slightest bit worried about dumping it in the negotiations"** says one of the Lib Dems. **"He seemed to be relishing the opportunity."** This was Osborne in his element: haggling and deal-making in exclusive chambers of power, unencumbered by the public's searching gaze or his own party's ideological clamour. His efforts to strike a deal went beyond politics and policy. He became something like a motivational coach to the negotiators. Whenever the talks sagged, he would coax both sides of the table to intensify their efforts, often walking to a window that offered a tantalising view of No.10. **"Look, Brown is in there clinging on"** he said, eager to unseat the Prime Minister he hated. **"We're so close to getting him out."**-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Wednesday was an especially hazardous day to be working in close proximity to the Prime Minister. He was getting pulped at the dispatch box by David Cameron with a regularity which Labour MPs found excruciating to watch. **"For ten years, you plotted and schemed to have this job-and for what?"** the Leader of the Opposition ridiculed him during one typical encounter that autumn. **"No conviction, just calculation; no vision, just a vacuum. How long are we going to have to wait before the past makes way for the future?"** Brown responded by complaining that the Tory leader had once promised **"an end to the Punch and Judy show."** So Cameron had. But it sounded painfully lame for Brown to protest about being punched too hard. He became increasingly obsessive about preparing for these clashes. The prep team would meet at Number 10 on Tuesday evening for a preliminary discussion about what might come up at PMQs and how he should handle it. They then reconvened on Wednesday morning. In rehearsals, Ed Miliband played the part of David Cameron. This was not a role to which he was ideally suited because Miliband was not temperamentally equipped to be brutal with his boss.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Meanwhile, domestically, Justine is undoubtedly the organiser and always has been-she handled their move in March 2008 from a flat in Primrose Hill to a spacious house in Dartmouth Park (and, as the press has been keen to point out, it is her name on the house deeds.) A friend comments: **"The house looks imposing but it's not glamorous and it's not in a very swanky neighbourhood."** As to Justine's credentials as a domestic goddess: **"She doesn't swan around effortlessly producing three-course meals. She's more likely to be on her way to the kitchen and start a conversation with someone."** Another friend of Justine agrees that **"the striking thing about their home is the normality of it-it's a relaxed, informal family home."** A Labour MP, however, who has visited their home says it is **"a family house but you're not quite sure Ed is the creator of it. It feels like a house he inhabits which has been made by his wife."** Asked by a journalist in 2010 what was on the walls of his new house, Ed replied: **"Something white."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_One stark demonstration of the bizarre relationship (between the Miliband brothers) came with the announcement of Ed's wedding to Justine. Immediately there was speculation on Ed's dilemma over whether or not to ask David to be his best man. The Mail On Sunday reported a rumour that the reason Ed was reluctant to offer David the role was for fear of being rebuffed. Ed had been best man at David's wedding to Louise in 1998, albeit a rather straight and serious one. But now the nature of the relationship had changed. Ed has insisted that he and Justine wanted a **"different"** kind of wedding, a non-traditional ceremony in which there would be no father of the bride speech either. Yet there is surely little doubt that had the brothers not gone head to head in the Labour leadership contest, Ed would have opted for a best man and it would have been David._

_There was another curious element to Ed and Justine's decision to marry. For six years they had chosen not to, despite having had two children in that time period. Ed is known to disapprove of the view that the traditional family model is somehow superior to every other model, and some believe that his decision to wed was cynical, part of his attempt to ingratiate himself with a hostile and suspicious right-wing press. The singer Lily Allen summed up the view of many on the liberal left when she tweeted: **"Ed Miliband is getting married. Ha, they got to him in the end then?"**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

* * *

_Sadly for Brown, his fortunes were about to be dramatically reversed with the infamous **"election that never was."** This would be the most significant turning point in Brown's troubled, three-year premiership. From this point on, he would be portrayed by the gleeful Tories and their media allies as the man who **"bottled out"** of gaining a mandate of his own from the country. To this day, his critics wrongly claim that Brown had been clamouring to go to the country and then changed his mind at the last minute on inspection of private polling. The truth is more complicated and nuanced. Brown was in fact sceptical throughout. He wanted to continue his political honeymoon and hold an election some time in 2009, after rolling out a policy agenda distinct from that of the Blair government. Ed Miliband, never one to rush to judgement, and always preferring analysis and deliberation to rushes of blood to the head, broadly shared this view. Ed Balls, however, did not. The combative Children's Secretary thought it was the perfect opportunity to smash the Tories and gain a new term in office. Brown was persuaded to keep the option open-publicly, at least-during the Tory conference, to unsettle the opposition. So while nudges and hints were being dealt out to the media about the prospect of an early election, shambolic last-minute plans were under way to prepare Labour for the event should Brown decide to make the call. _

_It was a chaotic period that would test old friendships. Douglas Alexander suddenly found himself having to organise and produce election material and work out a strategy for the campaign, while Ed was put in charge of the manifesto. According to Peter Watt, then the general secretary of the Labour Party, Alexander expressed amazement at the lack of policy progress by Ed and his manifesto team:** "You'd imagine that after ten years of waiting, and ten years complaining about Tony, we would have some idea of what we are going to do, but we don't seem to have any policies."** On 1 October, in the middle of the Tory conference, George Osborne announced his hastily formulated...plan to raise the threshold of inheritance tax for estates worth £1million. If the plan was an attempt to frighten Brown, it worked....News leaked out that Brown had recorded an interview for BBC One's Sunday Andrew Marr Show on Saturday 6 October, at the end of Tory conference, confirming that he was calling off plans for an early election so he could pursue his **"vision of change"** for the country. By the following day the Sunday papers were full of the fallout, including claims that Ed Miliband and Douglas Alexander were to blame for **"dithering"** and **"bottling out"** of the plan to go early. The truth is that from the outset, Ed had been highly ambivalent about an early election. He saw it, perhaps wrongly in retrospect, as a stunt which would not help Brown in the long term. But Ed was not only sceptical-he was woefully unprepared. As well as being against the idea of Brown going to the polls in the same year as he took office, he had not seen the crisis coming, had not expected it, and had therefore not got working early enough on the manifesto.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_According to one insider, Miliband found himself **"caught in the crossfire"** of the extensive briefings and counter-briefings about who was to blame for the fiasco that followed. The real target, say some senior Brownites, was Douglas Alexander, who was seen as having moved over to the Blair wing of the party since his elevation to the Cabinet in 2006. Alexander would acknowledge in July 2009 that **"there was clearly briefing against me."** It is widely assumed that the chief culprit was Damian McBride, Brown's press secretary and a close ally of Ed Balls. Indeed Spencer Livermore would later claim in a Radio 4 documentary that Ed told Alexander: **"I bet within twenty minutes we find we're going to get the blame for this." **According to Livermore: **"Twenty minutes turned out to be slightly longer than it took...Damian told me he had been instructed to blame certain individuals."** Livermore says McBride told him that the order had come from Balls. Today, Balls and McBride both deny being responsible for the briefings. But Ed, who these days claims not to **"care"** about the affair, certainly did at the time; he and Alexander pored over newspaper websites, totting up the number of pieces in which their names were mentioned. They were convinced that the blame for the briefings against them lay with McBride, a figure whom Ed would become increasingly mistrustful of. On the morning of Sunday 7 October (2007) there was an extraordinary telephone conversation between Ed and McBride, which McBride would later tell friends showed Ed's **"hard"** streak for the first time in his experience. McBride rang Ed on his mobile, saying: **"Ed, there's this real problem. I'm having this stuff chucked at me."**_

_Ed was cool: **"Damian, where does all this stuff in the papers today come from?" **But McBride insisted: **"Ed, I'm telling you, I am not responsible for any of the stuff in the papers today about you or Douglas or anyone else."** At this point Ed said bluntly, **"Damian, I don't believe you."** After yet another impassioned denial from McBride, Ed repeated that he would like to believe the spin doctor but he just didn't. McBride appealed: **"Ed, don't call me a liar-you cannot call me a liar. I cannot be in the position where you're calling me a liar."** Ed, however, did not budge: **"But you are lying, Damian, I don't believe a word of what you're saying."**_

_McBride explained that for a minister to make clear he did not believe the word of the Prime Minister's press secretary would provoke a serious breakdown in relations: **"Ed, you realise that we can't have a relationship if you're telling me you think I'm a liar?"**_

_But Ed just said: **"Well, there we go, then."**_

_McBride pleaded for one last time: **"Ed, don't do this to me-please."**_

_Ed hung up._

_Whether or not McBride was lying, Ed showed his steely side: he was not afraid of confrontation...But it was also a demonstration of how bad feelings were between Ed-and indeed Alexander-on one side, and McBride and Balls on the other. The co-operation, the banter and easy familiarity between the three Brownite MPs would be strained from that moment onwards. As Livermore has said: **"It never, ever went back to the way it was. And that was of huge cost to Gordon because he didn't have a small team unified in purpose and totally committed to him, which he so desperately needed at that point. When he was at his most vulnerable, people had retreated to their own departments or their own priorities, rather than rallying around."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_When Brown overtook us in the polls, rumours began swirling around about an impending vote of no confidence in my leadership. It really was personal. Brown summed up the mood at PMQs (that's how bad things were-Gordon Brown was making effective jokes): **"The wheels are falling off the Tory bicycle, and it is just as well that he has got a car following him when he goes out on his rounds."** William Hague was emphatic that if Brown was thinking straight, he would call an immediate general election, before the party conference season even began. That way, he would give us no chance to make up the ground we'd lost. I knew that we had just one chance: we had to deliver a Conservative Party conference in October that would metaphorically blow the doors off. _

_Though our policy-review teams hadn't even reported back yet, we cobbled together a bumper series of announcements for each day of conference, from cutting stamp duty to introducing new cancer treatments...Labour had a successful conference in Bournemouth, where Brown's chief bruiser Ed Balls was briefing that there would be an election. Then came our turn in Blackpool. A cliff-edge moment for our party-and for me. William opened with a cracker of a speech, chastising Brown for hosting Margaret Thatcher in Downing Street the previous month (a move he must have hated but which made him look both magnanimous and bold.) George then unveiled what I termed his **"hammock idea"**, the conference announcement he'd always dream up while reclining somewhere hot over the summer. This year was the biggest yet: raising the inheritance tax threshold to £1 million. It was deeply Conservative, rewarding people who worked hard, saved, and wanted to pass something on. The finale of the conference was, as always, the leader's speech. It would be back in the Empress Ballroom of the Winter Gardens where I'd delivered that leadership-winning, no-notes speech two years earlier. I had been pondering whether I could repeat the feat, not as a stunt, but because I was genuinely frustrated by my inability to get across who I was, what I thought and what I wanted to do for Britain. The lecterns I spoke behind felt like a barrier between me and the audience, distorting what I was saying and what people were hearing. Steve Hilton agreed. Sam told me to go for it. But last time was just ten minutes, I said. This is an hour. I have to cover everything. And it's my political life on the line now._

_But I knew what I wanted to say. It would be me up there, no artifice, no barrier. So in the run-up to the conference I was not just working on my speech with Ameet Gill, but secretly learning its structure, key points and key phrases as we went along. Come the morning of the speech, I had rehearsed sections but never practised the whole thing in one go. Sam and I snuck out early for a walk on Blackpool beach. I bounded back full of vim. _

_As I walked out onto the stage, I knew it was do or die. **"It might be messy, but it will be me"** I told the packed hall. As well as being "me", it was terrifying, exhilarating-and knackering. After an hour, I reached the peroration: **"So, Mr Brown, what's it going to be? Why don't you go ahead and call that election?...Let people decide who can make the changes that we really need in our country. Call that election. We will fight. Britain will win."** I wish I could say I owed it to Cicero. In fact, it was inspired by the moment that David Niven loses his temper with Gregory Peck at the end of one of my favourite films, The Guns Of Navarone. All that classical education gone to waste.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Before the conference began we had commissioned a "tracker" or daily poll to see if anything we were doing was shifting the dial in terms of what the public thought. And we decided to continue the poll as the conference came to an end. It was money well spent. Our poll ratings ticked up daily through the conference-and then shot up at the end. I watched the news that evening and thought that I could see-for once-that I had really made that vital connection: from the hall, through the television, to the viewer at home. But the country's cameras were now trained once again on Gordon Brown: will he or won't he? The next day, we were straight back into election planning meetings, as the tracker revealed we were neck and neck with Labour. _

_Then on Friday, as I drove to Dean, Andy phoned to tell me about a significant opinion poll which would be in that Sunday's News Of The World. It had been carried out only in marginal seats, and it showed, pretty comprehensively, that Labour would not win an election. Far from extending their majority, they would be losing seats to us. It was the final-and in my view, the key-factor that caused Gordon Brown to decide not to hold an election. Brown argued that his decision had nothing to do with the polls. This enabled us to get the narrative going that as well as being decisive and temperamental, he was taking people for fools. Andy came up with the refrain "Brown's bottled it", and we even had bottles of Brown ale made...Everyone who was there during the summer and autumn of 2007 remarked on how calm I was. Calm on the eve of the make-or-break conference...Ed found it infuriating that, just as I didn't overreact to bad news, I was often disappointingly unimpressed when he brought me good news-treating triumph and disaster just the same. People may interpret that as being indifferent, or "chillaxed." It's not. It's because I know that bollocking people, blowing your top, throwing tantrums, doesn't get you anywhere. It didn't help Gordon Brown._

_But Brown had helped us. By flirting with an election, then pulling out, then denying his reasons for doing so, he exposed his weaknesses. At the same time, he had brought out our strengths-our ability to refuel, to recalibrate, to come together as a team when we were under assault, to stick to the course even when events were trying to divert us. And the fact that our modernisation was working.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_In the autumn of 2010, Nick Clegg discussed the AV referendum privately with David Cameron. The Liberal Democrat leader explained that AV was only a modest change, and how, in any case, it might not damage the Conservatives....AV..might actually be helpful to both coalition parties. David Cameron listened sympathetically to the case put to him. He told the Deputy Prime Minister that he didn't have strong views on the issue, and he suggested that both party leaders should **"stand back" f**rom detailed involvement in the referendum battle. The Prime Minister also implied that he was content for the public to make up their minds on the issue, and he mentioned that some Conservative Cabinet ministers might actually come out in support of the Alternative Vote. Neutralising the Conservatives was important, because Labour had now decided to take no party position on an AV referendum, in spite of supporting one in their own 2010 general election manifesto...The prospects of winning the AV referendum seemed reasonable for much of 2010, and even in early 2011 many of the opinion polls forecast a win for the Yes camp...But as the prospects of change rose, the resistance in the Conservative Party rose with it. Under pressure from Conservative MPs, David Cameron now shifted his position and started to campaign actively against any change in the voting system. Instead of remaining neutral, the Conservative leadership helped persuade Tory donors to give money to the anti-AV movement and an increasingly hysterical battle was waged, which even targeted Nick Clegg on a personal level, blaming him for coalition compromises..The No campaign had decided that their trump cards were **"the three Cs"-**cost, complexity and Clegg. Eventually, in April 2011, David Cameron himself entered the fray, publicly describing AV as **"undemocratic, obscure, unfair, crazy."** Whatever this was, it certainly wasn't neutrality. Nick Clegg was angered by the Conservative change in gear...On 3 May (2011), just two days before the referendum and the local elections, the Cabinet held its regular Tuesday morning meeting. Chris Huhne, without warning Nick Clegg, decided to create a row over AV. This seemed designed not only to highlight the misleading nature of Conservative propaganda, but also to promote Chris Huhne himself as the person **"speaking up for the Lib Dems."** Sitting just a few places away from the Prime Minister, Chris Huhne angrily challenged David Cameron over the methods of the No campaign. David Cameron was taken aback by the directness and strength of the attack, and he refused to answer the questions put to him. Coalition relations were deteriorating rapidly, over an issue that went to the essential interests of both parties...On 5May, when the polls closed and the first exit polls were available, it was clear that the AV proposal had been heavily rejected. The eventual figures were 68 per cent against and just 32 per cent in favour. It was a crushing blow to hopes of electoral reform, and the scale of the defeat would make returning to the issue extremely difficult..Before the May 2010 election the Liberal Democrats had invested a lot of time thinking about how we could secure a referendum on voting reform. We hadn't spent enough time thinking about whether and how a referendum could be won.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government 2010-2015, David Laws_

_I was hostile to preferential systems like AV because they are inherently unfair. First past the post means every person's vote is equal. But AV makes some votes count more than others-literally, as supporters of unpopular parties end up having their ballots counted a number of times. We'd be giving all the Monster Raving Loony Party and British National Party crazies several bites at the electoral cherry, and letting them decide the outcome of elections...It can also lead to the most unfair of outcomes. Someone who gets the most first preferences in the first round can be overtake as more and more second and third preferences are taken into account. It could be, as I put it, **"a Parliament of second choices."** Ask David Miliband. He won the first three rounds of voting in the Labour leadership election, but then lost the final round to his brother Ed...From the very beginning we were clear that the Conservatives would campaign with vigour for the status quo. I do accept that we also gave the impression that the AV referendum wouldn't be allowed to hinder the coalition. In fact, we were all so keen to make it work that both Oliver Letwin and Michael Gove individually offered to me to campaign for AV, even though they were more inclined to my side of the argument. I told them it wasn't necessary: granting the referendum brought the Lib Dems into the tent; winning it would keep the Conservative Party from leaving it. The truth was that I did crank up my involvement in the campaign...Panic-we might lose this-began to set in, especially after the 1922 Executive Committee paid me a visit and expressed their fears about a loss. The fact was that we needed the big guns and the big money-and I could do something to help that. What would be worse: damaging the coalition or damaging democracy? I had to weigh it up. The latter was far worse.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_The clear understanding of the coalition negotiators is that the Conservatives and the Lib Dems will campaign on opposite sides of the argument, but that they will do so in a dignified way, as becoming of "Rose Garden" partners. That at least is what the Tory negotiators think is agreed. The Lib Dems have gleaned a different understanding: that Cameron will not himself lead from the front, and that as PM, he will maintain an Olympian distance above the troops slugging it out on the ground...One of Clegg's senior policy aides agrees: **"Cameron's personal view was that he didn't really give a damn. AV is not a massive change to the first-past-the-post system. His view was "Nick, you and I, we'll just stay out of the fray on this one." **Indeed, some leading Conservatives, like Gove, were actually considering coming out and supporting AV...George Osborne is in unashamedly pugilistic form, picking up a No to AV sticker from a conference stall, albeit placing it on the inside of his lapel...Graham Brady and the executive of the 1922 Committee come on a visitation to Downing Street. They are not happy.** "You do realise that there is now a serious prospect that you could have the distinction of being the last ever Conservative prime minister"** they tell him. Cameron listens, stony-faced. After the grilling, Osborne warns Cameron that a challenge by angry backbenchers might follow a lost referendum. This is not remotely what Cameron wants to hear in the present climate...Panic is mounting in growing sections of the party...Among Cameron's circle, Osborne is the most agitated...Osborne convinces them more impetus is needed...But he (Cameron) is becoming uneasy with the aggressive turn campaigning is taking. He knows it will damage his relationship with Clegg and his Lib Dem partners if he himself accepts the upfront role Osborne is urging him to take. The vitriol against the Lib Dems is about to become personal...Cameron is caught between a rock and a hard place. Attack Clegg and he strains the coalition: hold back, and his party attack him. To the Lib Dems, Cameron's predicament is a symptom of his weakness in his party..He is at a loss to know what to do. Osborne has heard enough: he can take no more fence-sitting. **"Look"** he says, **"we have to win this fucking thing: who cares what Clegg thinks?"** There are no ifs and buts. Cameron listens in silence. So do other members of the team in his study, watching how he will respond. Later that day, Cameron calls Feldman: **"I absolutely agree with George"** he says. **"We cannot lose this."** Everything now changes from February. Cameron puts Number 10 on a war footing, telling his staff to get right behind the "No" campaign, and instructs CCHQ to organise at least one major activity for him on AV each week...._

_Clegg's team are incandescent about Cameron's new tack. They suspect the PM at best of turning a blind eye, at worst of ordering the "No" campaign to personalise their attacks on Clegg. The Lib Dem leader's poll ratings are on floor level: Clegg's aides surmise the Conservatives are capitalising on his weakness by turning the leader of the "Yes" campaign into an object of public ridicule, in effect making the referendum not about AV but Clegg himself. To the Lib Dems, Cameron's action is in direct contravention of earlier (if disputed) understandings. It is **"the great betrayal."...**On 18 February, Cameron gives his principal speech in the referendum campaign...He tells the audience outright that AV will be **"bad for democracy."**..Cameron and Osborne divide up ohone calls to newspaper editors and commentators, urging them to fight AV...The Lib Dems are furious when they hear about the calls. The "No" campaign, reflecting strenuous market research, focuses their campaign on the "three Cs": cost, complexity and Clegg....Osborne asks CCHQ what more he could do by way of a **"big intervention"** to help the **"No" **cause. **"Lend your authority as chancellor to our claims about the cost to taxpayers of** **AV"** he is told. To Lib Dem fury, the No to AV campaign says the change will cost the country £250 million, leading Chris Huhne to write an angry letter on 24 April asking Osborne to deny this claim. For Clegg, **"the spring of 2011 was the lowest of the low."**_ _-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Even as the Right provoked him, Clegg was certain that he had an understanding with Cameron. Though the Tory leader would notionally oppose AV and make a few appearances in support of the "No" campaign, these would be token rather than passionate. Clegg would take a symmetrical step back too. The two party leaders would not let the Coalition collapse over electoral reform. Initially, the Cameroon inner circle had behaved as Clegg had expected, exuding nonchalance about the referendum. Gove, a passionate conservative about most constitutional issues, declared himself **"undecided"** on this one. Letwin was said to find the prospect of AV intriguing rather than alarming....At a stroke, a single act of recruitment changed the nature of the fight, to a much greater degree than Number Ten initially grasped.....(Matthew) Elliott grasped immediately that the key variable was the Labour vote. Throughout the summer, the party had been preoccoupied by its leadership contest, which ended in a thrilling photo finish between two siblings. In Manchester, on 25 September, Ed Miliband defied the odds and defeated his brother, David, by the tiniest of margins (50.65 per cent compared to David's 49.35 per cent.) Most senior Tories, with the notable exception of William Hague, assumed that the Opposition had made a terrible error, choosing the more left-wing of the two Milibands, indebted to the trade unions whose votes had pushed him over the finishing line-just. Cameron was now facing his third Labour leader across the Despatch Box, an unlikely veteran at the age of forty-three. Miliband himself stuck by the pro-AV position taken in Labour's 2010 election manifesto: to campaign in favour of a system that ensured **"every MP is supported by the majority of their constituents."** But Elliott knew that many in the party's ranks preferred the status quo, and that there were plenty of furious David Miliband supporters who might relish the opportunity for a rematch against the impostor Ed.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of No. 10, Matthew D'Ancona_

_Number 10 is finding it hard to maintain the story that Cameron is not responsible himself for the personal attacks and that they are instead down to Labour. **"Basically, we convinced ourselves that it was Labour who forced us to play tough. But this was a fairly thin fig leaf"** admits one of Cameron's inner circle. They know the attacks will anger Clegg: it is a calculated risk, but one they feel they have to take. They draw the line merely at personal or nasty stories about Clegg or the Lib Dems. Not that Clegg sees it that way. At the height of the campaign he visits his parents near Oxford with his wife and children. **"Look, we've just got this leaflet through the door"**, his father tells him, **"it's outrageous."** Clegg junior is handed the leaflet depicting what he describes as **"incredibly personalised stuff about me."** He believes the personal attacks are wholly gratuitous and can under no circumstances be justified. He is sickened by the Tory mantra: **"It's Labour's fault, not ours"** or **"We have to work with Labour on the campaign and they felt it was the only way to make their voters vote against AV: we are terribly sorry."** Not that it totally shatters his view of Cameron: he continues to believe in his partner's integrity and discomfort at what is happening._

_On Tuesday 3 May, two days before the referendum, matters come to a head in Cabinet. Lib Dem Energy Secretary Chris Huhne is observed to be in a highly charged state as he waits outside the Cabinet Room for the meeting to begin. He then bursts in with a stack of leaflets from the "No" campaign attacking Clegg for going back on the Lib Dem pledge on tuition fees, and says he is appalled by the actions of those at the very top of the Conservative Party. The meeting begins. He turns on Cameron: **"I want to know if you disassociate yourself from these leaflets smearing Nick."** He challenges the PM to sack Stephen Gilbert, demanding to know whether he had been responsible for producing them. Cameron is taken aback by the onslaught: **"I am not responsible for the all party literature produced by the "No" campaign"** he says. Huhne thinks he is dodging the question and shoves the leaflets across the Cabinet table towards Osborne. **"This was always going to be a difficult period for the coalition"** Osborne responds, seeking to pacify him. Huhne comes back at him, even more forcibly, demanding if he had known in advance about these leaflets. **"I am not going to be challenged by a Cabinet colleague acting like he is Jeremy Paxman on Newsnight"** responds the chancellor. Round the Cabinet table there is a collective dropping of ministerial jaws. Huhne turns on Sayeeda Warsi, and says she must resign as party co-chairman. Several ministers with longer memories, like David Willetts, wonder whether they are about to witness a **"Heseltine moment"**, a reference to the highly charged occasion when the blond-haired firebrand stormed out of Thatcher's Cabinet in 1986 over the Westland helicopter affair.** "You could hear a pin drop"** Willetts recalls. It is the trickiest moment in Cabinet for Cameron by a distance: yet Huhne is not finished. He reverts to Cameron and demands that he condemns posters that have suggested that babies' and soldiers' lives are at risk if AV is introduced. Cameron and Osborne argue that they are only responsible for the "No" campaign being run by the Conservative Party. When asked again on Radio 4's Today programme to condemn the posters featuring ill babies, Cameron replies, **"The fact is that if you move to a new voting system it will cost money."** After the Huhne inquisition is over, ministers return to Cabinet business. Cameron's team reflect on the outburst at their 4.p.m. meeting. They have different views. Some see Huhne's outburst as anti-Clegg positioning: Clegg is at a very low ebb...He has been suffering both personally and professionally for a number of months: he was ill in the early part of 2011 as well as being **"crucified in the right-and the left-wing press in a way that I don't think that we've seen in British politics since the days of Neil Kinnock."...**Most think Huhne is up to something.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_In November (2010), Elliott met Kate Fall and Stephen Gilbert, Cameron's political secretary, to brief them on his progress...As Elliott made his pitch, Fall and Gilbert were impressed-but also taken aback. Fall quickly realized that Elliott's unexpected success in building a cross-party "No" campaign could have serious strategic implications that had nothing to do with electoral reform. **"What will this mean for the Coalition?"** she asked at the meeting-rhetorically, but prophetically. If the AV referendum was lost, **"needy Nick"** would be in even deeper trouble, with all that this implied. As the "No" campaign started to look serious, the opposing team began to show the strain. **"We weren't engaging in the intellectual argument"**, according to one veteran of the "Yes" campaign. **"Who would be the figurehead? We kept Nick (Clegg) away from it and that was a mistake. People knew perfectly well that this was his idea. The problem was that nobody owned it."...**Thus far, Cameron had gone to great lengths not to wreck Clegg's great reform. Fall kept him in the loop about Elliott's progress-but he could hardly tell the "No" team to stop doing its job. Instead, obstacles were discreetly placed in its path....Cabinet ministers did not wear "NO to AV" stickers-although Osborne wore his on the inside of his jacket lapel, flashing it with a grin to those he thought would enjoy this (very minor) act of insubordination....Here once again the multi-dimensional geometry of the Coalition asserted itself. Cameron wanted to help out Clegg, badly damaged as he was by the tuition fees debacle. But the PM could not afford to provoke the collective wrath of his own MPs-not so early in the Parliament, not with so many battles ahead, and not (to be blunt about it) simply to cheer up the Lib Dems. He had tried to prop up his deputy, but he could not risk a full-scale Tory uprising. **"So Nick was suddenly left swinging in the wind"** according to one ally. **"No warning-nothing.".** From Februrary, Cameron did precisely what Clegg had understood he would not-namely, lead from the front.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D'Ancona_

_In the space of five months, the "No" campaign had been promoted from an embarrassing necessity to the party's principal battlefront. But it was not until 18 April, when Cameron shared a platform with John Reid, the former Labour Home Secretary, under the "NO to AV" banner, that Elliott believed that victory was in sight. Cameron's close identification with the "No" campaign would steer Tory voters on 5 May; while Reid's presence at his side made clear the serious cross-party character of the endeavour. It was an embarrassment to the "Yes" campaign that Miliband would not share a platform with Clegg, whom he regarded as a liability. The team pushed the Labour leader's office to be flexible, but his mind was made up. Though the business of government continued, the tensions within the Coalition were now severe and overt. In March, Chris Huhne was infuriated by (Sayeeda) Warsi's claim that AV would help the BNP and declared that **"this is another example of the increasingly Goebbels-like campaign from the anti-AV people, for whom no lie is too idiotic given the truth is so unpalatable to them."** Officially, Downing Street claimed to be relaxed about such crossfire, shrugging it off as an inevitable feature of a fiercely contested referendum. Privately, the Cameroons wondered if the governing partnership could take the strain, and how easy a female Muslim who had been compared to a Nazi by a Cabinet colleague would find it to resume business as usual after the vote. Warsi was indeed shaken by the exchange though (at this stage) confident of the PM's support. Clegg was torn between anger at the content of the campaign literature and anger at Huhne for his shameless show-boating. **"Chris was getting ready to slip into the leader's chair if and when Nick fell, that much was clear"**, according to one supporter of the Deputy PM. _

_The Lib Dems' growing conviction that they had been deceived by the Tories came to a head at a Cabinet meeting two days before the referendum, when Huhne (again) confronted Cameron with anti-Ac leaflets that attacked Clegg personally. Huhne then challenged the Prime Minister to justify the campaign literature and to sack any Tory official involved in their production or distribution. Osborne intervened, telling Huhne: **"This is the Cabinet, not some kind of sub-Jeremy Paxman interview."** Clegg's silence was eloquent. It was his habitual role in Cabinet-and outside-to seek common ground when senior Lib Dems clashed with the Tories. But in this instance he wanted Cameron and Osborne to savour the embarrassment he was feeling. Osborne increasingly thought that Huhne was a joke, and was no more impressed by his occasional attempts at camaraderie-**"You and me, George, we're operators"**-than by his antics in Cabinet. He also thought that Clegg had too thin a skin, and yet to come to terms with the price a governing politician plays for exercising power. Cameron was more concerned that Clegg was close to the limit and what that might mean for the Coalition. In fact, it had been the Labour members of the "No" team who had insisted on using Clegg's image in such leaflets. To energize the Labour vote, they argued, it had to be spelt out that the referendum was an opportunity to punish Clegg and the Lib Dems for letting the Tories in. But such nuances were lost in this heated, intensely awkward Cabinet exchange. The incident was leaked almost immediately after the Cabinet meeting. If Huhne's intention had been to redefine the "No" campaign in voters' minds as underhand and untrustworthy, he had left it much too late.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D'Ancona_

_Thursday 5 May (2011) is referendum day. The AV system is resoundingly rejected by 67.9% to 32.1% on a turnout of 42.2%. Victory strengthens Cameron's position in the Conservative Party. For a time. And at a cost. As (Gus) O'Donnell predicted, the episode has inflicted significant and enduring damage to the coalition. To Clegg, **"a certain kind of hardness entered into the transactions"** thereafter while to Vince Cable, **"it was perfectly clear that we were dealing with people who have no sentiment."** To Danny Alexander, **"it is the moment the scales fell away from our eyes about the Tories. The personal attacks on Nick were personal and brutal."** It ends any notion that the relationship between the two will realign British politics. **"We are one team. We are one government"** had been the mantra of Cameron, Llewellyn and Coulson when they first went into Downing Street. There were joint meetings, shared offices, joint political Cabinets at Chequers, joint press operations and joint policy units. The AV debacle sweeps all this away. There are to be no more joint meetings.** "Nothing again will rest on goodwill, everything has become a transactional relationship"** says (Julian) Astle. **"It became: "I'll concede this in return for that." It was all negotiation and bargaining."** But survive the coalition does....To coalition architect (Oliver) Letwin, the AV episode provides the moment of greatest tension within the coalition to date: **"If we could get through AV in one piece together, we could get through anything. The coalition would indeed endure until 2015."** It is for this reason that for some, the AV referendum proves **"the key turning point"** that ensures the coalition lasts for the **"full five years."**-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Clegg was stunned rather than surprised. "**I wish I could say this is a photo finish but it isn't and the result is very clear. I'm a passionate supporter of electoral reform but we've got to accept this. If, in a democracy, you ask someone a question and get an overwhelming answer, you just have to move on."** It was, he conceded, a **"bitter blow."** In the closing weeks of the campaign, he had railed against the nastiness of the **"right-wing elite, a right-wing clique who want to keep things the way they are."** The scales, at any rate, had fallen from Clegg's eyes. His relationship with Cameron had survived, for the simple reason that it had to. But where Clegg had previously seen his governing partner as a reasonable, moderate man with broadly similar instincts to his own, he now regarded him as the acceptable face of a truly appalling party. **"Can you control your people?"** was what he now asked Cameron time and again. It was a question that was to have momentous consequences...The collateral damage to the Coalition was immense. Clegg urged Cameron to see it from his point of view: **"Consider what it's like. There can't be many leaders who can survive that kind of shock."** The Tories had not planned to fight the referendum so hard, so personally, so pitilessly. But-having decided to do so-they let Clegg and his fellow reformers have it with both barrels. In the words of one senior Downing Street official: **"Nick realized what we're like, what Tories are capable of."** The age of innocence was over, never to return. As another Cameron ally put it: **"The Rose Garden had been well and truly napalmed."**-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D'Ancona_

_There was one more desperate measure to consider. Stephen Gilbert came into my morning meeting in Downing Street one day, and waited afterwards to talk to George and me alone. He said the No campaign wanted to add a third "c" to the argument about how **"costly"** and **"complicated"** AV was: Clegg. He could harness his dwindling popularity to show that AV would mean more coalitions, and more Cleggs playing kingmaker in British politics. The Tory tribe was gearing up for another of its uprisings. This time it probably wouldn't be regicide, but it would be another grassroots revolt I could do without. So I said: **"Do it."** I didn't agree every word and every picture. But I did wince when I eventually saw the leaflets with a picture of Clegg holding that sign saying he wouldn't vote for tuition fees, and the words "**AV will lead to more broken promises."** Politics is a brutal business. You have to campaign with all you've got. You have to put long term interests above immediate concerns, and your own party and survival above other parties and leaders-however much you like and get on with them....The next day at cabinet, Lib Dem energy secretary Chris Huhne confronted me about the AV leaflets. No was pulling ahead in the polls, and the Yes campaign was rattled. He tossed copies of the offending literature down on the cabinet table, asking if George had been behind them, and demanding I sack whoever approved them. I mumbled something about not personally approving every leaflet, and made the point that there was a Conservative campaign I **was** responsible for, and an all-party campaign that included other parties. Nick Clegg looked embarrassed. Everyone else was silent. Then George piped up: **"This is the British cabinet, not some sub-Jeremy Paxman interview on Newsnight." I**t was just enough to deflate Huhne. I moved on to the next item on the agenda, and the meeting continued as if nothing had happened._

_Then came polling day. That evening, as the results started to come in, I returned from dinner and watched the TV. The polls were good. There seemed to be nothing to worry about-and I slept soundly. It wasn't until the morning that it was confirmed: No won by 68 per cent to 32 per cent. Turnout was 42 per cent. I don't look upon the victory with much fondness. It was, in the coalition story, a miserable little episode. And things between our parties would never quite be the same._

_That said, my relationship with Nick **did** recover. He came to Dean in August, just a few months after the result. We played tennis, had lunch and talked about how to get the coalition back on the road. It was a big deal after such a rocky patch in our relationship, and even my children were excited about his arrival. I remember Nancy saying: **"Dad, is NICK CLEGG really coming here to Dean? Wow!"**-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_There was a deep well of fury in Brown which expressed itself in a beetle-browed glower and volcanic eruptions of temper. **"That's none of your concern"** he growled at Cabinet colleagues who dared to offer opinions about the economy, while believing he had the right to interfere in their departments. Battered by one of Brown's pummellings, Geoff Hoon groaned to a friend: **"Why can't he behave like a human being?"** After being subject to Brown's bullying about the funding of the Olympics, Tessa Jowell, one of the more placid-natured members of the Cabinet, was provoked into shouting back: **"Don't you ever fucking speak to me like that again."..**The poor unfortunate with the unenviable task of briefing the Prime Minister (about the loss of personal information) was Gavin Kelly, the Deputy Chief of Staff at Number 10. Gordon Brown was so enraged that he leapt across the room. Grabbing a startled Kelly by the lapels of his jacket, Brown snarled: **"They're out to get me!"**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Brown's anger was as nothing compared with his reaction on Wednesday evening, when he learnt of the coverage in The Times. Danny Finkelstein, the paper's Comment Editor, a former speech-writer to John Major and a keen student of American politics, had been struck by the familiarity of many phrase's in Brown's (conference) speech. Finkelstein confirmed his suspicions by Googling any line that sounded like a speech-writer's phrase. Brown said: **"Sometimes people say I am too serious."** That was awfully similar to a sentence used by Al Gore in 2000 when he accepted the Democratic nomination: **"I know that sometimes people say I'm too serious."** Brown: **"This is my pledge to the British people: I will not let you down."** Gore: **"I pledge to you tonight: I will never let you down."** Finkelstein identified several examples of phrases recycled from speeches by Gore and Bill Clinton, both former clients of Bob Shrum, adviser and speech-writer for Brown. When Finkelstein posted it on his blog that afternoon, the deputy editor of The Times, Ben Preston, thought it would make **"a great splash"** for the next morning's papers. When Brown learnt that The Times planned to lead its front page with how he had rehashed American phrases, he was **"incandescent."** From his suite at the Highcliff, he rang complaining to Preston and Robert Thomson, the editor of The Times. **"It's a Tory** plot" he raged, trying to bludgeon them into pulling the story. **"This won't be forgotten."** He was maddest of all with his own team. Brown went berserk with Bob Shrum, whose long friendship could not protect the American from a ferocious blast of Brown's temper. **"How could you fucking do this to me, Bob?"** Brown screamed at a shaking Shrum. **"How could you fucking do this to me?"** Then the Prime Minister started yelling at the other aides present: **"Just get out! Just get out of the fucking room!"** Sue Nye became so alarmed that she felt compelled to come into the room to protect the unfortunate Shrum.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_GB came in all flustered, raging about the vote-they had whipped on a free vote to keep the pay rise down, but then let go of the whip on the so-called John Lewis list, and he was in a rage about it. He did seem to let the slightest thing provoke these simmering outbursts which just filled the start of the meeting with a whole load of negative energy...I was also suggesting that GB-by now furiously note-taking-had to say at some point that he got why people had had doubts about him. He had to give a sense of why we had got to this. He was constantly saying it was all about the economy which suggested he didn't want to say it had anything to do with him...As Greg (Nugent) and I left for a chat on the way out, GB was making more noises about the ministers, including Jacqui Smith and Andy Burnham, who had voted the wrong way. And as we walked down the corridor, we heard a shout and then the sound of his phone thudding against the wall. I was beginning to feel sorry for Carter. Greg started laughing and by the time we were at the car we were close to hysteria. It was all a bit fucking mad.-"Thursday 3rd July 2008", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Gordon Brown's morale sank. He privately groaned: **"For this (the election that never was) to happen to me, it eats my soul."** Number 10 lived on shredded nerves. **"It was one damn thing after another"** says one senior aide. **"We just didn't know what was going to hit us next."** Visitors to Downing Street found the staff in **"shellshock"** and asking: **"How can this have happened to us? We're still the same people who were very popular two months ago and now we're besieged."** It accelerated the profound psychological descent of Brown since the election debacle. One of his most senior and longest serving aides says: **"He closed in on himself. He went to ground. He was a lonely figure." **His inner demons gnawed at him with the fear that perhaps he was not up to being Prime Minister. **"It's my fault, it's all my fault"** he self-flagellated in front of some intimates. He was consumed with remorse and guilt for the mistakes he made over the phantom election. The fit of paranoia with Gavin Kelly over the data discs was just one of many manifestations of his raging moods. He became even more temperamental about his coverage in the media, obsessively monitoring the press headlines and the prominence he was getting in television news bulletins. If his speeches and initiatives were ignored or got less coverage than David Cameron, he would** "lash out"** at those around him. A dark pall descended on the whole building. An official noted that **"he surrounded himself with people who amplified his weaknesses rather than compensated for them. There was no camaraderie. It was a quite depressive, introverted, dysfunctional coterie."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_A dark pall descended on the whole building. An official noted that **"he surrounded himself with people who amplified his weaknesses rather than compensated for them. There was no camaraderie. It was a quite depressive, introverted, dysfunctional coterie."** Long-standing members of his inner circle had endured Brown's temper for years and accepted the tantrums as part of the price of working for a complex man they admired. One veteran of his court says: **"Over the years, I've had all sorts of things thrown at me-newspapers, pens, Coke cans."** This sort of behaviour was a shock to staff at Number 10 who had been accustomed to the courteous manners of Tony Blair and John Major. **"Gordon's mood was absolutely black the whole time. He was in a permanent state of rage"** observes one civil servant. **"Staff were afraid of him because he was always shouting at people, being unpleasant, constantly blaming people for things going wrong. He never had a nice word to say to anybody."** Civil servants were shocked by his habit of abruptly getting up and leaving meetings when officials were in the middle of speaking. He became notorious within the building for shouting at the duty clerks, bawling at the superbly professional staff who manned the Number 10 switchboard and blowing up at the affectionately regarded "Garden Girls", so called because the room from which they provide Downing Street's secretarial services overlooks the garden. When one of the secretaries was not typing fast enough for an angrily impatient Prime Minister, he turfed the stunned garden girl out of her chair and took over the keyboard himself. Word of these incidents reached the alarmed ears of the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Gus O'Donnell, who was becoming increasingly anxious about the Prime Minister's behaviour. The Cabinet Secretary was so concerned about the garden girl episode that he made his own inquiries into it._

_Though the worst excesses of the Prime Minister's temper were kept hidden, it was inevitable that some accounts began to filter out across Whitehall and then into the media, which reported stories about mobile phones being hurled in fury and the furniture being kicked. One civil servant who applied for a position at Number 10 was asked at the interview whether he could cope with **"extreme verbal abuse"** and violence done to objects. The civil servant was so scared by the description of what it was like to work for the Prime Minister that he withdrew his application.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Catherine said, as she always does, that she had no idea how I did the job for as long as I did in the way I did. She was full of stories of GB's erratic behaviour, not least vis-a-vis Alistair D(arling). Everyone knew he wanted to get rid of him for Balls, which was why it was ludicrous of GB to claim otherwise. They had big arguments re the whole cuts v investment debate, with AD arguing-sensibly in my view-that we had to admit there would be cuts to some public service programmes. GB went off on one of his rages, spitting eggs and bacon at him so that AD said calm down and finish your breakfast and then we can discuss this...She was appalled at the way the No.10 operation was run, said they still ran everything based on negative lines...-"Thursday 18th June 2009", The Alastair Campbell Diaires: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Brown's exhaustion and sense of isolation made his temper even shorter and blacker. Officials became more apprehensive than ever about delivering unwelcome news for fear of the reaction. One aide with bad tidings decided to break it to the boss when they were travelling in the back of the Prime Minister's Daimler. As was customary, the aide took the rear seat behind the driver, Brown sat behind the protection officer. The cream upholstery of the seat back in front of Brown was flecked with black marks. When having a meltdown, the Prime Minister would habitually stab the seat back with his black marker pen. On this occasion, what the aide had to tell the Prime Minister provoked a more scary response than the stabbing of the pen. Face like thunder, Brown reacted by swinging back an arm and clenching his fist. The aide cowered back, fearing that the Prime Minister was about to hit him in the face. Brown crashed his fist into the back of the passenger seat in front of him. The protection officer flinched. This was happening more and more often. The Prime Minister's compulsion to vent his temper by hitting the upholstery became so regular that sitting in front of him was regarded as the worst duty among the protection squad.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Immunity from Brown's rages was not conferred on officials just because they had been long-time and loyal servants. If anything, he seemed to think he could be more abusive to those who were closest to him. He was probably right: they were the most likely to bury the darker truths about his behaviour. Stewart Wood-a senior adviser on Northern Ireland and foreign affairs and a fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford-had served Brown intelligently and faithfully for years. In advance of the June meeting of the European Council, Wood arranged a lunchtime reception at Number 10 for the ambassadors representing the European Union. Brown joined them only for the coffee. Wood was waiting at the door of the first-floor Pillared Room, where the reception was being held, when Brown came up the stairs. The Prime Minister was in an especially evil mood. When Wood tried to brief him on which of the ambassadors he should speak to, Brown blew up in a towering rage: **"Why have I got to meet these fucking people?"** he yelled at his adviser.** "Why are you making me meet these fucking people? I don't want to meet these fucking people!"** Brown roughly shoved his adviser aside. He stormed into the room, leaving behind a shaken and shocked Wood.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Several of Brown's senior staff collectively decided they weren't going to put up with this sort of conduct and told the Prime Minister to his face that he couldn't go behaving so badly. Sir Gus O'Donnell became **"very worried"** about Brown's treatment of staff at Number 10. If it led to a formal complaint against the Prime Minister that would be both unprecedented and disastrous. The Cabinet Secretary tried to calm down frightened duty clerks, badly treated phone operators and other bruised staff by telling them **"don't take it personally."** O'Donnell eventually felt compelled to directly confront the Prime Minister and gave him a stern **"pep talk" **about his conduct towards the staff. **"This is no way to get things done" **he told Brown and warned him that he had to moderate his behaviour. This seemed to have some effect. Brown was more careful in future about whom he made a victim of his temper.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Calls started coming in with bids re GB from the Rawnsley book. Focusing on his behaviour, bullying of staff and such like. It was going to fly, I feared. I sent a note to Peter M and David Muir, saying I was worried about the tone of their rebuttal. For example on Newsnight, the Peter M clip plus JP in full JP mode would have made people think "bullies", rather than the opposite. Also, they risk getting caught on a hook in which anything which emerges to suggest he has shouted or bawled at anyone is taken as "proof" that any allegation is true. They had to get over the line that yes, he has a real temper on him but he is not guilty as charged and more important he would be a better PM than DC...The Rawnsley stuff was running pretty big. That much was obvious from the calls last night. I sensed the reaction was going tonally wrong. They were in over-denial mode. Best to say he had a real temper but this stuff was OTT. I didn't see Marr but seemingly Peter did pretty well. However, some woman named (Christine) Pratt (chief executive), all twin set and Tory jacketish, came out and said No.10 staff had called the National Bullying Helpline. Book plus media interest plus denial and now "real person" element needed for frenzy mode. The Beeb were ramping it even before her intervention and when she did intervene there was just blanket acceptance. Only later did it emerge that she worked two doors down from the Tories and that the website had Cameron and (Anne) Widdecombe (Tory MP) as the first things you saw. Added to which her husband had a vested interest in the issue...The bullying stuff was still running big. I felt GB should go out, maybe even do a press conference, and do a bit of real passion, but say there was a difference between being driven and being a bully. I knew he wouldn't do it though. It required instinct and the ability to ride a wave and that was the stuff he was poor at. It was certainly becoming a frenzy thought. Arrived at Broadcasting House, where the phone-ins were raging with it. Then a lead story about Cameron **"calling for an inquiry."** Into what for fuck's sake? The reaction around the studio made me think his intervention could be a bit of a turning point on it. Did a blog later saying it said more about DC than GB. The problem of course was that the general sense was true-he (Brown) was vile to staff sometimes and his politics was of the bullying sort..."Saturday 20th February 2010-Sunday 21st February 2010-Monday 22nd February 2010"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_PG (Philip Gould) rang worried we were getting in the wrong place on GB bullying etc. He felt I had done a lot to get GB and his operation into a better position, in part because I had a deeper integrity than GB's modus operandi. He felt it was all a bit Nixonian. Everyone round GB knew that these kinds of stories were true. He said I had always been really angry about the stories of GB being rude to the staff. I said I attacked the Tories and defended GB on policy but was careful not to defend him too closely on character. PG said the subtleties would be lost. He felt I was being used..He really felt I needed to get in a better place on this...Sue Gray heard I was there and came through for a chat about what Gus (O'Donnell) would say to the select committee tomorrow. The tough question was whether Gus had ever said anything to GB which might be seen as reining in his behaviour. And also if Gus had spoken to Rawnsley. Rawnsley was virtually saying as much. Gus did not want to issue a blanket denial I sensed. Yet later GB said to me Gus had said he would do exactly that. Sue said Gus wanted to say he did talk to the PM about how to get the best out of people-which would be taken as confirmation. She said the weekend had been fairly hellish. When she called switch to say thanks she said they were almost overwhelmed because unlike in our time there was precious little politeness and team building. The mood around GB's operation was a lot more negative than in our day...Alistair D had got another story going. He got verballed by Jeff Randall on Sky into saying GB had unleashed **"the forces of hell"** when he talked of the recession being the worst in sixty years and also wondered aloud why Damian McBride etc. had briefed against him...-"Tuesday 23rd February 2010-Wednesday 24th February 2010", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

* * *

_""I promise you that it will be OK" the Duke said, her voice measured, quiet._

_"You're good at that" I said. "At, like, saying crazy things in a way that makes me believe them."-Let It Snow, "A Cheertastic Christmas Miracle", John Green._

_It's the best thing that could happen to the...pampered thing to have someone stand up to him that's as spoiled as himself-The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett_

_""You wouldn't understand. You are a fetus in a world of Camus and spermicidal lubricant."_

_"And you're an asshole."_

_"I'm just cynical. And you have no idea how far that's going to take me."_

_"Neither do you."_

_"Au contraire, little brother."" -Invincible Summer, Hannah Moskowitz_

* * *

David only partly opens his eyes when he wakes up. He's mostly asleep, but the lamp's still lit, a dim glow at the side of the bed. The room is dark, the screen still flickering.

His mind's swimming with sleep, muzzy and aching a little from wine, but he manages to turn over a little more comfortably, snuggle deeper into his pillow. He turns over, his eyes falling shut again, and he can feel Miliband's warmth next to him. Something about that's unusual, but David's eyes are too heavy and he's tired and then Miliband makes a small noise in the back of his throat.

He makes it again, but when David opens his eyes a crack to peer at him, Miliband's are shut. But he tosses fitfully back and forth, rolling onto his back.

David rubs his hand on Miliband's shoulder, barely noticing what he's doing. "Shh-"

Miliband makes another sound in his throat but settles, turning over so that he's facing David, snuggling further into the pillow. David, his own eyes heavy, pats at his shoulder gently. "Shh-go back to sleep-"

Miliband obeys, wriggling closer as he does so. He curls tighter into the pillow-tighter and closer to David.

David lets his eyes fall shut, aware of Miliband's hair tickling his forehead when he moves a little closer, feeling the warmth of Miliband's body, so near David could curl his own around it. His eyes close and he shushes them both again, sleep already slurring the words. He sinks into sleep again, them both curled warm and close, with his hand still on Miliband's arm.

* * *

When David opens his eyes again, it's lighter.

The lamp's still on, but hints of cold light are creeping in through the curtains. David turns his face back into the pillow, but he's awake now. He lies there, enjoying the feeling of not having to get up yet.

He can feel Miliband's warmth, his chest rising and falling. David's arm slips a little further over Miliband's shoulder.

He opens his eyes lazily, peering at Miliband through his lashes. After a moment, he wriggles a little further up the pillow, just taking in the sight of Miliband lost in sleep next to him.

Miliband's lashes brush his cheeks. The little crease that often appears between his eyebrows has smoothed out. David's finger wants to reach out and stroke where it usually is. Miliband's cheek is pillowed awkwardly on his hand, which creases his skin a little. Something about that makes something scrunch pleasantly in David's chest.

David just watches him fondly for a few moments, hand still gentle on his shoulder. Their legs are lying over one another. David shifts a little, trying not to disrupt the position.

Wait-

Trying not to disrupt the-

Because his legs are lying over Miliband's-

He's-

His arm is lying around Miliband-

He is lying on a bed-

Lying on a _bed,_ having spent the night next to-

David's eyes fly wide open.

It's a miracle he doesn't yell. Somehow, he even manages to rein in a gasp. Instead, he squeezes his eyes tightly shut and then opens them again, with the ridiculous hope that this will all somehow be a dream.

It is not a dream. It is manifestly, and almost insultingly, not a dream.

David's arm is still very much there.

Miliband is still very much asleep.

Everything is still _very much_, and, and, and-

David squeezes his eyes shut again. OK. OK, breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

He fights the urge to pull his arm back and scuttle to the edge of the bed like a terrified crab.

_OK, don't think-_He sinks his fingers into the mantra firmly. _Don't think, don't think, don't think-_

Don't think about what you said.

Don't think about how you got here, _don't, don't, don't-_

He forces himself to stay still, even as Miliband makes a low sound in his throat, a thin, complaining little sound. Just stay still-stay still, then move away slowly, don't wake him up-

David holds his breath, eyes flickering over Miliband's face, that little crease forming in his brow. Miliband makes another reluctant sound in his throat. His eyes flutter-

_Hell._

Miliband's eyes slowly open.

All David can do is stare at him.

Oh God. Oh _God-_

Miliband stares back for barely a moment before his eyes flicker closed again. He buries his face in the pillow, making a small, groaning noise.

David stares at him. "Ed-"

_Ed?_

He clears his throat. "Miliband-Miliband-wake-you need to wake _up-"_

"Lee-meone." Miliband rolls over, burying his face a little deeper in the pillow. "O-way."

David could scream. He takes in his hand on Miliband's arm and, for a moment, thinks he might.

"Miliband." He tries giving his chief opponent's arm a little shake. "Miliband-come on-"

_Chief opponent-_

David once again takes in his hand on Miliband's arm, Miliband's face nestled almost under his chin, and this time, has to fight an urge to laugh hysterically.

This cannot be happening. This absolutely cannot be happening.

"Miliband-"

"Five minutes."

David shakes his arm a little harder. "Miliband. Miliband, it's _me-"_

Miliband makes another noise in his throat.

"Miliband-"

Miliband groans and opens his eyes slowly to look at David. They peer at each other.

"Cameron-" Miliband's voice is thick, rough with sleep.

David has no idea what to say, which is not a feeling he is familiar or comfortable with.

"Cameron-" Miliband says again, and then his eyes flicker up to David's. They narrow slightly for a moment-and then, suddenly, fly open.

_"Cameron!" _Miliband jumps so violently that David's hand almost falls off his shoulder, and not quickly enough, as Miliband's eyes flicker down to where David's hand is lying, clasped in his shirt.

Miliband makes a sudden, choking sound and then almost shrieks _"Cameron!" _again.

_"Miliband-"_ David lets go of his sleeve. Miliband almost drags himself upright, his eyes darting frantically around the room-from the rumpled duvet to the empty wine bottle to the TV screen, still flickering an unknown story across the bed. _"Miliband_-calm _down-"_

_"Calm-"_ Miliband's voice is more high-pitched than David thinks he's ever heard it. _"Calm-_I'm-what-what _happened-"_

His eyes, panicked and wild, rake over David from head to toe, hovering at his collar, where, when David glances down, he can see his top button's still undone.

_"Nothing"_ David says, because he can't dwell on these words at all. "Nothing. You just _fell asleep_-so did I-"

"But-but-" Miliband's stuttering as he sits up. "But-but-how did-how did-"

"I don't know. The wine?"

"How did-how-" Miliband's words trail off for a moment, and then "What did I-"

David swallows. His heart is pounding. The colour's rising in Miliband's cheeks.

He has to force the words out, a little more quickly than usual. "You just-we just _fell asleep."_ It sounds almost pleading.

He can't sound like that in front of Miliband and suddenly he's remembering-even through the dull ache in his head, words scrambling out of his mouth, partly into the pillow. _The best parts were with you._

"That's all" he manages, and then, a little shorter than he means, "Miliband, calm down."

Miliband almost splutters. "You-we-" He gestures at the bed, the duvet crumpled between them. "This it-it-thith-s doesn't-"

He blushes furiously.

"I hope you're more eloquent in the debates" is all David can think of to say, hoping against hope that Miliband will throw a jibe back at him.

Miliband just blinks, face contorting in confusion. He glances down at himself, as though only just realising the state of his own clothes.

_"Cameron!"_ He almost shouts it at him, and another time, David might find the look of sheer indignation on his face utterly hilarious.

Maybe that thought shows on his own, or maybe he simply doesn't look horrified enough, but whatever it is, something seems to be the final straw. Miliband swings away from him and, in a move which looks as though it was intended to appear flawless, leaps off the bed.

Being Miliband, this fails completely and he promptly overbalances, so that David is treated to the sight of Miliband toppling over the edge with a yelp.

"Oh, for _God's sake-"_ It comes out crumbling into laughter, and it's ridiculous, because he and Miliband _just woke up next to each other, for God's sake-_

But he hears Miliband's aggrieved little "Ow!" and he can't just stand here, he has to-so he ends up heading round the side of the bed, crouching down and reaching for Miliband's arm.

Miliband is sitting on the floor, his hair a complete mess, and his lip pouting out, and David just feels something_ unfold_ in his chest. He feels suddenly, terribly fond.

"Miliband-" He reaches for Miliband's shoulder, touches it gently. "Miliband, it-it's all right-" He's got no idea what he's reassuring Miliband about. "It's-um-"

_"How_ is it all right?" Miliband almost snaps the word out, and wraps his arms around his knees. _"We-"_ He throws a hand back towards the bed, as though he can't even bear to look at it. "We-_that-"_

"That-"

"That as-" Miliband glares at him, fiercely indignant. "People don't-that _isn't meant to happen."_

David isn't stupid, but he asks anyway. "What, sleep on a bed?"

The look Miliband gives him somehow manages to be both withering and endearing at once. "You _know_ what I _mean."_

"Well, yes, but-" David wants to put a hand on Miliband's arm. "It's not that-it doesn't matter. Things like that happen-"

He tries to shout the words at himself, too. _See? Things like that happen!_

Miliband's head snaps up, and his eyes meet David's. "Yes, and what if-"

"What if-"

Miliband opens his mouth and then closes it again. He wraps his arms tighter around his knees, drags a hand through his hair. "I-"

Their gazes meet. David takes in Miliband's eyes, dark and uncertain, remembers them last night in the glow of the lamp, when they'd just looked at him, and his hand had crept up to David's cheek-

There's a loud knocking on the door.

For a moment, David is sure Miliband's going to die. His face goes about three different colours in the same amount of seconds.

"Oh God-" His hands almost knot into David's sleeves. "Oh _God_-who is it-"

"I don't _know-_just let me-"

Miliband makes a strangled sort of sound. If David didn't know better, he'd suspect he was choking.

"All right-" His own voice is a fierce whisper. "Just _calm down-"_

He takes a deep breath. "Who is it?" he calls, hoping to keep his voice as even and unaffected as possible.

"Me. Ed."

The Ed on this side of the door makes another panicked sound in his throat. David could kill him.

"Everything all right, Prime Minister? It's just, I thought I heard-"

Another squeak comes out of Miliband's throat. David, in a moment of utter desperation, lunges, and before he can stop himself, has slapped his hand over Miliband's mouth.

"....noises." Ed's voice continues outside, in blissful ignorance of the squirming struggle now going on on the floor. Miliband is tugging at David's hand indignantly, muffled sounds escaping against David's fingers every moment or so, the vociferous sounds leaving David in little doubt as to Miliband's opinion of his handling of the situation. "Like someone was shouting-"

_"Mmmph-" _Miliband's mouthing against David's fingers frantically. David puts his mouth to his ear. "Shut _up-_he'll _hear-"_

The look Ed gives him, David wouldn't be surprised to see flames shoot out of his eyes.

But he stops hissing insults against David's fingers, which David counts as a partial success.

"Um-yeah, it's just the ah-"

David frantically scours his brain for a suitable excuse.

"It's-er-the-um-"

Come on, come on, come on-

"It's the-er-it's the.....pipes."

Miliband stills for a moment-then, very slowly turns and gives David one of the most utterly disgusted looks he's ever seen.

David glares at him. _"You_ try making it up next time" he hisses, and then feels heat rush to his cheeks at the fact he's just insinuated that there might be a _next time._

As it is, right then is when Ed calls through the door "Well, I do actually need to come in."

Miliband gives a sort of rattling gasp that leaves David utterly convinced for a moment that his last hour has come.

He swallows, and takes a deep breath. "Right" he manages, weakly. "Right. Well-ah-that's fine-"

Miliband makes a sort of horrified squeaking sound. David tightens his hold over his mouth, only for Miliband to grasp at his arm frantically, making gasping noises. "Just-give me a moment-"

He lets go of Miliband, only for the other man to slump onto the floor. For a moment, David genuinely thinks he's killed him.

_"Mili-"_ He only just manages to muffle his own voice.

As it is, he hears Ed's voice, echoing curiously through the door. "Dave? Is everything all right in there-"

"Yes" David maanges somehow, Miliband now sitting up slowly, massaging his throat. "Yeah, just-stubbed my toe-"

He's already reaching for Miliband's arm, tugging him up, even as Miliband splutters and glares at him. "Get in the bathroom."

"What?"

"Bathroom." David's already pulling him across the room-Miliband's grabbed that book of his, he notices. "Hide-I'll tell you when you can-"

Miliband scuttles into the bathroom with surprising alacrity but of course, turns at the last moment. "Does this often happen to you, Prime-"

_"Would you shut up?"_ This comes out as a hiss as David sends the door swinging shut in Miliband's face to the aggrieved mutter of "You could have_ killed_ me-"

"I wish I had" David mutters, turning to the door and making a frantic grab for the wine bottle.

"I _heard _that-" David rolls his eyes.

_"I heard that" _he mutters childishly under his breath, as he tries to frantically tidy the bed, looks down at himself, and curses.

"Dave?" Ed's knocking. David squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

As he heads for the door, a familiar-and now even more aggrieved-voice mutters "Heard _that,_ too..."

When David opens the door, Ed gives him a grin. "Had a night of it, did you?"

"No, we didn't!"

Ed looks bemused. David curses himself. From the direction of the bathroom comes a strange smacking sound, for all the world as though someone has just slapped their hand to their forehead.

Ed's brow furrows. "We-"

"No. No, _me._ I. Me. Myself. Me, myself and I-"

Shut up. Shut. Up.

Picturing the expression on Miliband's face is the only thing that allows David to regain his composure.

"I just-ah-had a bit to drink last night" he says, indicating his own dishevelled state. "You know. After the day-" He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, feigning tiredness, and wonders if he's going to hell for even vaguely using that as an excuse.

"Oh, yeah. Of course." Ed takes an amused glance around the room. "Looks like you christened a few ships-"

"Well-"David tries to laugh. "One. But-ah-yeah." He glances down at his shirt. "Fell asleep in my clothes-"

"Apparently."

There's a clattering from inside the bathroom.

David freezes. Ed's eyes skitter to the bathroom door. "What the hell was that?"

"Pipes" David says instantly. "Been like that all night." He gestures uselessly at the bottle. "Hence the wine."

He closes his eyes, cursing Miliband's inability to move around a room without knocking something over, no matter how endearing it might be.

_(Endearing?)_

And then opens them to see Ed heading towards the bathroom door.

"NO!"

In the single second before Ed turns round, David has enough time to realise that the best way to not arouse suspicion about the person hiding in one's suite is probably not to screech hysterically when one's friend takes one step in the direction of the hiding place where said person happens to be hiding in one's suite.

Ed is staring at him as though he's just told him he's converting to Labour. David tries frantically to think of some reason, any reason, why the thought of his friend entering his bathroom should make him yell as if he's just spotted an axe-murderer or Boris about to speak.

"Um-you don't want to do that." His voice sounds almost manically happy. "There's Vaseline on the handle."

There's a pause, during which David reflects on whether or not he could possibly have conjured a more ridiculous lie.

Ed is now watching him as though wondering whether he should be fearing for David's sanity.

"I-spilt Vaseline on it. Last night-" David casts around frantically for inspiration. "Whilst I was opening the wine bottle."

Ed's eyebrow arches the slightest bit. David hastens to elaborate. "I mean, I was using the Vaseline-to open the wine bottle-to, ah-grease the cork-"

He could kill Miliband.

He's not even sure how this is Miliband's fault, but he's convinced that in some way it is.

Ed's staring at him. "Grease the cork?"

If he hears one snigger from that bathroom, David will insert that cork somewhere Miliband will always be able to bloody find it.

"Yes." He knows he must look overbright. He was aiming for calm and relaxed. Not SpongeBob Squarepants on the verge of an overdose. (And he's sat through enough episodes of that with the kids to know that that sponge is entirely too happy, anyway.)

"So. You mentioned-ah-"

Ed's eyeing him with a crease in his brow. "Oh. I just wanted to check you were up, that you'd gone over the speech for the Midlands-"

"Oh." David nods so frantically it feels as though his head's going to fall off. "Yes. Obviously. And-"

"I was going to see if you were ready for breakfast-" Ed gives him a look which somehow manages to take in the unbuttoned shirt down to the socks David has neglected to remove. "But I might give you a bit of time. Will Mr. Miliband be joining us at all, do you-"

There's a muffled squawking sound in the bathroom. David very nearly screams.

_"PIPES!" _is what he almost shrieks instead, to block out the almost inevitable sound of Miliband knocking something over, following his little panicked outburst. "Just the bloody pipes-"

Ed turns to look at him a lot more slowly this time. His mouth twitches, almost into a smile.

David's heart pounds, but all Ed says is "Will Mr. Miliband be joining us, do you think?"

David forces himself not to look at the bathroom door. "I'll give him a text, see what he's doing-"

Ed nods, though a smile's hovering about his mouth. "I see. How about I give you a few minutes-"

"Yes." David seizes on this gratefully. "That would be-ah-" He tries for a laugh.

Ed nods at the suit, still crumpled over the back of the armchair from last night."Want me to get that straightened out?" The smile deepens a little as he scoops it up. "Want me to hang it in the bathroom? I can get the Vaseline off the handle-"

"_NO!" _David spins round and promptly nearly falls over. "No, no-"

Inside the bathroom, there's a sound like a muffled squeak.

Ed grins. "Pipes?"

David manages a laugh. It sounds barely anything like a laugh. "I suppose."

Ed hands him the suit with a grin. "Let me know when you're ready for breakfast."

He waits until he's reached the door before he turns back and adds, "And if Miliband's coming."

David has no idea how he manages to stay still until the door's shut before he moves.

He yanks the bathroom door open and promptly stares at Miliband. "What the bloody hell is _that?"_

Miliband is crouched only inches away from the door, holding a toothbrush.

At the sight of David, he squawks and very nearly drops it.

"What was _that _going to do-"

Miliband is blushing furiously, now standing up straight, holding the toothbrush loosely. "I thought it might be a distraction."

David stares at him and then bursts out laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation. He leans against the door frame, chest wracked with mirth, and just shakes his head at Miliband, standing there, clutching that bloody toothbrush.

Miliband just stares, which makes David laugh more. He seizes Miliband's arm. "Come on, for God's sake-"

_"Greath-sing the cork_-what on earth did you th-say _that_ for-"

"Well, I didn't hear _you _coming up with anything-" David glances at the door. "You heard Ed. If you just go down to your suite and join us for breakfast, no one has to know-" He falters and they stare at each other.

_That you spent the night with me._

Ed blushes. David opens his mouth, and then, to his horror, becomes aware that he is doing the same.

They stare for a moment. Suddenly, David can feel last night, his hand circling Miliband's shoulder blades-

_Circling Miliband's shoulder blades?_

What was he _doing-_

"Well." He speaks too quickly. Miliband's head jerks, as though David's just pulled him out of a reverie.

He fumbles with the doorknob and David manages "Just turn up in a few minutes, like you've spent the night in-"

Miliband nods, and for lack of anything better to do, David gives his arm an awkward squeeze. He doesn't know why, but God knows what else he should do.

Miliband gives him a quick, awkward nod, fumbles, and then pulls the door open.

Ed's standing right on the other side of it.

Strangely enough, the first thought David has is not where they will be holding the long, ostentatious and deeply sorrowful funeral for his pride. Instead, the first thought he has is that Miliband should really have cleaned that wine off his shirt.

The second is "Oh God."

The third is "That _fucking _wine."

Next to him, Miliband is absolutely silent, but David can picture the look on his face. Instead of looking, he keeps his eyes fixed on the other Ed.

Ed glances between them, very, very slowly, a slight smile on his face, but says nothing at all.

"Ah-" David puts out a hand, gestures between them both vaguely. "Ah-um-we were just-"

Ed's mouth twitches once again, but he merely looks at David enquiringly.

"We-I mean, me-Miliband and I-"

David risks a glance at Miliband and immediately regrets it. Miliband is absolutely scarlet and it doesn't make it any easier to concentrate.

Ed looks entirely too understanding. It makes David speak even faster.

"I-Miliband-popped by. To tell me something. You see. To tell me something-and then I was going to tell him. About breakfast." He stares at Ed. "Which I have now told him." His face is far, far too warm.

Miliband, next to him, merely manages a strangled "Eeep" in response.

The three of them stand there in silence for a moment which seems longer than the whole of the previous night.

Finally, Ed speaks. Only someone who knows him as well as David does would detect the amusement under the modulated tone. (Amusement and something sharper.)

"Well-" he says. "I see."

David feels colour lick higher up his cheeks. He doesn't dare look at Miliband.

"Well-" Ed claps his hands together. "Just came to let you know breakfast is in my suite. Should be ready in a few minutes, if you're joining us, Mr. Mili-"

He doesn't get any further before Miliband makes a frantic noise in his throat, mumbles something that even David doesn't quite catch, but manages to give Ed a quick nod, before he's pushing past them, down the hall to his own room.

David almost calls after him but Miliband doesn't look back.

There's nothing else to do, but to stand back and let Ed into the room.

The moment the door's shut behind them, David turns to his friend with his hands up. "Look, I know how that looked-"

"What?" Ed's smiling, but his voice is careful. "How did it look?"

David can't say it, so he tries to skate around the words. "Well. It doesn't-ah-" He tries for a laugh. "Look good."

"Oh, what doesn't look good about it?" Ed's voice is as careful as before. "The Leader of the Opposition paying you a quick visit in your bedroom-"

He trails off at the look on David's face. "Unless there's more?"

David curses himself. "Well-"

"Shh." Ed holds his hand up and David falls silent. For a moment, they both stand there, ears pricked for any hint of sound.

Then, Ed lets his hand fall. "Sorry." He gives David a smile. "Thought I heard the _pipes."_

David closes his eyes. "OK."

He takes a deep breath. "All right. Look-all right. It-it looks a bit complicated-"

_"Complicated-"_ David opens his eyes to see Ed rolling his to heaven. "God. How long was he _in _here?"

"Look, we didn't do anything _wrong-"_

_"How long-"_

"He just fell asleep-"

Ed blinks. "He was here all _night?"_

David feels himself blush.

Ed's eyes are stretched wide, his mouth hanging open. It could almost be comical.

"Look-"

Ed starts to say something, but David talks over him. "Look, all he did was _fall asleep_. We'd both had some wine, and we _fell asleep_. It had been a long day. It was just a _mistake-"_

Ed's staring at him. When he speaks this time, there's no hint of a smile in his voice at all. "David, that can't happen again."

The seriousness in his voice sends a jolt through David's chest. "Well-" He tries to laugh. "It's not as though it _could-"_

"No-" and Ed steps forward then, putting a hand on his shoulder. "No, David. Really. That can't happen."

David swallows. The words hang, thickening the air between them.

"It's just-I know you're-" Ed looks away, pinches the bridge of his nose as though that might pull the correct word between his fingers. David waits, suddenly unsure what he wants that word to be.

"Think about it. The two of you-in a-"

Colour rises slowly and delicately to Ed's cheeks as he hovers tactfully over the words. David, for some reason, can't stand watching it.

"Look" he says, more brusquely than usual, but God, Ed has to understand-"This was a stupid mistake. Ed-_Miliband's_ probably more worried about it than me. It doesn't mean _anything_. No-one saw. It was just-" His laugh sounds a little too loud even to him. "It was just a hard day."

Ed just looks at him. The silence stretches out between them.

David laughs again. "It's _me and Miliband." _The words crack disbelievingly in his throat. "That's-that's all it is."

Ed clears his throat. "Maybe that's what-"

Something jolts suddenly in David's ribs, as though he's missed a step on the stairs, something that should have been right in front of him, too obvious not to be noticed.

_Maybe that's what...?_

He should say it. He should be _able_ to.

Ed's eyes meet his. Suddenly, David can remember one of their first conversations at CCHQ, when he'd shaken Ed's hand and he'd said, without even considering the words, in response to the question so many had already asked "Eton and Oxford. Where did you go?"

Ed had looked back at him, their fingers tightening momentarily around each other. "Eton and Oxford" he'd said, with a smile-it really _had_ been a smile, even now, scouring the image in his memory years later. "Similar time to you, actually-"

David had only blinked for a moment, and then he'd gripped Ed's hand a little tighter. "Of course. I remember you-"

Ed had nodded and laughed as David laughed that he was getting old before his time, and he'd be saying he went to Harrow next. Ed, in fact, had worn exactly the same smile he's wearing now, and nodded, and looked David in the eye, and both of them had known and neither had said anything about the fact that David hadn't remembered him at all.

Now, Ed looks at him with that exact same smile and tilts his head to the side, for all the world as if David had asked his question out loud. "Nothing. Doesn't matter" he says, and both of them know that that isn't the answer to the question David hasn't asked at all.

* * *

Ed manages to get the door of his room closed before the panic takes over.

Breathe, he tells himself firmly. Breathe. Just breathe.

It doesn't mean anything. It's not as though anything-

_Anything happened._

Ed hears a laugh, wild and a little mad, crack out of his throat.

How has he-

How on_ earth_ has he got into a situation where he has to think _that_ about _Cameron?_

Ed pushes his face into his hands. Breathe.

It means nothing. It means _nothing._ It's just-

Oh God, what is it just.

He needs to get changed. One thing at a time. Get changed. Get in the shower. And get changed. Right. Yes. First job.

It's when he's standing under the warm water that he takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to remember.

He doesn't. Not much, anyway. He remembers the film. He remembers-

His book. Which he'd dropped on the bed on his way to the shower, too preoccupied to notice.

They'd been reading from it-

Ed's head snaps up. Oh God.

They'd been reading from it. And-he-

Cameron's hand.

Cameron had been rubbing his back.

Cameron had been _rubbing his-_

Ed's own hand wanders to his back and presses cautiously against his spine, as though Cameron might have left a mark.

_Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod_

Breathe, he reminds himself even as he tries to soak in the heat of the water. Breathe. It was a stupid thing, just a stupid thing-

But how-how had he-

And now if he doesn't have breakfast with him, it will look even worse.

Ed buries his face in his hands and groans.

(He can't even really tell himself he doesn't _want _to have breakfast with Cameron.)

(Which might be the worst part.)

* * *

It's when Ed walks out of the bathroom in fresh clothes, trying not to look at his own clearly unslept in bed, that he hears the knocking at his door.

Earlier, he might have just opened it, but now, still shaken, he settles for asking softly "Who is it?" even though there's very few people it could be.

"It's me, Miliband."

Ed rolls his eyes. "Go away" he mutters childishly, though he knows Cameron can't hear him.

"Really?" he says through the door instead. "This hasn't raised enough eyebrows?" A part of him marvels that his voice comes out coherently.

"Oh, _come on_, Miliband. It was an _accident-"_

Ed tugs at his sleeve, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You _fell asleep."_

_But that's not what happened before, is it?_ The voice in Ed's head hisses, grating and relentless. _That's not what happened. Before you fell asleep._

"Miliband, I appreciate you're annoyed, but I really don't appreciate you acting like this is my _fault."_

The worst and most irking thing about this is knowing that Cameron's _right._ It's not his _fault,_ which achieves the unlikely feat of making the situation feel even worse.

Typical bloody Cameron.

Ed squeezes his eyes shut tighter. "Doesn't this _bother_ you?"

It comes out almost as a wail. Ed immediately cringes, and wishes he'd just shut up.

"Doesn't what bother me?" Cameron's voice is lower, carefully level. The precise enunciation of the words is oddly comforting, but sends a not unpleasant shiver down Ed's spine.

"You know-" Oh, brilliant. Now _Ed_ has to say it. "That we-"

There's a moment's taut silence and then Cameron laughs a little too hard. "Because we fell asleep?"

The laugh makes Ed snap the words out a little more sharply. "_Yes._ There's no _just_ about that. You _know _there isn't." He feels himself blush painfully. "And Ed _knows."_

_"_I've explained." Cameron says it a little too quickly. "I've explained to him."

"And he believed you?"

There's another pause.

"Why wouldn't he believe me?" Cameron's voice is very, very careful now. "It's the truth, isn't it?"

Ed becomes suddenly very aware of his heartbeat.

He leans his head against the door. "Yeah" he hears, but he isn't sure if he's said it out loud or not.

"So-" Cameron's voice trails off. "Well-"

_Don't do that_, Ed wants to say out of nowhere. _Don't put on the Prime Ministerial voice._

"Are you still joining us for breakfast?"

Ed opens and closes his eyes, fingers opening and closing with them, suddenly desperate to grab back something he hadn't known was there until a few moments ago. "We talked, didn't we" he says again, with that same odd sense that his voice is not his own.

Another pause, then "Yes. Yes, we talked."

"I juth-just-um-" Ed bites his lip, leans against the door. "I'm not sure I remember-all of it-"

_What did I say, what did I say-_

"It wasn't anything-" For the first time, Cameron sounds a touch uncomfortable. "Well. It wasn't anything bad. Just basic things. About families. Nothing-ah-"

Ed's head jerks up suddenly. His heart is pounding.

_I wouldn't know._

_Before we were old enough._

(He must have meant _when_ we were old enough, but somehow, it doesn't feel like he did)

"What did I-" The words come out strangled. Ed stops himself. If Cameron doesn't remember, then Ed shouldn't remind him.

But-

He bites his lip.

He shouldn't remind Cameron.

It was just the alcohol talking. Of course it was.

It was-

Dad was a great dad. Of course he was.

Ed remembers the squeeze of hands that never became familiar on his shoulders, the cold creases of a uniform against his cheek. _Take the boys upstairs, now._

(Now that they'd said their bit. Now that they'd been there for as long as-)

Ed pinches himself. Literally, fingers nipping a quick, vicious mark into his skin.

It's ridiculous.

"What did you what?" Cameron's saying. Ed, biting his lip, sinks down slowly, so that he's sitting with his knees drawn up, his back to the door.

"Nothing" he says, his voice a little too loud in the quiet of the room. "I juth-st-nothing."

He can feel Cameron's hand again, circling his back like a ghost.

There's a silence, then "Are you angry?"

Ed doesn't expect that.

And he certainly doesn't expect Cameron to sound-

Cameron to sound so-

(Uncertain.)

He waits, and then, softer now, "Not at you."

Which is the most annoying part.

Cameron doesn't say anything , doesn't thank him or anything. Instead, they both wait, breathing quietly on either side of the door. For a moment, Ed's eyes fall shut and he can imagine, since they're on opposite sides, that his breathing has fallen into rhythm with Cameron's.

The silence stretches between them, like some precious, living, breathing thing that they're struggling to hold between their hands, in case any moment it wriggles away.

It's Cameron who breaks it, softly. "Do you want to come for breakfast?"

The words are gentle. Not Prime Ministerial, gentle.

Cameron-ish. But in a way that almost makes Ed smile.

And it's that, he tries not to think, that makes him get up slowly and rub his eyes and take a deep breath, and open the door to find Cameron scrambling upright, from almost exactly the same position, where he's been sitting still, just like Ed, arms wrapped around his knees, just like Ed, back against the door, just like Ed, waiting for each other.

* * *

George nearly knocks his own phone to the floor as he dives for it.

_"Dad!"_

George then nearly falls out of his chair at the sound of his daughter, only a few inches away from him, bellowing as if she's been half-killed.

_"What?"_ he half-bellows back, when he's stopped worrying that his heart's about to give out.

"You nearly knocked my _phone."_ Libbie dives for it furiously.

"Well, I was_ trying_ to get to _mine"_ George replies indignantly. "Which is _substantially_ more important."

"What, so you and Ed Balls can have an argument before the argument?" Frances asks, carefully restoring Libbie's phone to her hands, while his daughter scowls and mutters something about "typical arrogance of the patriarchy."

George glares at his wife. "Thank you for your support, Frances" he says icily, before promptly dropping his own phone into his toast.

Luke snorts. Libbie just rolls her eyes. George ignores them, more focused on Balls' text, which has just come through.

_Looking forward to tomorrow?_

_Not as much as you, if you like losing. Which you must, given your leader._

_Like Cameron's a vote-winner._

_At an estimate, I'd say David will probably get more votes than Miliband._

_You two never drop the friendship bracelets thing, do you?_

_Camaraderie unheard of among the Shadow Cabinet?_

"It's so unfair Uncle David won't let Nancy have a mobile" Libbie mutters, fingers flying over the screen of her own. "It takes _years_ to talk to her."

George looks up briefly from his own phone to stare at her. "Why in _God's name_ would you need a mobile phone to contact _Nancy?_ She's on the other side of the _wall-"_

"Oh, that's brilliant, Dad" Libbie snorts, taking another bite of her own toast. "What am I meant to do, bang out this Haylor shade to her on the wall in Morse Code?"

George blinks at his daughter. "Sorry, did you just speak English?"

"Nancy probably already knows Morse Code, knowing her" Frances remarks, with a grin.

"Dad just remembers how he used to speak" mutters Luke, barely glancing up from his own phone.

"Look at the two of you" George mutters, taking another sip of his tea. "The two of you are stuck to those screens. It's like we've slipped into some Orwellian dystopia without anyone noticing-"

"Orwellian suggests people are watching us" Frances points out. "Whereas, in fact, today-"

She trails off at the sight of George making a grab for his own phone. "Sorry, urgent text-" At the silence that follows, he looks up slowly, only to find his wife watching him with an expression that suggests to George that he can get used to the couch for the next few nights. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

Frances arches an eyebrow. "The definition of hypocrisy."

George rolls his eyes, eyes moving back to his phone. "You know, none of this is a very polite way to speak to the man who bought you those-oh, _shit."_

A text has just come through, and not from Balls. For the second time in under five minutes, George nearly falls out of his seat.

"What is it?" Frances asks, while Libbie's chewing slows and then stops entirely, her eyes suddenly wide and dark. Even Luke has looked up from his phone, his gaze suddenly sharp, watchful.

George looks round at them all, takes a deep breath. "Nothing. Nothing serious. It's just-a bit of a pain, that's all-" _That's one word for it._

He manages to sound light, amused, even, as he gets up from the table, with a gentle, reassuring chuck under Libbie's chin. "It's nothing serious" he says again, meeting Frances's eyes over their daughter's head. "I've just got to give Ed a call-"

He gives the kids a casual wave, and then heads for the hallway, where he has to ignore Balls' text that's just come through-something about _camaraderie in the Bullingdon Club_, which is hardly up to their usual standards, anyway-in order to hit the call symbol by the name_ Ed Llewellyn _and hiss, with a hasty glance back at the kitchen door, "What the fuck do you _mean,_ they _shared a room?"_

* * *

Ed doesn't know how he's ended up on a private plane with David Cameron, but somehow, he has.

Llewellyn had suggested it with a smile and a glance between them when he'd heard that Ed also had an early speech, the sky only just lightening outside the windows. Ed hadn't dared to look at Cameron and hadn't been able to come up with a logical reason to say no-which is irritating, because of course, now all he can think of are all the reasons he should have said no.

Now, he's sitting here, face resting against a window, still trying not to think of the words he'd somehow ended up saying to Cameron last night.

_Best parts were with you-_

It was just the wine, he tells himself, teeth gritted.

It was _just the wine._

Of course it was-

Cameron's foot catches his. Ed glances up. Cameron's shuffling papers and his team are spilling away, so it's just him and Ed-

It's him and Cameron facing each other.

"Look-" Cameron's eyes are avoiding his own. "I know-it was awkward, this morning-"

"One word for it" is all Ed can manage to mutter.

Cameron sighs, and puffs out his cheeks-as if the act of breathing is beneath him, Ed tries to think uncharitably.

"Look-" Cameron's tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I know it was awkward. But we-"

Ed can't look at David, so he just stares at his knees.

"That's _all _it was." Cameron seems to laugh, or tries to.

He laughs, and then moves, and Ed looks up to see Cameron moving to sit beside him.

It shouldn't make Ed feel suddenly warmer than usual-they've just spent-they've just spent the night on the-on the-

Ed can't even think the words without blushing, which is ridiculous, like some silly _schoolgirl._

"Look-"

"He _knows"_ Ed says, and his voice comes out as a fierce whisper. "Ed. He _knows."_

"Yeah, but that doesn't _mean _anything-all we did was fall asleep." Cameron nudges Ed's arm as Ed presses his head against the glass. "Oh come on. You know we just fell asleep. So did Ed, he was just surprised-you're worrying about it more than anyone else, you know. It's not-a big _deal."_

Ed turns to look at him. "You're so.....calm."

Cameron shrugs. "Well....yes." He gives Ed a cautious smile. "It's just.....I suppose I don't really see the problem."

The truth is that Ed can't, either.

It _shouldn't_ be a problem.

It's not as though they-

Well.

Not as though they-

"I th-suppose" he manages to mutter, a little sulkily.

David elbows him. "Cheer up, Miliband."

Ed turns to stare at him. "You're useless at cheering people up."

Cameron laughs, and squeezes Ed's knee.

Wait-

Squeezes Ed's-

Ed feels colour flood his face. An odd, pleasant ripple goes through him at the squeeze of the hand.

But Ed can't-

He just-he just-

The only way for him to not laugh or wriggle or do something as embarrassing as _squeal_, is to nudge David's leg hard with his own.

David's eyes crinkle, and then his dimples deepen, and then he just _smiles_ back.

That smile that's been there all weekend, that smile that feels almost achingly good, Ed feels crawl again over his mouth.

"You're smiling" David says with a grin.

Ed can't look at him, so he just manages to mutter, eyes fixed on the floor, "So are you."

He can sense Cameron's smile rather than see it, even as he turns away to look out of the window, knowing he's smiling as hard as Cameron is, and wondering if he should be annoyed by that or not.

* * *

If George didn't know better, he would swear that David had _deliberately _chosen this day to be up in the bloody Midlands, not even getting a chance to ring before George gets to be eyeballed by Clegg for however long this takes in Dover House.

Which is currently what's occurring.

But then, if George didn't know better, he'd have laughed outright at the thought that David would have spent the night in a hotel room with _Ed Miliband._

God, it sounds even _worse _like that.

"I don't _know"_ Ed-_their _Ed-had been hissing down the phone like a lunatic, as though someone had a gun to his head. "All I know is that Dave tried to hide him in the bathroom."

George had taken a long, deep breath and counted slowly the number of years he's known David to prevent himself losing his mind and attempting to bend the laws of physics by trying to leap through the phone to throttle him.

"Hide him in the _bathroom?"_ George was _fairly _certain his own voice didn't crack, then.

"Yeah." He could picture Ed's grimace. "Which I didn't mention. I mean, that would have been embarrassing for-well. All of us, really."

George had fought back the urge to throw the phone and instead lowered his voice even more. "Does he-know? That you-"

"He told me. So, yeah."

George had nodded, trying to hold onto those words.

David told him. David_ told_ him.

So that meant there must be a simple explanation.

"Does anyone else know?" George had asked, listening to Libbie arguing with Frances over the state of the toast and bitterly wishing he'd never picked up the bloody phone.

"No. Apart from you, obviously. And probably his protection team, but you know what they're like. Discreet." Ed had hesitated. "Think we should tell anyone?"

George had reflected grimly that usually this would be the moment when he'd call David to discuss the issue. Unfortunately, David was apparently about to leave on a private plane and in any case, for once he might not be the most reliable viewpoint.

George had frowned, thought for a minute. David had told Ed-even if he'd tried to hide it, and George had cringed at the thought-he _did_ tell him. And Craig could be trusted.

"Yes" he'd said slowly. "But Craig. Only Craig. No-one else."

Now, looking at Nick, George wishes David's adventures with Miliband in Paris were the only thing on his mind.

_George is crossing the reddest of red lines-_

"Look-"

He hasn't spoken to Nick since then, and certainly not alone.

And he remembers Lynton's words, in the New Year.

_Good work. Exactly what we needed._

He glances up. "Look, I'll be straight with you" he says shortly. "I've heard what you and Danny are doing."

_At least it's not in a hotel room,_ he thinks wryly, and then immediately wishes he could bleach out his skull.

It had been Rupert who pointed it out-"MacPherson was getting Alexander all interested in some bloody report from '79 about how Healy didn't do a massive Budget before the election-" and when George had stared silently at him, Rupert had sighed and said "You know what that means."

George had. His silence had simply been because he already knew who he was going to tackle about it.

Clegg, for that matter, tilts his head with a politely confused look. "What have we been doing?"

George's shoulders relax a little. This is why he chose Nick. Because Danny-

Danny's too open.

Too....easy.

(That should make it easier, but it doesn't.)

(Not at all.)

Now, though, he stares back at Nick, is gratified that Nick doesn't look away. "That you and Alexander don't want us-"

_Us, not me._

"To be able to deliver a proper Budget."

Clegg, to his credit, doesn't look unduly surprised. "That sounds like things have been exaggerated."

George resists the urge to roll his eyes. "So you are."

Nick doesn't look away from him. "If you're asking if we're trying to ruin your Budget-no."

He pauses. When George doesn't look away, he continues. "If you mean we're uncomfortable with the idea of you using the Budget as some sort of showpiece-yes."

George keeps his gaze fixed on Clegg's. "You being my party" he says slowly, "or you being me?"

Nick's eyes flicker away for a moment. "Both."

George nods slowly, then leans back.

_It'll be hard for them to go into coalition with Miliband-_

_Not fucking hard_, Lynton had snorted. _Fucking impossible. You remember how Clegg saw him over Syria-_

_That was nearly two years ago-_

_Doesn't matter._ Lynton had snapped his fingers. _He doesn't trust Miliband, even now, and that's all we need._

"It's disappointing to hear that" George says carefully, knowing he sounds bored rather than disappointed, and careful to hold Clegg's gaze once again. "Since we were hoping that we could make the Budget give some advantages to both our parties."

Clegg doesn't say anything. George treads carefully.

"Of course, it may also help to put Labour on the back foot. Particularly with them aiming to take seats." He puts the slightest stress on the last two words.

Clegg doesn't look away, but his jaw tenses slightly.

George lets the silence drag on for a few moments, and then says, as if the thought's only just occurred to him, "Of course, if we were to go for a more novel Budget, David and I were thinking it might be best if the Lib Dems presented some of their own ideas in the House. Maybe allow Danny to make some of the announcements?" He tilts his head. "Of course, it's never been done before, but I'm sure we could work out the arrangements."

Clegg looks George straight in the eye. "You're talking about letting Danny present some of our policies?"

George keeps his voice carefully non-committal. "If you like." He stares at him. "But we'd have to be sure it was worth it. It's an unusual step."

_And so it'll have to be an unusual Budget_, hangs unspoken between them.

Clegg is silent for a moment, and then "I know where you're going with this."

George knows better than to feign innocence. He doesn't doubt that Clegg knows his tricks as well as he knows Clegg's.

"I know you want a showpiece Budget" Clegg says, eyes straight on George again.

George keeps his own expression carefully blank. "Who for?"

Clegg's brow creases the tiniest bit. George waits, triumph flickering in his chest a little.

"You" Clegg says, a little more slowly than before. "And your party."

George carefully averts his eyes. "Strange" he says, tracing a pen over one finger. "I thought of it more as for _our_ government."

Clegg stills across from him. George gives him a moment before he looks up.

Clegg's watching him. His eyes narrow a little. Something that could be a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, but not quite.

"Very seductive proposal." Clegg's voice is low and deliberate.

George wishes he hadn't used the word_ seductive. _That just makes him flash back to the conversation with Ed.

And it shouldn't.

At the time, he hadn't even _thought _of that, because-

George wants to laugh at the thought.

But then Clegg's eyes narrow and he wonders, perhaps too late, if Clegg mistook humour for mockery.

"Strange" Clegg says. _"Our_ government isn't always a priority. I mean, we've taken different paths before."

George wants to roll his eyes, but stops himself.

Clegg meets his gaze. "Like AV, for example."

Great. The bloody AV vote. Four years, and Clegg can't let it _go._

"In fact-" and Clegg's eyes narrow a little more. "Our priorities were different rather more recently, as I recall."

George resists the urge to point out that it would be very difficult _not_ to recall, given it would probably be more subtle for Nick to smack him round the head with it.

He waits a moment, Lynton's words ringing in his ears, and then folds his hands together. "So-" He summons a smile. "Take it you're not interested in Danny delivering a Budget, then?"

* * *

Craig leans against the wall, waiting for George to emerge from Clegg's office, either with a Budget or another way of fighting for a Budget. He's bored, just lifting his phone to check it, when it goes off in his hand and nearly gives him a heart attack.

"Jesus" he says, none too graciously to Ed, when he answers. "What the hell-I'll be up there in an hour, they're going to fly me-"

"Craig-" Ed's voice is hurried and low, almost as though he's bent over the phone _whispering_, for heaven's sake. "Ah-George knows, but this-this just needs to stay between me and you."

Craig glances around. "Christ, what is it? Has Dave sprouted a second head or something?"

There's a short silence. "Just promise you're not going to yell."

Craig rolls his eyes. "No, Ed. I won't yell."

"OK." Ed takes a deep breath.

* * *

Nick opens his mouth, about to tell George just how badly his and David's plan is working, when from outside the office, there's a strange, high-pitched sound, almost like a strangled yell.

He looks up at George and frowns. "What the hell was that?"

George, brow clearing shrugs. "Don't know. Maybe Palmerston killed a cat."

Nick rolls his eyes, but George is already speaking again. "Anyway, Danny will be disappointed."

_Not as disappointed as he will be if he loses his seat_, Nick thinks grimly.

"Danny will understand" is what he says aloud. "Things aren't always easy. We have to put _our _priorities first sometimes."

_Or never._

George's eyes flicker up. He leans forward a little. Nick has the odd thought that he could almost forget that this is his_ own_ office, and his _own_ desk, that George is visiting _him_. He could almost think, that it was the other way round.

"I thought our priorities were rather similar, myself."

If Nick didn't know George as well as he does, he might describe the tone as _light._

"Particularly for the future." George glances away, as though casually, spinning a pen between his fingers. "Which I suppose we ought to be considering, especially with this Budget-"

_Oh, you're considering, all right_, Nick thinks darkly.

George glances up under his eyelashes. Nick doesn't need to try to remember the way George had shaken his hand when they'd first met after the negotiations, how Danny had shaken his head when Nick had asked him for his impressions of Osborne.

_I've met him before. We were at uni together, actually....And he's good. But he knows._

_Knows what?_

_What he's going to get out of something. The entire time he's talking, he already knows what he wants out of it. What he's going to get out of it._

Now, he looks back and says "We've forced you to drop some of your plans for cuts."

_And you took all the credit for it._

George, if he's surprised, doesn't show it.

"And your party has a completely different policy on Europe to us." Nick's voice is getting a little louder. "You're planning on a referendum."

"No" George says quickly. "Myself, personally-I'm opposed to a referendum."

Nick stares back. "But Cameron isn't." _And on this at least, you'll give him what he wants_.

George looks straight back at him. Nick returns the gaze. "You're against raising inheritance tax. You're far more supportive of grammar schools than we would ever be."

"We're not bringing more grammar schools in."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

Nick's fingers curl slowly over the edge of his desk. "That we don't have as many beliefs in common-"

_As I thought._

"As you like to think."

George stares back at him.

_As we thought we would._

Because they didn't know. They didn't know when they went into coalition,

(when _he_ took them into coalition)

they didn't know.

Before the protests. Before the smashed windows. Before Antonio's face, staring up as Nick tucked him into bed one night. _Dad, why are you the one everyone hates?_

They didn't know back then.

"That's not all." George's eyes have narrowed, dark, his voice suddenly certain.

"What?"

"Us being different. That's not all." George leans forward a little. "There's more you're worried about than that."

Nick grinds his teeth and reflects grimly that knowing each other's coalition partners a little too well isn't the sort of advantage that just one side gets to enjoy.

(Advantages that just one gets to enjoy might have been something else that they didn't know before going into coalition.)

(Or know enough, anyway.)

"Well" he says

(he's not sure how long they stare at each other for)

"It's not exactly your party that's facing an existential crisis, is it?"

George's brow arches. Nick glances down to see his fingers curling around his desk again.

Because to add to the list of things that he didn't know before he took them into coalition-he didn't know that he'd be wondering if there was a small but increasing possibility that their party might no longer be known as a party by the end of 2015.

"Nick." It's the first time today George has used his name. "Look, we know what you're facing at this election, all right?"

_We. Not I._

"And it's not just you-" George spreads his hands. "Look, everyone's necks are on the line here. If David and I lose, our heads are chopped. We're just as finished as you are." He raises his eyebrow, again. "Perhaps worse, actually."

For a moment, Nick's torn between screaming and laughing. Instead, he manages a "What?"

George shrugs. Nick's knuckles whiten. "I don't see either of _you_ worrying about your seats-"

He stops dead. George is looking at him with something horribly close to pity in his eyes.

"That's" George says slowly, "what I meant."

At this, Nick can't speak. He doesn't even know if he should try.

George, however, doesn't need prompting.

"If you lose your seat" he says, far too casually, "at least, it'll be over for you. Quick. Easy. Like ripping off a plaster."

He gestures to himself. "With us-"

Nick sometimes wonders if it's easier for George to say _us_ than _me._ "We'd have to stick around. On the backbenches for another five years. After being in government."

This time, Nick nearly does scream. He imagines, madly, for a moment, grabbing George by the shoulders and screaming in his face.

_Yes, but you've been there! That's the point, you've been there! You've been Prime Minister and Chancellor. Even if you go-_

_Even if you go, you've got something._

_And if I go-_

No seat. Tuition fees. Deputy Prime Minister.

Failure.

That's all he'd-

He doesn't want to look into George's eyes anymore, for fear of seeing this reflected back at him. So he glances down at his hands and concentrates for a long moment on tracing his fingers one by one.

"I hear what you're saying." It's his own voice he hears, too uncertain. Too wavering.

_Perhaps more, actually-_

"But the answer is the same." He looks up then, manages to smile. "No great giveaway Budget."

He leans forward. _"We-"_ He lets his eyes dart back and forth between himself and George. "Just need a steady-as-she-goes Budget with minimum content."

He smiles again. "That's what we need" he says.

_We. Not you._

Because Nick doesn't need any reminding that whatever George might say about having things in common, their parties fortunes' days of being tied together are long gone. Now that he thinks about it, they may never have really been there in the first place.

* * *

_Ready to console your Shadow Chancellor, Miliband?_

** _Is that a common scene for you after Budgets, Cameron?_ **

_No, those are the benefits of having someone up to the job as Chancellor._

** _Is that an attempt at sarcasm, Cameron?_ **

_You decide. Are you all right, by the way?_

** _Is that sarcasm?_ **

_I refer you to my previous answer._

** _Amusing. What did you mean?_ **

_After last night. You know. I wanted to check._

** _Yes, Cameron. I told you._ **

_I know. I was just checking._

** _Thanks._ **

_You're welcome. I just wanted to be certain._

** _I'm not that sensitive, Cameron._ **

_I'm aware._

** _Thank you._ **

_Once again, you're welcome._

** _Oh, shut up._ **

_Go to sleep._

** _You go to sleep._ **

_Night, Miliband._

** _Night, Cameron._ **

* * *

George opens his mouth, and is immediately elbowed by Craig.

He shoots him a furious look. Craig rolls his eyes and indicates David who, if he were facing them, would have to be blind not to notice the silent exchange.

"We'll handle it" Craig had hissed, gripping George by the shoulder as he deliberated over the kippers this morning. "While you're having it out with Balls. We don't need you distracted before that."

This was fine, in theory. But throughout the Quad and Cabinet meeting that morning, something about it had niggled uncomfortably in George's chest. He's not used to keeping secrets from David. He's certainly not used to keeping them from David with Craig and Ed.

As David turns to face them, Craig immediately pretends to be fascinated by his phone.

"Right." David claps his hands a little, drops in a chair opposite George. "All right for today?"

George feels Craig's hand squeeze his arm and smiles wryly. To anyone else, the gesture would look sympathetic, encouraging, even.

To him and, he knows, to David too, it looks like what it is-a warning.

David's eyes flicker only the tiniest bit, but it's enough for George to know the gesture hasn't escaped him. For the first time, he feels his shoulders relax.

He meets David's eyes, widens his own ever so slightly. "Yeah" he says, and knows that at least now, Craig's warning won't just be taken as such by him.

* * *

David's leaning back in his armchair, watching George with a grin as he listens to Labour scrabble desperately for an argument when Craig says "David-"

"You know." He says it, without even looking away from the screen, and has the satisfaction of seeing Craig's eyes widen a little, the same way he had when he'd told him about the letter.

(Craig had listened and then slapped him a high-five. _You don't even need to look at it. We'll put out a statement reiterating the same point we've made earlier, but that's all we can do-it's just good we got an advance warning of it, doesn't look like we've been caught off-guard-)_

On screen, George is sticking to the message well. "He has no intention of sticking to the £30 billion worth of cuts-he doesn't want to do that, he wants to spend and borrow more-"

"What do I know?" Craig's voice is too careful and David turns to look at him with a grin.

"What _do_ you know?" he manages, but he remembers the slight widening of George's eyes, the warning squeeze of the arm.

There's silence for a few moments, and then Craig says very quietly "What were you thinking?"

David keeps his eyes on the screen. "Did the wine part of the anecdote get censored?"

"David-" Craig leans forward this time. "This could have brought us _down-"_

At _this_, David almost bursts out laughing.

On screen, George is grinning across the chamber at Caroline, saying "Now, I will give way to the Green Party member-we want her and her colleagues in these TV debates, because-"

"Brought _us_ down-"

"At least the Green Party is being straight about the fact they want to-"

"We _fell asleep_, for God's sake-"

"Borrow more money, spend more money-why doesn't the _Labour_ Party tell the truth about that-"

Craig, to David's surprise, doesn't explode. Instead, he stares at David for a long moment. "The party" he says slowly, "isn't what I meant."

David stares back. "Oh, for-we _fell asleep"_ he says, because that's_ all_ it was, and-

(he shoves that moment in the shower away because that doesn't count, and it meant absolutely nothing)

"We fell asleep-both of us-God, Blair and Brown had a weirder relationship-"

"Blair and Brown were_ friends-"_

David only arches an eyebrow to that. After a moment, even Craig looks away, mouth quirking suspiciously. "OK. Maybe not _good _friends."

For a moment, David thinks that Craig's going to laugh, that they're both going to laugh, but then, as quickly as it appeared, the hint of a grin curls away from Craig's mouth and his eyes narrow again. "But people didn't know how bad things really were between them. Campbell saw to that. And this is different."

_"How?"_

Craig levels him with a stare. "Did Blair and Brown ever get caught in a hotel room together?"

David rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's_ sake_-we weren't _caught in a hotel room together_-that makes it sound-"

He falters.

"That makes it-"

Different.

More.

_Wrong._

A problem.

"We just fell asleep" he says, a little quieter than he means to. "Him as much as me-"

"I didn't mean just you-" Craig says, more quietly still.

On screen, Balls is yelling about something, despite the fact that Labour are _supporting _the bloody Bill, of all things-

"Look, we haven't told Lynton-"

David's head snaps up. "We can't tell bloody _Lynton_. If _Lynton_ finds out-"

All he can picture is them having to call an ambulance because Lynton's lying on the floor, stabbing a toy koala with his glasses, choking on screaming obscenities.

Craig takes in a breath. "I know. But-" He swallows. "It's just-we've got to think of the next few months."

Right then, of course, the words _"hand-in-hand with the Tories" _echo from the TV.

David winces. So does Craig.

They glance at each other. David sighs. "Right. Look, I told Ed-" Craig's eyes narrow. _"Our_ Ed-I told him that it wouldn't happen again. We all had breakfast together. It was fine."

Craig's brow furrows. "I-look. Look. Things are going to be different-"

"I know."

"You know that."

_"Yes."_ David tries very hard not to snap, focuses instead on the way Balls is stammering.

Craig nods. "Good. I just wanted to check. That everyone knows where they stand."

David almost snorts. _Where we stand?_

Miliband's words in that restaurant on Sunday night._ This. Us. How does this work? How do-_

Craig nods again. "And no one else can know."

David, who'd been taking in the sight of Ken denigrating Balls on screen, feels his head snap round for the second time. "What do you mean?"

"What?"

_"No one else can know."_ David is suddenly tense, his thoughts racing. "Who else knows?"

"No one apart from us. And George."

_"George?!"_

Craig winces. "Only him. Ed phoned him from Paris-"

"From _Paris?"_

Craig winces again. "He wanted to tell you. I just didn't want him to have a huge argument right before-"

"Me and George don't argue." David brushes that away easily-he knows that as well as he knows George, as well as he knows his own heartbeat. "I'm just-surprised, that's all."

He turns to stare at George on the screen, feeling a wave of affection squeeze his chest. Balls is glancing across the dispatch box, saying, almost too quickly to be heard "Should have let that one in, George." David can picture the grin on George's face.

"Who else knows?" he asks, watching Balls fall apart-

suddenly-

-without really seeing it.

Because suddenly, all he can think of is Miliband-

-and the look on his face if anyone found out

-and the way his fingers thread together nervously-

(and the sharpness of his spine under David's hands)

(oh God, no, he'd forgotten that part, oh God)

Oh God, Miliband will fall apart if anyone finds out.

He blinks, the thought gripping tight, and when Craig says "No one else. Just us", the relief that sinks into his shoulders is a little too great.

When they watch George lean over the box, saying "He should try using his_ piano _fingers-_1, 2, 3-",_ they both laugh a little too hard. David wonders if George has ever so much as contemplated falling asleep on a bed with Balls, and then, with more consternation, if he would ever have contemplated sleeping on a bed with Miliband until two nights ago.

* * *

Night is falling, which makes the electric lights of Portcullis House seem brighter than ever. George is sitting, perched on the edge of the white marble, idly watching the water, when he spots David coming towards him, carrying two polystyrene cups.

David sits down next to him and grins, protection officers hovering a polite distance away. George sighs. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Craig ambushing you." Off David's look, he frowns. "Wait-he-"

David grins and George rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up."

David laughs and George elbows him. "Did he talk to you after my speech?"

_"During_ your speech." David nudges him gently. George catches a glimpse of his hands, smeared with tell-tale blue Sharpie ink-he's been working on PMQs. "Don't worry. We still saw all your finest moments."

George lets his gaze wander to the water again.

"What do you want to ask?" David glances at him.

George takes a breath, and then reaches for David's arm with his other hand. "That's all it was." It isn't a question.

"All what was?"

George meets his eyes, then. "You fell asleep together" he says, baldly. "You know how that looks."

David looks back at him. "Well, you know that I know."

George shakes his head. "It's just-"

_Just._

It's different.

That's what it is.

Different.

The way David and Miliband are with each other-

"It's unusual" is what he says, instead. "I don't mean for us. Or the party. I mean-it might make things worse for you."

David stares at him, before slowly passing him one of the two plastic cups he's carrying. George's hands wrap around it, grateful for the warmth.

"Tea-"

"Thanks."

"We talked about it." David says it quickly. "We made a deal."

George freezes. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to look round at David. "What kind of deal?" he says, very carefully, very slowly.

"Just an agreement." David takes a sip from his own cup. "That if we can warn each other before the personal attacks, it might make things easier."

"Or harder." George looks him straight in the eye. "It might make things harder."

"Why?"

George doesn't look away. "Because you like him" he says, and it's only now that he's saying the words that he realises how true they are. "And he likes you."

Sometimes, when he's watching them at PMQs, George can't decide if the reason David and Miliband argue so much, yet can't seem to keep away from each other is because they're similar or because they're different. But what he does know, is that he can see the way Miliband is prone to sulking when he doesn't get his own way, the way he's as happy to duck and dodge as David is, and oddly, wonders if that makes him and David enjoy their arguments even more.

Now, colour slowly creeps into David's cheeks. He didn't deny the words this time, George notices.

"You like Balls" David says, with what only George would notice is an effort. "And he likes you."

"It's different, though, isn't it?"

David's jaw tenses. George decides not to push it.

"All right" he says, taking a cautious gulp of tea. "Just be careful, OK?"

David is, uncharacteristically, silent for a moment. Then, "What about?"

_Being so-_

"Deals" George says, leaning back as heels click past on the polished tiled floors, and some familiar faces appear on the spiralling staircases-Portcullis House often reminds George of an airport, somehow. "They can go wrong. Remember Blair and Brown?"

To his surprise, a grin dents dimples in David's cheeks. "That's what he said."

"Who, what, when?" George tilts his head to take in the rest of the room.

"Miliband." David's grinning. "When I mentioned a deal. He said we should be at Granita."

George stares at him. David frowns. "What?"

George shakes his head. "You do" he says, mostly to himself. "Really like him."

The colour returns to David's cheeks. George feels his eyes narrow. But then there's a tap on his shoulder and George looks up to see William next to them. "Doorkeepers might be about to lose their cloaks. As will Bercow if the Prime Minister and Chancellor don't turn up for a vote on the Chancellor's bill-"

As if on cue, the division bell rings, long and loud, making everyone jump. George and David both get up a little too quickly, as though they've been caught discussing state secrets-which only serves to make George feel even more rattled, because David's feelings towards Miliband should not ever even remotely resemble something that needs to be considered a state secret.

* * *

Stewart nudges his arm. "Ed, are you OK?"

Ed jumps. "Oh-yeah-"

Justine peers at his hands. "What's that?"

Ed blinks a few times, jerking himself out of his daze. "Nothing-"

Justine's hand brushes his and Ed's fingers curl quickly into his palm before he can stop himself. His hand jerks away, and he quickly scratches his head, carefully avoiding her eyes as he takes in the blue streaks across his palm.

It hadn't been his intention to bump into Cameron on the way to the voting lobbies, but when he'd heard Cameron's voice-"Miliband?"-Ed had fallen into step beside him. "Hi-"

For some reason, it had been difficult to meet Cameron's eyes. The last two days had been full of suddenly remembering something and then dragging his mind away.

Pressing his hand up to Cameron's cheek.

Cameron's leg pressed against his.

Cameron's hand over his-

It's _fine._

That's what Ed's been telling himself, over and over again. It's fine. It's completely normal.

He's probably squeezed Balls's hand before. And Sadiq's. And Douglas's.

Of course he has.

It doesn't _matter._

But every time he thinks about it, even as he wrenches his mind away, something shivers, like a warm drop of water suddenly sliding down his back. An odd shudder that leaves him feeling flushed and oddly fidgety, unable to concentrate properly.

But then, he'd suddenly found himself sneaking another glance at Cameron, only to feel a tap on the shoulder.

"Hello, I'm George, the person standing next to you."

Cameron had rolled his eyes. Ed had felt the heat rush to his cheeks, only just managing to do the same.

"You're being childish" Cameron had muttered to Osborne.

"You're the one who talked about sitting on a lemur."

Ed had glanced at them, confused. "What?"

Cameron had shaken his head, and Ed had felt a stab at what was clearly an inside joke. Something that wasn't exactly_ jealousy_, but-

"Anyway, you've managed to get that all over you-" Ed had looked up as they reached the door of the voting lobby to see Osborne tugging at Cameron's hand.

Cameron had grimaced. "Well, the Sharpie nearly bloody exploded all over me-"

"And all over the Plastic Fantastic, probably." Osborne had rolled his eyes.

Cameron had been grimacing, even as all three of them were jostled as more and more crowded into the chamber. "Oh, shut up. And don't bring up lemurs again."

Osborne had grinned, dark hair a little rumpled. Cameron had given Ed a rueful grin and extended his hands. Ed had returned it at the sight of them, smeared with blue ink. A pang of something like fondness had hit him hard in the chest.

Ed had blinked and cursed himself. _It's fine. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine-_

Cameron had still been holding his hands out and Ed had reached before he could stop himself.

But that was fine, and to prove it, he hadn't stopped, just rubbed his own hand across Cameron's and said, a little more brusquely than usual, avoiding Cameron's eyes, "How did you _do_ that, anyway?"

Cameron had immediately launched into the story, even as one of the Doorkeepers' cries of _"Locking-"_ had rung out across the lobby. Ed had kept his eyes very firmly on Cameron's blue-tinged skin, tried to ignore the way his heartbeat was suddenly rapid and the fact he could feel Osborne's gaze resting a little too heavily on his face.

Now, Ed tries to smile, even as he folds his fingers over, carefully hiding the blue ink, like a child who's been caught playing with matches.

"Right." Tom leans forward, arms folded. "I've spoken to the BBC. Robinson would be the one doing the interview, obviously. We just need to decide what angle we're doing this from."

Tom looks between them all, a sharp, taut look-the kind Tom only wears when he wants them to agree to something. Ed wishes he could just say "What?" but that isn't helpful. It's not helpful at all.

So instead, he just sits there, and waits, and then Tom says "You know we want to put the emphasis on you as a family man."

"Makes it more relatable" Lucy says, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Something people can identify with-we're hoping to shoot some of it in a park-perhaps one you guys go to-" She looks at them hopefully. "It'll look more natural if the kids are familiar with it."

More natural.

Justine's already turning to look at him, eyes widening a little at the suggestion. "We go to Parliament Hill a lot" she offers, looking at Ed for confirmation. "Hampstead Heath-"

Ed nods, and so does Stewart, but Tom doesn't look convinced, and neither does Bob.

"Thing is" Bob says slowly. "That could be used to play into the whole Hampstead socialist image. You know, a _one of the North London elite _kind of thing-"

Ed feels himself frown. "But that's _Cameron"_ he says, because Cameron's politics scream elitism, putting the rich first, of _course_ they do, and people will see that, they _have_ to-"That's not _me."_

The silence lasts just a breath too long. Tom and Greg glance at each other.

It's Stewart who says "Of course. But you know how the Tories are going to play this-"

"It'll be bad" Bob advises him, scribbling down something. "It'll be open season on you-you saw what they did with the tax avoidance thing-"

Ed feels his jaw tense, because _that-that_ wasn't-

"Right" Justine's saying, nodding, and then Lucy's saying "So, perhaps just a smaller park-there'll be a few local ones, whichever others you've taken them to before-"

"Right-" Ed takes the boys to Parliament Hill when he takes them at all. He turns to Justine, already knowing that she'll be as clueless on this as he is.

"We can ask" Justine says immediately, with a shrug, as though this is no small concern. "Our nanny-" She's telling the others her name now, and explaining. "We'll ask her for a few of the places she takes the boys-she gets them after school, you see-"

The others are nodding, this detail clearly already slipping through their fingers, and then Bob looks at her with a smile. "Now, Justine. We were thinking, if it's not too much trouble, we'd like you to do an interview."

Ed blinks. "An interview?"

Bob nods. "You know-I mean, obviously, we'd go through it all beforehand-I mean, the BBC thing will be in amongst a couple of other clips-we'll want to see Haverstock, that kind of thing, remind everyone where Ed comes from-and maybe a few clips at home-"

"At home?" Ed lifts his head sharply, even though he's not entirely sure why panic is fluttering suddenly in his chest. He glances around, taking in the tablecloth, the odd, brightly-coloured plastic-like chairs-Justine had bought them, saying they were functional, and Ed had barely even glanced at them at first, and by the time he had, it was too late to do anything about it-, and the coffee machine he'd bought Justine a couple of birthdays ago, which he'd grabbed online, panic-stricken at the last minute for something that Justine might like at all, and she'd told him yes, thank you very much, with a kiss on the cheek. Now, he looks round at them all, trying to see them as they might appear through a camera lens.

"Well, when ITV do their shows, they'll be filming in leaders' houses" Stewart says a little more gently. "So this would be a kind of test run."

Ed can't think of any reason to object to this, which annoys him for some reason, so he just says "The interview."

Bob brightens immediately. "Right. The interview. Cameron will probably talk with his wife there, so we were thinking of having it be just Justine and Robinson. Not in a studio-in a coffee shop, or something-"

"Looks casual" Tom says. "But it gives Justine an independent edge."

"The Tories will want to use SamCam" Lucy tells them. "Like they did last time. This'll help to neutralise it a bit-make it look as if she's not as independent as Justine-"

"SamCam is loyal to Cameron" Bob cuts in. "We can turn that around-we thought Justine could maybe talk about Leveson, that kind of thing-"

"Sure" Justine's saying, nodding as she tucks her hair behind her ears.

"That'll get you looking good-standing up for the little people, all that kind of thing-and it'll make Justine look better. You know, working mother kind of thing-"

"And it'll make Cameron look that bit more pathetic if his wife can't speak on her own" Tom interrupts, and something unpleasant curls down Ed's spine. "If it looks as though he's just crouching behind SamCam-"

"That's not her name."

Bob frowns and looks up. "What?"

Ed swallows nervously. "That's not her name. SamCam. That's not her name." His fingers drum back and forth on the table. "Her name's Samantha."

Ed's team stare at him for a few moments. He can feel Justine's gaze on his face, but deliberately doesn't look at her.

Bob shrugs. "Fine. It'll look like he's hiding behind _Samantha."_ He puts the slightest stress on her name.

Ed's fingers, still smeared with blue, curl over the edge of the table.

Is this personal? Is it an attack? Is it a _hint _of an attack?

_It's an unfair hint_, rears suddenly, sharply in Ed's mind.

"We shouldn't bring Samantha into it" he says, a little more loudly than he means to. "It's not about her."

This time, Tom's eyes bulge but before he can open his mouth, there's a suspicious, thudding sound from under the table, and he winces.

"I mean-" Ed glances at Justine. "I'd hate it. If it was Justine."

Justine squeezes his hand. Ed smiles weakly, feeling horrible.

"Look-" Bob holds out a placating hand. "We're not going to be attacking Samantha. That's not what we're planning. At all."

Ed nods, then nods again. "Just so long as-"

"Yeah, obviously" Bob says, waving this away now it's been dealt with. "But the interview. You up for that, Justine?"

"Yeah-" Justine's nodding, with a glance at Ed. "If you're all right with that, darling?"

Justine always comes out with _darling_ in front of other people-as though she thinks they might judge them an Invalid Couple if they don't hear it enough times.

"Yeah, yeah-"

But Bob's leaning forward, the way he always does when he's about to make a difficult point. "But the thing is-we really need to ram home the family message. Your-"

Ed notices Lucy avoiding his eyes, taking a careful sip of her tea.

"Your poll ratings-" Bob says delicately. "We need to get them up. And the family-well, the family can be one way to do that."

Ed looks round at them all slowly.

Bob holds out a hand. "Now we're not asking you to do anything with the kids you wouldn't be comfortable with." He gives Ed and Justine a quick, reassuring smile. "Obviously."

Stewart, sitting between them, gives exactly the same smile. "Obviously."

Lucy nods. "Obviously. Of course. _Obviously."_

Ed wonders how much more obviously it could be. Even Tom's smiling, though it looks rather painful.

"But-people see you walking with the boys in the park-" Stewart says encouragingly. "Could make you relatable. Definitely help with the women vote-"

"So-" Ed glances at the door automatically, though the boys have been asleep since before he got home. "You'd want to see them?"

Bob nods a little too eagerly. "And just hear them talking. That kind of thing. It'll look good."

Ed glances at Justine. "What do you think?"

He's not entirely sure why he looks at Justine. He already knows what she'll say.

"I think it's a good idea" she says, living up to Ed's expectations.

_Or down to them_, he thinks before he can stop himself, and then frowns.

"I mean-" She glances at Bob. "If the whole aim is to look-_relatable-"_

She doesn't say normal, but Ed knows everyone thinks it.

"Then it might look-a little less-have less impact, you know, without them-"

"Yeah." Ed has no idea why he says this. He's already wondering how they're going to get the boys to smile for longer than the Christmas photo.

"And it seemed to work quite well on the beach last time" Justine's saying, and Ed can suddenly remember that almost a little too well.

They'd been standing there, in a carefully chosen playground on the Brighton seafront-Bob had scouted the area beforehand, checked it didn't look too exclusive-and he'd been standing there, watching Daniel peer through a pair of binoculars, not too aware yet of the cameras inching closer and closer to them. _Get him distracted_, Tom had said._ Get a bit of dialogue going-interaction will look more natural to voters-_

_What can you see, sweetie?_ he'd said-_Sweetie_ had been a term of endearment Bob had suggested saying he used years ago, and he'd got into the habit of using it to the boys, as though even then he'd known they'd need to be filmed one day-aware of the camera coming up closer to his son, of what a good shot it would be.

_I can see-_Daniel had said, a little brighter than Ed had been expecting-he'd just started school at the time, and Ed had wondered about taking him to Brighton so soon afterwards, but Justine had said it would be good for him to see the difference Ed was making, and with whispers about poll ratings, Ed had given in.

_(Secret weapon,_ Tom had said with a wink, as they tried to push Daniel's hands into each of theirs', for the first shot heading down the boardwalk-they'd been swinging him, at Bob's suggestion, rehearsing the chant_ One, two, three _a few times beforehand, so they could be sure to get it right, make it look as if you do it a lot-)

(Ed had laughed, he thinks. He thinks he laughed.)

_What can you see?_ he'd asked, prompting, aware that the cameras would be zooming in-he could see Justine on the other side of the climbing frame, lifting Sam for the cameras. _Here you are, go up to Daniel, by Daniel-_pointing at the cameraman standing next to them, snapping pictures every few seconds.

_What can you see?_ he'd asked, as Justine pushed Sam onto the boards._ Are you up?_ She'd let go of him a little too soon, so he'd had to pull himself the rest of the way.

_People,_ Daniel had said at one point, but then suddenly, he'd said _All done_, deciding to cease being co-operative.

Sam had been saying, in what was still mostly just baby babble, _Mummy cam-ra-_

His face had been creased in confusion and the cameraman had been laughing as Justine said _Well, yes-_and, too aware of the cameras on his own face, he'd said quickly, to cover Sam's look, _I think there might be pirates._

This had got Daniel's attention a little, but he'd already been turning towards Sam, who was alone by the edge now. _Yo ho ho_, he'd blurted out a little suddenly, but he'd been putting his hands up to the climbing frame's tiny roof now, glancing at his little brother and Ed had suddenly realised that Sam had been crouching, scared, and that Justine had already walked away, and Daniel was watching him worriedly.

_Yo ho ho_ he'd blurted out himself, trying not to wince at the inane chant, and then Daniel had turned to his younger brother, who had looked up at him with big, dark eyes. _Yo ho, ho ho_ he'd said encouragingly, looking away from his parents, so that his brother looked away from the drop towards him.

And then Justine had been there, walking round towards him in that red coat-_Something red_, Tom had said. _Works better, fits in with the Labour colours_-tilting her face up to the little climbing frame. _So, no pirates, Daniel?_ The words had been a little too loud, a little too bright.

Ed had looked at Daniel, keenly aware of the cameras over their shoulder, but Daniel had just stayed silent, angled towards Sam, who was cautiously moving now towards his brother-Ed had wondered briefly if Justine should have left him alone round there by the drop, but then there was a camera there, pressed right up to their son's face, and Daniel still wasn't co-operating.

_He's seen the pirates_, Ed had said quickly, and Daniel had been looking away from them then, touching Sam's shoulder. _You up_ he'd been saying gently, even as Justine said, brighter still, _Do you know, I think I spotted Cutthroat Jake._

_Did you?_ Ed had said it in the same overbright tone, hoping to attract their sons' attention.

_Yeah,_ and Ed had known from the way Justine pushed her hair back that she was willing Sam to quieten down, as she said in an undertone to him _Look, over there_ and pointed towards where Ed couldn't see Cutthroat Jake, but _could _see the black lens of a camera.

Sam had sounded scared. _Where's my_-something that sounded like _house_, but they couldn't encourage him, they needed him to smile-

_Sam, can you see Cutthroat Jake?_ Justine had fixed her gaze on their younger son, who'd been crouched down in his little black coat, dark curls blowing a little in the breeze coming off the sea.

_No_ Sam had said, still crouched down, even as Justine pointed up to the binoculars, but it was Daniel Ed watched then, even as Justine said _Have a look out of there_, her eyes snapping quickly to the cameramen, the cameras waiting hungrily for the shots they needed, of the boys smiling, laughing-not even that, for God's sake, just looking like kids-

_It's not much to ask_, had reared sharply in Ed's head, then.

_Come on, _Justine had said then, and Ed could hear the bite of irritation creep into her voice, the way it did on Daniel's first day a couple of weeks earlier, when he'd tried to slide behind her legs, fingers curling into her trousers, and she'd been peeling him loose. _Go on, go and play-go on-_

But it had been Daniel he'd seen, and suddenly, not wanting to look at any of them anymore, Ed had been looking away, casting his eyes about for something, anything else, away from Daniel's hand touching Sam's shoulder comfortingly, glaring at the cameraman, gently tilting Sam away from the camera, so that the lens couldn't get a shot of his little brother's face.

_Now, who's-wants to go on that slide?_, he'd said, and Justine had turned to stare at him, a frown creasing her brow.

_Look-_ She'd been gesturing towards the camera, but Daniel had been turning round, attention already grabbed by the mention of a slide, and Sam had been peering, following his brother's gaze, and Ed had said again, almost a little defiantly, ignoring Justine, _Who wants to go down that slide?_

And then Daniel's little voice had been between them, saying _Oh-yes, please-_ and Ed had repeated it, almost to reassure himself-_Do you want to go on the slide?-_and so Justine had had no choice but to grab one hand as Ed reached for the other and Sam crawled after him, because that was a shot, at least, and that was what mattered.

Now, Ed looks at Justine and thinks of her voice _Hey, look, chaps_ on the beach afterwards, while Daniel had wriggled, picking up stones and throwing them, and Sam just hadn't been _looking-_

(He tries not to think about the moment at the top of the slide, which he'd tried not to think about even then.)

"Especially if it's explained to them" Justine's saying now. "I mean, they quite like leafleting-"

Ed's never been leafleting with the kids, actually, but Justine always says they like it, and if it helps-

Ed remembers being little, a bit older than Daniel, when Dad was talking with his friends. He used to sit on the stairs, bannisters digging into his cheeks, his fingers curled around the spokes. Dad had been talking and David had gone out to play football in the garden, even after everyone had said hello to him and asked how he was doing in school.

Ed had sat there, trying to listen to what Dad was saying, because what Dad was saying was very important. Dad always said that when Ed asked him about it-he was talking about socialism, which was about making things better for people, and that was important, which was why Dad had to go away and talk all the time.

His nanny had tapped his shoulder and Ed had got up slowly, trying to catch a few words, wishing he could go in and show Dad how much he knew about it, how he'd been taking some of Dad's books off the shelves and trying to read bits, so that he could help, because then Dad would want him to sit in there with him and help make a difference.

Now, Ed stares down at the table, curls his hands around his mug. "Yes" he says, and then he looks up at them all. "Yeah, we'll explain it to them."

And they'll want to do it, once they understand. It's making a difference. And that's what's important.

He stares into his mug for a moment and sees his own hand, far smaller, seized in a nanny's-he can't remember which one-tugging him up the stairs, even as he craned his neck back, struggling to catch the last few words in his father's voice, drifting out of the door.

He sees that and then he sees his own son's hand, perched gently on his little brother's shoulder, turning him away from the camera lens, hiding his face, keeping him safe.

_They'll do it. Once they understand._

* * *

"So, nothing new to tell us about how you're failing to coup your glorious leader?"

Ed snorts, glares at Osborne over his drink. "Not familiar with the concept of loyalty to your leader?" he remarks, without much feeling-if there was any more loyalty towards Cameron from Osborne, it would be almost obsequious. But Ed has to admit, reluctantly, that the whole best friends act doesn't exactly ring false, no matter whether or not that falls under the heading of loyalty to the glorious leader.

He glances at his phone, sees Miliband's name on the screen, loyalty still ringing in his head.

"That little_ shit."_

Maybe loyalty was negotiable.

"What?" Ed hadn't counted on Osborne being so quick-he's already diving round to get a glimpse of the screen. Ed doesn't fight as hard as he would have if it had been hugely important, but he still wrenches the phone away from Osborne before he can get more than a quick glimpse.

"Miliband doesn't want you to sit next to him?" Osborne asks, with a grin. "Would have thought you'd be cheering at that, Balls-"

"Oh, shut up." Ed shoves the phone back in his pocket, immediately wishing he'd not shown Osborne the message at all.

"Hey." Osborne elbows him. "How many people will be sitting on the frontbench, then? You could use your piano fingers-"

Ed slugs him in the arm. George elbows him back. "That vitriol come in handy when you were getting Blair out of office, too? Not that we blamed you, you did us a favour-giving us Brown-"

"Oi." Ed gives Osborne the look reserved for when he goes too far with the Brown jibes, which Osborne usually respects.

"Anyway." George takes another sip of his drink. "At this rate, I'll find myself sitting next to Miliband before long."

Ed snorts. "How'd you work that one out?"

George clinks their glasses together. "Have you-ah-heard from Miliband? He got back yesterday-"

"We had a Shadow Cabinet meeting this morning-"

"Copying our Cabinet meeting times-"

"Oh, shut up-back from where, anyway? He came back from Paris on Sunday-"

It's only thanks to Ed knowing Osborne so well, that he notices him freeze. "Ah-"

Ed waits, and then turns slowly to face him. "What do you mean?"

George stares at his drink for a moment, during which Ed can almost hear the gears in his brain whirring, and then looks up sharply. "He didn't tell you?"

Ed blinks. "He didn't tell _anyone"_ he says, hearing his voice grow, louder and louder, the way he's got used to over the years. "So we wouldn't know where he's been, because he hasn't told anyone he was going or staying _anywhere."_

He stops dead, aware suddenly that they're attracting attention. That _he's_ attracting attention. The Strangers' Bar is quiet this time of night, but the few of their colleagues who are in here are looking up, Tapsell's brow wrinkling in confusion.

Ed takes a deep breath, then another. He swallows, already going back in his head to the tricks he's taught himself over the years, when he feels the stutter rising back into his voice. He can feel Osborne's gaze on him, suddenly intense, watchful.

"Hey", and a hand awkwardly fumbles itself onto Ed's shoulder. "Um-are you feeling-"

Ed jerks away, cursing himself a second later. "I'm fine" he manages to snap out. He lowers his head, taking a deep breath, getting his breathing under control. Osborne is silent at his side, but he doesn't get up and walk away, which, Ed has to conclude reluctantly, probably means that Osborne's a better man than him.

"Sorry" he manages, a little louder than he intends, and then grabs Osborne's arm a little too tightly. "Sorry", the way he's had to say a few times over the years.

Osborne's dark eyes meet his own. "It's fine" he says, far too nicely. "All right?"

Ed winces at the absence of a pre-empting _Are you-Are you all right?-_a sign that Osborne is treading carefully, when he shouldn't have to.

"Yeah" he says, once he's sure he's able to speak clearly. "Fine. Thanks." Another pause, before he manages "Staying where?"

When he meets Osborne's gaze, the other man's brow is creased, eyes narrowed. "Paris" he says slowly. "He and David both went."

"Yeah, I know that, but _stayed-"_

"Well-they both stayed overnight. At the Elysees. Came back yesterday."

Ed is silent for a long moment. Then _"What?"_

He only just manages to stop himself from thumping the bar. (He manages it by reminding himself how it will feel if some hack's sneaked in and he has to listen to Brown comparisons for the next three years.) As it is, it takes some considerable effort to lower his voice to a fierce whisper. _"What?"_

Osborne's staring at him. "Didn't he tell you?"

"We knew he'd gone to _Paris._ To join the rally. Well-" Ed shrugs. "Think they kept it from Tom as long as possible. But we knew _that._ He didn't tell us he'd _stayed_ there. And he _didn't_ tell us he'd met up with fucking _Cameron."_

For some reason, Osborne winces, but right now Ed's too busy fuming to dwell on it. "God, does he know how that _looks-_do _they_ know how that looks-"

Osborne doesn't confirm or deny. Instead, he just shakes his head and takes a long gulp of his own drink. "I agree" he says finally, pressing both hands to his cheeks and blinking hard. "If it got out, it would look awful." He glances at Ed. "For both sides-"

Ed snorts. "Don't worry, Osborne. I'm not going to go running to the press with it."

George gives him a hint of a grin. Ed returns it for a second before he says "But, seriously, what do you mean? They met up or-"

George takes a deep breath, meets his eyes. "As far as I know? They met up. Had a couple of conversations. Maybe a dinner-"

"A _dinner-"_ Ed takes a deep breath, forces himself to rein it in. "Is that all?" he asks, without looking away, studying Osborne's face for any sign of blinking or avoiding Ed's gaze.

George doesn't look away from him. "Yes" he says. "That's all."

Ed eyeballs him for another moment, then looks away. "You're worried, too" he says, mostly to the bar. "Otherwise you wouldn't be telling me."

He senses rather than sees George's shrug. "Is that so?"

Ed's mouth twitches a little. "Do you think there's something to be worried about?"

He can feel George's gaze on his face but the other man doesn't speak until Ed looks up to meet it.

"I think it could be pretty detrimental for both sides if they feel too close to attack each other" he says, slowly. "It could be as damaging as two people on the same side constantly disagreeing."

Ed lets Osborne know what he thinks of this hint with one look.

"Deal with your own Awkward Squad. So" he says, once Osborne's stopped smirking, "what would you do about it?"

"What do you mean, do about it?"

Ed glances at him. "Well, you were giving your opinion" he says carefully. "What would you suggest? A way of them spending less time together-"

George's head snaps up. "I'm not doing that" he says, all pretence of the hypothetical gone from his voice. "They _like_ spending time together. It would just have a detrimental effect on them both. I'm not going to come between them-"

Ed splutters, unsure if he's laughing or not. "Come _between _them? They're not a-a-"

He falls silent, unable to precisely articulate what they're not.

(Unable to _bring _himself to-?)

"Keeping them apart wouldn't do any good" Osborne says, after a moment. "Wouldn't do any good at all. For either of them."

Ed's silent, mainly because he hates to tell Osborne he's right.

"You know this isn't all one way."

Ed looks up, then. "It would be easier if it _was"_ he manages. "On either side."

He's thinking of more than just this-whatever it is. The way their eyes meet across the dispatch box, the way Miliband's brow furrows when people just won't see things his way. The way he can slide down sulkily in his chair, arms folded across his chest, pouting, when he suspects he's being diverted away from his _vision_, which is such a poncey term Ed has a hard time not guffawing whenever it comes up.

They might like to give the impression that Cameron's a spoilt brat, but Miliband makes it pretty hard not to throw around the old glass houses line sometimes, and Ed's on his _side._

Maybe that's why Miliband hates it when Cameron beats him so much.

Maybe that's why they_ like_ arguing so much-

He laughs, then, suddenly. "Are we making too much of this?" He pushes his glass away, lowers his voice. "Is this really something we need to-"

_Need to-?_

George's voice is low. "I don't think-" he starts, and then-"It's unusual."

"Yeah. That doesn't mean good."

"No. Doesn't mean bad, either."

Ed gives him a quick look. "I've known Miliband for nearly twenty years" he says, quietly. "This-this isn't-"

He stops dead, wondering if he's given away too much, and slowly looks at Osborne.

Osborne just looks back. "I've known David for nearly fifteen" he says quietly. "And this isn't-"

He too falls silent.

For a moment, they watch each other. Then Ed turns his gaze back to his drink, pulling his glass back towards him. "We just need to keep an eye on it" is all he says.

"Maybe-"

"It's just-"

_Just._

When Ed raises his gaze, George is watching him. "Yeah" he says. "Exactly."

There's nothing more to say to that. Nothing else to do, but sit in companionable silence, drinking quietly, that _just_ breathing too deeply between them.

* * *

Justine waits until the others have left before she looks at Ed, who's sitting at the dining room table staring at his hands, fingers interlocking, and says "We'll explain to the boys. They'll understand."

Her own voice sounds bright, confident-the way Ed needs her to be, so she can remind him of what's important.

Ed doesn't look up for a few moments, and when he does, she can't quite read the look on his face. His eyes are narrowed a little and he says quietly "Will they?"

Justine blinks, but she knows her job, what she needs to do. It's her job to manage things, to change things. To help Ed change things. And the boys have to help with that.

"It's letting them help" she says, pulling out a chair to sit down next to him. "And they'd want to. You'd want to help _your_ dad-"

Justine tells herself this isn't being cruel, she's got to make Ed _see-_

Ed nods slowly. He doesn't quite wince, but the crease of confusion in his brow when he meets her gaze is similar to the look he gave her when she sat him down one night when they'd been discussing moving into a place together, and explained that they'd been together for nearly four years now, and this was a time a lot of people thought about starting a family unit, and maybe it was time to start thinking about it. (Justine had decided it was time to start thinking about it a few months beforehand, but Ed hadn't been getting the signals. He didn't pay as much attention to a plan as Justine did, as she needed to, so it had been up to her to organize it.)

Ed meets her eyes, and then says quietly "But-I'm not entirely sure if they'd be happy with it."

Justine keeps her breathing even, gathering her arguments up, the way she does in court, ready to sculpt the sentences around the arguments, shape them into the answer she wants.

(She's done this before with Ed. When she explained they needed two children. When she'd known that they needed to get married, because it would look better, and they wanted to be progressive, but Ed needed to _win_, to make a difference.)

(When he was deciding, and Justine pushes that memory away, the way she often does these days.)

"But they'll be fine" she says. "The boys like leafleting." Daniel might complain, dragging his feet, but he doesn't mean it. _Justine_ would have wanted to help.

(If her dad had asked her, she would have wanted to help.)

"But this isn't leafleting" Ed's saying, and Justine's reminded of that time in Brighton, when she'd been trying to get Sam to look at the cameras, keeping her voice light and gentle and coaxing, and then Ed had been saying _Now, who's-wants to go on that slide?_

_Look_, she'd said, trying to point somehow, to make Ed see what a great shot it would be, even as he said again _Who wants to go on the slide?_-the kids on a climbing frame, looking towards the camera but not straight at it, the way the director used to tell her when she was standing there, awkward and feeling too tall or too small or too quiet, waiting to be told when to smile, the only thing the camera would see.

It would make them look good. Natural. Like a family.

But then Daniel had been saying _Oh, yes, please_ and Ed had been saying _Do you want to go on the slide? _ Daniel's hand had been reaching, and she couldn't pull it away, the cameras were watching. And then Sam, who wouldn't say anything when Justine tried to make him look except _No-_they _like_ pirates, that was one thing she thought she knew they liked_, most_ children do-had been saying more clearly than she'd thought he could, _I want to go on the slide_, and there'd been no other way then but for her to salvage it, lifting him up_-You want to go on the slide? OK, come on, then-_trying to pull him quickly, quickly, to get another shot-_You carrying the little one, that looks good, maternal, resonates with the women voters_-and his head had banged into the bar. _Ooh_,_ you all right, sweetie?_ She'd gripped him a little tighter, hoping he wouldn't cry.

He didn't cry then, but he didn't smile, either. Daniel had come down the slide without a problem, with Ed lifting him up when he was told to-_Do you want to pick him up again? Yeah, that's it-another on the slide-_

She hadn't realised Sam was being problematic, then, saying to Daniel _Right, I'll put you up on the slide-Right, Sam, are you coming?_

One of the crew had been helpful, lifting Sam awkwardly when he'd looked like he was stepping away-_Shall I put you up on the slide?_

_Mister, you wait for-_ She'd been tapping Daniel-_Mister _had seemed a good nickname, a term of endearment, really-and it had been then that she'd turned and seen Sam was crying quietly, nose running.

She'd kept her smile on, nice and bright-the camera wasn't on Sam, it wouldn't catch it, and hopefully they could clean him up between shots. _OK, you ready? _She'd bent down, hoping that would encourage him, that he'd see that even if he was scared, the cameras were getting into position around him, he needed to do it, now-

_No, Mummy, I don't want to-_ Sam had snivelled it through his tears-Daniel hadn't been looking, his own face puckered a little as he stared resolutely away.

Justine had made sure to stay still, keep herself calm. _Ohhh_, she'd been saying, in that ridiculous sing-song way mothers are supposed to do, and then Ed had given her a bit of hope by saying, a little more sharply than usual, _Oh, come on._

Sam had just sat with his head down, his nose running more, tears trickling down his cheeks. Justine had stood there, at a loss for a moment-she doesn't know what to do when they cry, panic at the tops of playground equipment or at the sight of unfamiliar food-she's not usually there, it's Zia who's good at getting them to open their mouths or coaxing them into her arms.

_Do you want me to stand nearer you?_ was all she'd been able to think of, but Sam's face had been crumpling, and even as exasperation grated in Justine's chest-it was only a_ slide_, for God's sake, and one that had to be less than three feet off the ground-

Sam had looked at her with such a miserable face, that she'd done almost exactly the same look back at him before she could even think about it. She'd stopped instantly, even as Ed said _I think he needs his nose wiping_-_could look bad on camera, could look mocking, not motherly_-and tried to make up for it by making her voice a little higher, a little more sugary around the words _Sweetie, do you need-_, stepping towards him with her arms outstretched, because he needed to get cleaned up, it would look no good if he was crying.

One of the crewmen was _awwing_, which was an irritation because that would just encourage him, and then one had been saying _Shall we look the other way?_ , Ed already saying _Shall I wipe his nose? _and Justine had shaken her head instantly-they needed these shots, they just needed to get Sam together, Sam needed to get _himself _together.

(It wasn't really mocking. Not really.)

(She was just exasperated, and it wasn't as if Sam would understand or remember anyway.)

_Yeah_, she'd said, standing at the side, forcing herself to pat him gingerly, while Ed said _Here, let me wipe his nose_ and she just caught Daniel darting away, but she didn't have time to chase after him, and they could do without him for a moment.

_We can edit this later_, one of the cameramen said, as Ed scrubbed the tissue under Sam's nose, while Sam blubbered quietly, silent tears running down his cheeks. She'd nodded gratefully, because Sam would cheer up and they'd get the shot done. They'd get the shot done and it would help, it would do something.

_Well done, Dave_ one of the cameramen had said to another as he chucked Sam under the chin, getting him to smile a little a few moments later, and Justine and Ed had stepped back, Justine keenly aware of the camera. _Right, how are you doing?_

She'd made her voice singsong again, her fingers wanting to curl but stopping themselves at the last moment. _OK, Mr. Sam?_

Sam had stared at them both, brows furrowing and lip pushed out. _No. _The lack of tears and runny nose meant he could speak clearly again, which was an annoyance.

_No?_ was all she could think of to say-Sam was muttering something about _I don't want to-_ but that was silly, and it couldn't be helped, anyway.

_Shall we-shall we look away?_ Ed said then, and Sam's eyes had flickered, only for a second, but enough for Justine to catch it, to the cameras.

Perhaps that was what made her make her own tone brighter. _Would you like us to p-we'll look that way?_ She'd been about to say _pretend_ but no. Too mocking.

_We'll look away_, Ed had said and they'd both turned around, Justine bearing the laughter of the camera crew behind her with a smile through ground teeth-it was worth it if they got the shot.

The exasperation nearly crept into her voice when she turned round and saw Sam still sitting at the top of the slide. But she fought it back, turned it into something sweeter, the way her drama teachers used to tell her to-_Oh, come on, sweetie, shall I hold you then? OK-_

She'd already been walking towards him, because he had to get down the slide, and Ed was saying something to the camera man, and Sam was burbling something at her as she stood next to him. _I don't want to, I don't-_

She'd nodded, smiling and forcing herself to pat his shoulder, and waited until the cameras had moved round so that they could get a good shot of him. She'd waited until Sam was quiet and calmer and then, slid her arm round, so that it would be harder for Ed to see-she knew the camera crew would, but they were there to get shots, anyway, and she and Ed would have to see the editing, probably.

She'd slid her arm round and pushed Sam, a little harder than she probably should in the middle of his back.

Sam had sat, stiff and still, and slid down the plastic slide. His feet had thudded hard as he reached the bottom, his little body jolting, harder than it should have done.

_Yaaaaay_. She'd heard the inane sound coming out of her mouth, hands clapping, the way she knew she was supposed to, and Sam had just sat there, looking straight past her. He looked straight past Ed's _Very good_, straight past the cameras, his dark eyes slowly dampening again.

(They needed these shots, the_ party_ needed these shots-)

(Ed had walked away too quickly, barely even looking as he clapped, his eyes searching for Daniel, and that was how Justine knew that he'd seen.)

The only one Sam's eyes had flickered towards was Daniel, calling out _Good one, Sam_, even as he darted backwards, away from his father and the cameras, and something about Daniel's tone had rankled in her ears, something about it a touch too defiant.

Tears had been trickling down Sam's face again, even as he stared at his brother.

_Do you want to go in the s-in the sand-_

Sam had shaken his head silently and stared past her, those silent tears trickling down.

She'd hovered for a moment, remembering the way those damp little eyes had widened slightly as she pushed him, and then she'd steeled herself, thinking of how it would look if he didn't want a hug, and bent forward. _Shall I give you a-shall we have a carry-_

Sam hadn't looked at her then, even as her arms had fastened around him awkwardly. He'd just stared past her, past the cameras and what they needed him to do, his eyes, still damp, fixed on his brother.

Now, she reaches out and squeezes Ed's hand-it always feels a little odd, as though she has to guide her own fingers to his. "You're making a difference" because she knows how important that is to Ed, how important it is to _them_, all his aims, and if they can't make things better, then what's the point of all they've been doing? "And if this makes us look more relatable-"

Ed chews his lip. "Cameron won't be doing it" he says, almost to himself.

Justine frowns, squeezing his hand, the way she's meant to. "What?"

Ed glances at her, gaze much too far away, so Justine gives his hand a squeeze, just to hurry him up a little, the way she had when she'd managed to make him see sense about starting the family, and he'd been lying on top of her asking if she was sure, and she'd had to tell herself not to snap and tell him to get _on_ with it so that they could get this done and be making some _progress_ on their way to achieving the goal.

"Cameron-" he says, eyes still drifting. "Yeah, he-he probably won't be using his kids-"

Justine bites her lip, unsure whether she should go for the personal touch with the first name or take Ed's lead, unsure which will be more persuasive.

"But David Cameron-" She chooses the words carefully. "Already _is_ the Prime Minister, and so I suppose-" Make it sound as if she hasn't thought about it too much. "For him, it's less of a challenge to look Prime Ministerial." Say it carefully, so Ed doesn't get the wrong end of the stick, and then quickly, before he can dwell on it, "And we're up for a fight, remember?"

Ed's smile flickers a little, and she nods encouragingly because this is _their _fight. The same way she fights in court because it's proving that there can be a change, that they can know, even when everyone is telling them there can't be, and that voice will be whispering a little too fast in her chest, rapid and fluttering like her heartbeat, _I was right, I was right, I was right, I was-_

It had been like that at the conference in September, when she'd been standing in that green long-sleeved blouse she'd chosen carefully-fashionable, but not too fashionable, something she could have just pulled on-fingers wrapped around the microphone, words trembling into certainty out of her mouth, even as she breathed all the way down and all the way out, the way she'd learnt in those television workshops all those years ago.

_However nasty, however personal, however brutal this gets- _and they'd all been looking at her, and they'd been on her side, the same way she'd felt when she was in court, the first time she knew the judge and jury were listening, really_ listening_ to her, hanging on her every word and she'd felt coldly, fiercely righteous, the same way she had back in school with all those girls who hadn't been to a comprehensive like her, who just didn't know how things were for other people.

And there they were, all looking at her, listening, and she'd gone on, all the tricks coming back, how to look at each person individually, how to lower her voice a little to make them lean in, that righteousness jabbing sharper and higher under each word-_I'm up for this fight and I hope you are too, because we can't do it without you-_and the clapping that had started almost before she'd finished speaking and lowered the microphone, Ed leaning in to kiss her cheek, the way they'd agreed beforehand.

Because they're fighting, and the boys have to understand, because surely they must _see,_ they'll see that even if they don't like it, they have to help, because it's more important than what they don't like.

She remembers telling herself that firmly, lying in bed with her hands folded over her chest, staring up into the dark, swallowing past the ache in her throat as her eyes stung. Dad had to make a difference, open doorways for people. That was what was important.

"They'll understand. We're doing it for the Red Team" she says, and she's already calculating in her head how they'll do it, how they'll make them smile-she'll rehearse this time, to make it look natural, like she did for the conference, practicing exactly how she'd incline her head as she said _My role in politics is the politician's wife,_ exactly how she'd shake her head, let people laugh as she said _I'll be honest-it's not a role I applied for_, turning to almost touch Ed's arm, letting herself laugh a little as she said _Darling-_, to make it look natural, off-the-cuff, like the second quick touch to his arm she'd made him practice earlier.

That way, it'll look natural so that Sam won't be aggravating, like last time when she'd been crouched on the beach-_Do you want to throw some stones?_ while he just said in his little voice _No, Mummy_ and her teeth clenched tighter as she forced out _What do you want to do?_ and then pointed inanely down the beach, because even _Daniel_ had co-operated for a moment. She'd been careful to get him relaxed, Stefan Rousseau standing just ahead, waiting for them, and Daniel had seemed to co-operate at first, looking up at him-_Hello, Mr Camera Man, hello-_

_Stefan!_ She'd said it brightly, because if Daniel could just keep smiling-_Stefan-remember Stefan Rabbit? You nicknamed your rabbit?-_some old toy Daniel had used to have, that he'd played with when Stefan was around, and somehow it had been named after him-Justine wasn't too sure of the details. 

And Ed had helped, saying _Yeah_, and pretending not to notice when Daniel tried to pull back and they'd had to tug him onto the beach.

_Throw it here_, she'd told him, when he'd been throwing stones and even if he hadn't listened to that, at least he'd listened when they'd both chipped in, pointing at the pirate costume further down the beach when the cameraman had asked them to _walk that way-Cutthroat Jake's moving, Daniel, further down there?_ and even Ed had chipped in-_Where's Cutthroat Jake? Where's he gone?_

Daniel hadn't even needed her pointing and saying _He's down there-_ he'd been running ahead of them, chattering away to himself-_Where did you go?-_ until Ed awkwardly pushed him down-Ed didn't have a clue how to wrestle the children, but it had sounded like something that might look natural, playful-and she'd been left, putting Sam down when they asked her to and willing him to just _do_ something-_Do you want to see Cutthroat Jake, he's there-_ while Sam had just stared stubbornly away from her and the cameras, not even_ smiling_ the way he should have been.

(_You don't mind, do-_ Stefan had been starting to say as they walked onto the beach, and Justine had already been saying _No, that's fine_, because it had to be. It had to be and the boys had to understand, the way she and Ed had to.)

Now, Ed loves mentions of teamwork, and he smiles-a little cautiously, but a smile.

Justine knows when to let a point settle, and so she says "Let's sleep on it" with a slightly firmer touch to the shoulder.

She wonders if they should have sex once they get to bed. It's probably what they're supposed to do, after all-at least, sometimes. More often than they do. Justine wonders if she should suggest it, maybe by kissing his neck or wrapping her arms around him-what does she normally do?

She wonders if she should want to do it, more than she does-she could probably make herself if she thought about it, if it was to make Ed relax, help him improve.

But then Ed's saying "I just want to work on PMQS questions-I'll be up in a bit", which Justine knows can mean anything, and so she presses a kiss to his cheek and turns to the dining room door, feeling her shoulders slump in relief.

* * *

"Mr. Th-Speaker-Mr. Speaker, I'm glad we can work across parties on this issue-" Miliband meets his eyes across the dispatch box. "And we will endeavour to continue to do so-"

David doesn't squirm, but he shifts a little, suddenly uncomfortable. It doesn't help that George, joyfully fulfilling his duty as support in PMQs, had decided to liven up Miliband's earlier questions by muttering into David's ear as he sat down, "Yes, you and Miliband certainly put on a lovely show of cross-party unity over there."

David had less joyfully fulfilled his own Prime Ministerial duty of handling his Chancellor by tactfully kicking him in the shin.

"Let me turn to an ith-issue on which there is less agreement-"

The tide of "Ahs" rises on both sides. David rolls his eyes, but feels his shoulders relax, something like relief settling into his stomach at the move back to familiar ground. It's not often Miliband brings up any mention of them being united in PMQs and today David had felt his heart quicken not entirely pleasantly, Craig's face suddenly very, very clear in his mind. He sits up a little straighter at the return to normality.

"In-in-in May 2010, th-speaking about the TV debates-"

The jeers rise even louder. Nick, to David's right, rolls his eyes, while George grins, nudging David in the ribs.

"A party leader-" Miliband is almost drowned out under the noise. "A party le-a part-a party l-a-"

David leans over to Nick, partly to distract himself from the sight of Miliband peering a little anxiously at Bercow. The sight stirs something in David's chest.

"If this is the most I have to worry about with not agreeing to the TV debates" he mutters. "I'm not too concerned so far."

Nick laughs, a little nervously, and then, just because he feels like it, David mutters "Nice letter, by the way."

"A party leader said-and I quote-"

Nick's laughter dies away and he leans back in his seat. His eyes dart to David's, and then away, as if he's about to say something, but David's already turning away, fixing his gaze on Miliband.

_"It would have been feeble to find some excuse to back out-"_ Miliband's glancing round, as though expecting someone to stand up and start chanting "The Red Flag" in tearful solidarity. _"So I thought we've got to stick at this, we've got to do it-"_

David has to stifle a snort as Miliband leans forward with that exaggerated look of confusion. It's endearing. Like a child playing dress-up.

David checks himself quickly. No. _Not _endearing.

"Can he remind us who said that?"

David gets to his feet, already going over the line he rehearsed with George earlier.

"I am all for these debates taking place-" He weathers the predictable bellows and outstretched hands from the Labour frontbench. "But you cannot have-"

_"Order!"_

Even though David's been expecting it, he still momentarily wants to hit Bercow for nearly giving him a heart attack.

"The question has been asked-and the answer must be heard-" David grins, reflecting that it's enough of a rarity that Bercow's on his side. "The Prime Minister?"

He's speaking almost before he's stood up again. "I'm-I'm all for these debates, but you cannot have _two _minor parties-" He glances across at Miliband briefly, then lets his gaze roam up to Caroline, sitting higher up on the benches, who's grinning and nodding. "Without the _third _minor party. So I put the question to the Right Honourable Gentleman-_why is he so frightened of debating the Green Party?"_

_Makes him look weak_, Michael had said earlier, decisively. _Makes him look like he's using it as an excuse._ Michael's voice had been harsh, triumphant-Miliband's behaviour over the NHS clearly still rankled.

_When we're using it too_, David had thought before he could stop himself.

"Mr. Speake-Mr. Speaker-" Miliband's falling over his words now, the way he always does when he's getting excited. "I'll debate anyone the broadcasters invite-"

"Don't want them to invite the Greens though, do you?" George mutters.

"But the man who said-the man who said it would be feeble to back out of the debates was him." Miliband lifts his head. "Now we all understand-"

"Oh God, don't try and make a joke." David can't help it. It's probably a tragedy of modern politics that Miliband can often be funny when he's not trying to be. Unfortunately, often, he's trying to be.

"That as long ago as last Thursday-"

_As long ago as last Thursday, I thought I hated you._

"His abiding passion was to give the Green Party a platform-"

Miliband isn't even trying to counter it, Jesus-

"But it is frankly a pathetic excuse-"

David shakes his head, because even _Miliband_ has to see that this is just making his own case worse, dear _God-_

"I-i-i-it's not for him-it's not for him-it's not for him, it's not for me, it's not for _any party leader_ to decide who is in the debates-"

Oh, so this is the point. A very minor, weak point. But still, finally a point.

"It's up to the broadcasters, that's the country we live in-but is he really telling-is he really telling-"

"Go on, try it again" George mutter. David collapses in laughter, as does William on Nick's other side.

"Is he really telling the people of Britain that he's going to deny them the TV debates, if he doesn't get to choose who's in them?"

"Oh, so that's the tactic" George murmurs just to David, before raising his voice a little. "Miliband finally found his way to the argument."

David's already worked it out, and he reflects happily as he climbs to his feet that Miliband trying to make_ him_ look like the childish one is rather undermined by Miliband scowling incredulously like a four-year-old.

"Well-" He deliberately calms his voice, spotting the way he can turn this around. "We had a set of European elections this year-UKIP and the Greens both beat the Liberal Democrats, I'm afraid to say-"

He turns to give Nick, who's already thrown his hands up with an indignant sound even as he laughs, a conciliatory grin. Mostly conciliatory.

"And you either have-um-" The cheers are carrying his words higher, even as Nick yells something through his laughter that sounds a little like "I'm not an excuse!" It had been a stroke of genius on Clare's part to think this one up.

"And it's very simple-you either have _both_ of them, or you have _none_ of them-"

_To voters, it just looks fair_, Daniel had pointed out with a grin. _Why should the Lib Dems have a voice if the Greens don't when they got more? We're making it less complicated-making it about fairness rather than political tactics._

"So I ask him again-" David can't stop himself grinning this time. _"Why's he so chicken when it comes to the Greens?"_

The cheers are louder now. David deliberately avoids Miliband's eye when he spots the smirk being stifled at the other man's mouth. He knows from bitter experience that if he locks eyes with Miliband when he's like this, it's all too likely they'll both dissolve into laughter, which won't help anyone's case.

"Mr. Speaker-there's only-there's only-there's only-there's only one person-" Miliband's fighting that smirk at his mouth, David can tell when he peers up through his eyelashes.

"There's only one person running scared of the debates, and that's _this Prime Minister-"_

Labour's cheers rise louder. Alexander nods like an idiot.

"And when he says-when he says-" Miliband's jabbing his body and his arms about with each word, like a demented fencer. "He doesn't want to take part 'cause of the Greens, nobody but nobody _believes_ him-" Miliband's hand is hitting the dispatch box, voice sliding into the complaining, indignant tone it always takes when he's trying to sound sarcastic. It used to grate.

"Not the people behind him, not the person next to him-"

Ah, that old chestnut.

"Not the country-" Miliband meets his eyes, that hand still bouncing up and down. "However he wants to dress it up, everyone knows he's running scared-"

"Everyone'll be looking at their watches" George chips in and William does, pointedly.

"These debates don't belong to me, they don't belong to him, they belong to the British people-" Miliband's clearly building up to the big climax. "What does he think gives him the right to _run away_ from these debates?"

Well. Anticlimax.

_Sound reasonable,_ Lynton had told him, listening this morning. _You've got to sound reasonable._

"There-there-there are two-"

_"He's_ doing the same thing" Nick says to William behind him, which bolsters David even more.

"There are _two _credible sets of debates-you can either have a debate with _all _the national parties here in this House, or you can have a debate-or _both_-have a debate between the two people who become Prime Minister-"

He lets his voice rise. _"Those_ are the credible debates, so I ask him again-when he looks at the Green Party-" Another glance at Caroline, who's grinning harder than ever now, and then he leans over the dispatch box, eyeballing the top of Miliband's head, a teasing feeling creeping into his chest._ "Why's he so scared?"_

"It's comple-" Miliband's still resting his weight on the dispatch box when he begins, a sure sign he's rattled. "Mr. Speaker-I'll debate-I'll debate anyone the broadcasters invite to debate-"

Harman's nodding. David takes in her jacket and wonders if a leopard has been dyed pink, set free from London Zoo, and promptly died on her.

"I think-I think he doth protest too much-"

David bursts out laughing. Bloody hell.

Two thoughts strike him at once-_did he mean does and just lisp it?_

And then, a teasing little spark-_A bit like you did when we woke up together?_

David doesn't have time to dwell on it, before Miliband's finger's waving again.

"He's run out of excuses-he's running scared of these debates-" Miliband leans forward. "And in the words of his heroine, Lady Thatcher-"

Oh God, this is going to be hilarious.

Miliband leans closer. _"He's frit."_

The Tories dissolve into laughter. David can't blame them. It's all he can do to hold back his own as he stands up.

"Well, isn't it _interesting,_ Mr. Speaker-with ten of these sessions to go, he wants to _debate having a debate-"_

God, only ten.

_Remind them of the achievements._

"He can't talk about unemployment because it's going down-he can't talk about growth in the economy because it's going _up-"_

He glances at Miliband, who's just shaking his head a little. Maybe that sharpens the next line. "He can't talk about his energy price freeze, because it's turned him into a _total joke-"_

He looks away before he reaches that last word.

"I have to say to him, Mr. Speaker, the more time he and I-can spend-"

His heart picks up a little. Next to him, George stiffens.

_In a room together._

He purposefully doesn't look at Miliband.

"In a television studio-on television-" He fumbles over the words, makes them a little louder. "The happier I will be!"

He glances behind at the rest of the Tories. "But please, if he's got any more questions left, ask a serious one!"

He sinks down and when Bercow's voice rings out over the cheers-_"Roger Gate"-_his shoulders sink at the fact Miliband doesn't have any more questions. Explaining again would have been repetitive, even for him.

He looks firmly down at his papers, his heart a little quicker than usual, waiting for the heat in his cheeks to cool, the heat that had oddly flared at hearing the words leave his own mouth-_the more time he and I can spend-_

He doesn't think about what else he might have said.

* * *

"Come on."

Miliband jumps a mile. David grins when the other man slaps a hand over his heart. "You could have-"

"Killed you, yes, I know-" David gives him a quick wink. "You've told me enough times.

Miliband rolls his eyes and mutters something about "Thought you'd get the message, then."

David smirks, which helps to ignore the slightly guarded tone George had employed when he'd said "Have fun" after learning who David was having lunch with.

"I thought maybe you wouldn't want to-" Miliband gives him an impatient look and glances at David's hand on his arm, almost tugging him along. "I can _walk_, Cameron."

"Can you?"

Miliband pouts a little. The fact he probably doesn't realise he's doing it makes it ridiculously endearing.

David blinks. No. _Not_ endearing. That's too-

Sweet? Appealing?

God. No. Worse.

At this point, David realises he's been staring at Miliband's mouth for the last few seconds, which is only reinforced when he promptly walks into Sarah, and nearly gets a cloud of hair in the face.

"God, sorry, Sarah-" He rights her quickly while she says something along the lines of "You will be-" and then glances up at him rapidly, as if wondering if she's overstepped the mark. David hastens to smile, to reassure her.

It's only once they've made their way out of Portcullis House down the escalators, and are heading along the Colonnade, pulling their coats around themselves tightly, that David realises he forgot to ask Miliband his question. "How come?"

"How come what?"

"You thought I wouldn't want to eat with you?"

Miliband shrugs, eyes on his sandwich. "I suppose-Ithuinture-"

David bites his lip at the embarrassed mumble. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Miliband glowers at him. It would be a more threatening spectacle if he wasn't trying to sip from his tea at the same time. And if he wasn't Miliband.

"I thought-maybe you'd changed your mind. And-um. You know. Paris." Miliband says the last word as quickly as possible, and takes a gulp of tea, which, judging by the wince that immediately follows, was misjudged.

"Told you about that." David nudges him gently as they turn into New Palace Yard, towards the Members' Entrance. "And no. Why would I?"

_Because we're doing such an amazing job of acting like we didn't spend a night on a bed together._

David shoves the thought away. And the thought about the shower.

(He's having quite a lot of thoughts about the shower.)

(Especially _in_ the shower, where he's not always successful at ignoring them.)

Miliband shrugs, and then looks at him sharply. "You don't think people-"

"No" David says, before Miliband even reaches the end of his sentence, as they turn up the Members' Staircase. "I don't. Honestly, Miliband, don't worry-"

He tries to push away the slight gnaw of guilt in his chest as they head down the Members' Corridor, through the cloakroom-George and Craig knowing hardly counts as people _finding out_, after all.

Plus, Miliband's face has relaxed a little, his forehead smoothing, though that worried crease between his eyes is still there. David watches it, while trying not to , as they hesitate in the Members' Lobby, where Miliband wrestles with his tea and a sandwich. David eventually takes pity on him and takes the tea while Miliband struggles with the latter.

"Where do you want to go, then?" he asks, with a grin. "We could go to one of the tea rooms or a dining room-"

Miliband stares at him, still ripping his sandwich open. David rolls his eyes, mindful of security as always tailing him, though respectfully at the other end of the lobby. "Oh come on, Miliband. It's not like I get to explore much."

_"Explore-"_ Miliband splutters the word, though he's grinning reluctantly. "You're so-"

He just stares at David, then and something about the look is so _fond_ that-

"Come on" David says quickly, turning away before he can stare at Miliband for too long."Let's explore." It's always an intriguing experience wandering around the Commons, though, as William has pointed out in the past, a wrong turn means you're likely to net yourself at least three weeks of wandering around to appreciate it all.

He waits until they step out of the elevator to say "Weren't going for the imaginative approach at PMQs today, were you, Miliband?"

Miliband rolls his eyes. "Not going for the straight answer approach, were you, Prime Minith-ster-_where_ are you taking us?"

"Don't know. That's the point of exploring. And I _gave _you a straight answer-"

He's cut off by Miliband snorting loudly.

"It's true" David says airily, as they set off through the corridors that he thinks are usually occupied by the Commons clerks. "You _don't _want to debate the Greens. You _know _you don't."

He gives Miliband a grin, even as Miliband takes a bite of his sandwich and they round a corner.

"I told you-" Miliband's shaking his head, with that mock pitying look which somehow simultaneously raises David's hackles and sends an odd liquid warmth through his chest. "I'll debate anyone asked-"

"What's the issue, then?"

Miliband stops dead, crossing his arms over his chest. It would look more impressive if he didn't have to stop to put his sandwich down carefully first. "The_ issue_ is that you're trying to control the debates because you're _scared."_

The crossed arms and furious scowl don't help David to keep a straight face. Somehow, he manages it.

"It's not a fair debate" he says, meeting Miliband's gaze as he retrieves the sandwich. "You _know _it's not a fair debate-"

"It's up to the broadcasters to decide-"

"And here I thought the Labour Party were all about standing up to injustice-"

"You're twisting the point, Cameron-"

David takes a step towards him. "Do you think" he says, looking Miliband straight in the eye, "that it's fair that the Green Party don't get a say and the Lib Dems do, when the Green Party got more votes?"

Miliband nibbles at his lip for a fraction of a second, but stares back defiantly. "That's not why you're doing this, and you know it."

David stares at him. "You _know_ it isn't fair" he says slowly. "You _know_ it isn't, but it benefits Labour more to keep things the way they are. _That's_ why you're backing it-"

Miliband blushes furiously. (He really is the world's worst liar.) "No, it's not!"

David stares at him harder. "That's _it_, isn't it?" he says, not entirely certain how he feels about it, either. "It would work for Labour to see us battered by Farage. But you're scared you're going to get battered by Nick and the Greens. _That's_ why you're-it's got nothing to do with you thinking it's _fair-"_

"It's got nothing to do with_ you_ thinking it's fair either" Miliband hisses back, stepping closer and almost dropping his sandwich. David catches it for him at the last minute.

Miliband doesn't look away. "It's got nothing to do with you wanting it to be _fair-you _don't want to have UKIP battering you-"

They stand there, watching each other. David holds out Ed's sandwich, wordlessly.

Miliband glowers at him, then takes it slowly.

It's David who speaks first. "And I thought you were all about fairness."

Miliband glares. "And I thought_ you_ were at least pretending that you had some moral integrity involved."

Something about that stabs at David's ribs, but he lets his mouth twitch. "And I thought _you_ thought I had some integrity."

The corner of Miliband's mouth quirks a little. His voice is almost a whisper. "I'd had an inordinate amount of wine, Cameron."

"So you didn't mean that?" David's own voice is low.

Miliband's eyes are dark and he seems to step closer, or maybe David does. "I didn't say that, Cameron."

David's suddenly breathing a little harder than usual. Miliband's staring at him. His chest is rising and falling a little.

David laughs, a little more strained than he'd like. "Inordinate amount of wine, Miliband?"

Miliband's brow creases, and then he rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake-"

"We split _two bottles_, Miliband-"

"For pity's-anyway, you're avoiding the question-"

"So are you." They're standing close, watching each other. "You didn't deny it, Miliband."

"Neither did you." Miliband's voice is a whisper. David stares, taking in the stripe of white in his hair, the smoothness of his skin. "Stalemate, Miliband."

Miliband opens his mouth and he just suddenly-

He just looks _lost._

His mouth opens and closes and then he says tentatively "Is that what all this is about? Politics, and-"

David swallows. "Well-" He feels oddly wrong-footed. "I-ah-it's about-well, I know you want to _win,_ Miliband." He feels rather an idiot even having to say that.

"And you want to win." It's not a question.

"Well. Yes-of course-"

"It's juth-st-" Miliband's forehead crumples in confusion. "It's-you want to _win,_ but you're doing all this to-"

David feels something stir uncomfortably, but all he says is "I thought you'd be talking about it being _making a change_ that matters, Miliband."

"It is." Miliband's voice is low. "That's why I'm going to win."

David laughs, but only for a second.

(He can't help it. Miliband just looks so serious.)

"Well, we have to, given how badly _your _government-" Miliband starts, and before he can go on, David, with something like annoyance and mischief and that something else he can't put his finger on around Miliband, says "Ah, so you'd be prepared to go along with an arrangement you knew was unfair, if you thought it would help you win?"

Miliband blanches. "Stop trying to put words in my mouth, Cameron. I didn't say that."

David watches him. "You didn't deny it, either."

Miliband doesn't look away. "Would _you _deny it?"

There's another silence that echoes even louder in the deserted corridor.

It's David who eventually breaks it. "Stalemate again." His own voice is low. "And I thought you were supposed to be eating that, Miliband."

Miliband's dark eyes hold his own for another moment.

"Fine" he breathes, and busies himself with biting into his sandwich, falling into step again, leaving David to watch him silently, wondering whether he respects Miliband more or less as a result of this information.

"The thing is-" Miliband says suddenly, as they head round another corner towards a flight of stairs. "You have to win to change things."

David nods. "Though no doubt ours' are all the sort of changes you loathe."

"Not all of them."

"Oh, I forgot you were leaping on our bandwagon when it comes to spending cuts-"

"But we'd make them in fairer places-"

"So if you need to win to make a difference-" David says loudly before Miliband can get distracted with one of his favourite subjects. "It doesn't matter how you win?"

He waits for Miliband to stalk away or glare but instead, Miliband just watches him, head on one side, still walking, and says "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

David just arches an eyebrow, and they keep walking.

"Do you have any idea where we're going?" Miliband asks, after a few turns and another ride up in an elevator.

David nudges him with a grin. "Still exploring."

Miliband gives him a similar look to the one he produced when David mentioned the word _pipes._ "You're the _Prime Minister-"_

"So? Are the two mutually exclusive?"

Miliband rolls his eyes and mutters something about "just think you're touring your subjects."

"Is that you implying you think I have a divine right to be here?" David gives him a grin, unable to stop himself. "I'd welcome that, Miliband."

"Because then you wouldn't have to face a contest? Typical _Tory-"_

"Because _Gordon _insisted on a leadership contest, didn't he?" David winks. "Or is the story still that he cancelled that election because he knew he'd win?"

The look Miliband gives him could have shrivelled Rasputin. (If it was levelled by anyone but Miliband, at least.) David grins. "Come on, Miliband. You must have known that made it too easy."

Miliband tries to look dignified, which is difficult, considering his cheeks are currently bulging with sandwich. He looks like an annoyed hamster.

David bursts out laughing, but something about the sight's like a warm ache in his chest. It's just-

_Milibandy._

A memory promptly crashes into David's brain, making him freeze halfway through his laughter.

That night. In Paris.

_Milibandy._

Oh God.

He hadn't remembered until now.

Something of his thoughts must show in his face, because Miliband's eyebrows knot worriedly. "What's wrong?" He swallows, but the words are still indistinct.

David considers explaining, but something about Miliband's dark eyes make him feel pleasantly off-balance.

"Nothing. Anyway-" he says quickly, before Miliband can be tiresome and insist on knowing, and then start blushing when David is inevitably forced to remind him of That Night (now eternally capitalized in David's mind.) "I want to see if I can find some bar Soames mentioned. He said he'd never come across it before and he hasn't been able to find it since." (When David had enthused about this, Nancy had sarcastically enquired if the bar was entitled the Room of Requirement and if Soames thought he was Dumbledore.)

"Probably wasn't the one George went to with Balls though-"

"He and Ed?" Miliband cocks his head to one side. David tries to ignore the pang that sends through him.

"Yep-" They're in a different corridor now, lined with books. "Didn't Balls tell you?"

Miliband makes a non-committal mumbling sound. Any other time, this would be gold, but that blush is rising up Miliband's cheeks. David drags his gaze away merely for his own clarity of thought and focuses his attention more fiercely on looking for the elusive bar.

They don't find it, or if they do, they don't recognize it. They do, however, find several more book-lined corridors, which Miliband casts longing glances down, while David tries desperately not to think of the look as endearing at all, a dumbwaiter which David has to admit is rather intriguing ("I could always try sitting in it, Miliband" "Mightn't it break?" David had very nearly slapped him whilst Miliband had made a sound far too much like a giggle for David's liking) and a rather nicely isolated sitting room with a balcony a little further along from some committee rooms, where David throws himself down in an armchair and grins at Ed. "It's like Miss. Havisham's in here."

Miliband blinks. David grins. "Surprised I've read Dickens, Miliband?" He doesn't add that he only read it in school.

"I didn't th-say that-"

"I don't say I'm not answering questions, but you somehow interpret_ that_ as the truth."

Miliband, peering through the balcony window, casts him a look that can't decide if it's amused or annoyed so has settled for some strange mixture of the two. "Anyone knows you don't answer questions" he says scornfully, leaning against the window sill. "They only have to have ears."

David notices with some satisfaction that Miliband has demolished the sandwich and wonders when the last time was that happened. He reminds himself to check on Miliband's culinary habits more often in future.

"Even when you were Leader of the Opposition-" Miliband's saying now, wandering over to the bookcase. "You didn't-"

"You do know that the Leader of the Opposition is supposed to ask the questions, don't you, Miliband?" David can't help but grin. "Unless you thought Brown should have been asking me the questions back then. I think a lot of people quite agreed, honestly."

Miliband's scowl immediately appears again, brows knitting together. David's memory jolts, jerking him back to the other side of the House, Brown's fist almost pounding the dispatch box as David smirked, knowing he was winding that temper of his higher and higher, and his gaze flickering to a pair of dark eyes, narrowed and scowling, lips pouting a little, almost hidden at the end of the front bench.

"You used to give me that look at PMQs too" he muses, taking a last bite of his own sandwich.

"What look?"

_"That_ look." David imitates it and watches as Miliband turns away quickly, mouth twitching treacherously. "Whenever I was questioning your glorious leader."

"He answered the questions-"

"Is that what he told you to say in his PMQs prep?" David watches with amusement as Miliband peers at the spines of various books, while still keeping that scowl in place. "Was that your job? To glare threateningly from the frontbench? Hardly conducive to-"

He stops for two reasons-firstly, because Miliband has just jumped backwards as the bookcase has swung round, revealing a hidden door-and second, because Miliband is blushing. Each is equally intriguing.

David decides to honour those old Enid Blytons Gwen used to read them, and which seem a little misogynistic now (an observation he's sure would make Eagle and Harman fall about laughing) and peer through the door. "Really is Hogwarts-what's in here?"

After a brief but thorough debate: "I found it, Cameron, I know you're not familiar with fairness, but-" "Fairness? You finished your lunch before me!" "What on earth does that have to do with it?" "You're currently better nourished!"-David, making sure to assume the air of a martyr, walks outside to try the next door and discovers that yes, they have merely found an alternate entrance to the next room.

The sight of Miliband gazing dreamily at the books, which line both sides of the door, reminds David of the second reason.

"So?" He turns to face Miliband, who's leaning against the door frame. "What was your role in PMQs prep? Taunting from a sedentary position?" He starts to laugh and then stops as Miliband's cheeks grow slowly, deeply crimson.

Miliband immediately seems to become fascinated with a shelf of books, but David's already grinning.

_"Oh._ What was _your _job, then? Catching mobile phones-"

"Hilarious-"

_"Saving the world-no, the banks-"_

"It's pathetic, how childish you-"

"Go on, Miliband." David grins, something jabbing pleasantly at the sight of Miliband's huffy little roll of the eyes. "What else could you have had to do, play me or something?"

Miliband's face, which had been crimson, turns cranberry. David stops dead.

The colour rises slowly and steadily in Miliband's cheeks until he's so flushed David's almost concerned.

"Wait-you-" He stares at Miliband, because the thought is so-_"Did_ you?"

Miliband's blush is answer enough.

David stares at him. _"No."_

Miliband folds his arms. "Gordon needed someone to practice against" he says, in what would be a huffy tone but is completely ruined by him blushing and glowering in the opposite direction. "And I was the one he asked."

David can't speak. He's laughing too hard. In fact, he's laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the wall.

Miliband's arms are folded and he's pouting. It's hilarious. David's still propping himself up when he manages "Is that the reason you were giving me that scowl, Miliband? Was I exceptionally hard to imitate-"

Miliband scowls even harder.

"So that's why you were studying me so assiduously-"

It might be his imagination, but he thinks he sees Miliband blush a little deeper.

He speaks a little too quickly. "You mustn't have been particularly similar, then. It certainly didn't help Brown's PMQs performance-"

They're heading back into the first room now. To David's surprise, he finds that Miliband looks a little offended.

"Gordon thought-" he says, with an injured sniff, which makes David struggle not to laugh again. "That I was temperamentally unsuited to being you."

David snorts. Only Miliband could take the words _temperamentally unsuited_ as a compliment.

"Not sure where Brown got that from" he tells Miliband cheerfully. "You can be a right brat in the Commons-"

They pull the door shut, and head back to the corridor. Miliband gives him an affronted look. "I am _not."_

David does laugh at this. "Miliband, you came out with the words _he's frit_ today. For someone who claims that he's terribly upset he can't raise the tone at Prime Minister's Questions-"

"Aren't you the man who said he wanted to put an end to Punch and Judy politics?"

David waits until they've reached the elevator before he grins at Miliband. "Fortunate that I have someone who's equally proficient at the art opposing me, then" he remarks.

There's a moment of silence before Miliband turns to look at him. "Was that a compliment, Cameron?"

David can't look at him. "Maybe." He keeps his eyes fixed on the lift doors.

"Or maybe you're just rather _whiny"_ he says, a little too quickly, and is too relieved when Miliband rolls his eyes.

"Gordon said I lacked your brutality" Miliband announces, in a tone that somehow manages to be aggrieved and triumphant simultaneously.

David laughs, because only_ Miliband_ could take lacking brutality as a compliment, either-though he has to admit, it was probably meant as one.

"Well, you're not" he says, giving Miliband a longer look. "You're a lot of things, but I don't think many would describe you as _brutal,_ Miliband."

Miliband doesn't look back this time, but he smiles-that slightly goofy smile, teeth a little too big for his mouth. "Is _that_ a compliment?"

David suddenly finds his fingers fascinating. (He tries suddenly not to think about Miliband's fingers. They're far too long. And slender.)

"Might be" is all he says, as the lift doors open.

This time, Miliband doesn't mention not answering the question. And David doesn't mention that not being brutal is anything but a compliment when it comes to the dispatch box.

* * *

They've managed to end up a floor too high, and Ed's still berating himself for letting Cameron know about those old PMQs rehearsals.

He still remembers studying Cameron, watching him duck and dodge and parry, with his infuriatingly smooth voice and his clever little lines and those grins that made Ed's fingers curl over the papers in his hands and his teeth grind together so hard his jaw would ache afterwards.

"I'm going to Washington tomorrow." Cameron's voice is carefully offhand, as though it's only just occurred to him.

"Oh, yeah-I heard-"

"Only for two nights." Neither of them's mentioning the timing. _And two nights with the Leader of the Free World can't hurt when it comes to looking Prime Ministerial._

Ed scrabbles for something to say. "I'll-um-"

He tries to find words for the sudden strange emptiness he feels at not seeing Cameron until next week.

"I'll-ah-" He swallows. "Well. You know."

Cameron snorts. "I'll _you know_ you, too."

Ed gulps. Cameron's cheeks suddenly seem a little pinker than usual.

He can remember their legs pressed together, and his toes curl a little. His cheeks are suddenly unbearably hot.

He snatches another little glance at Cameron, who's humming to himself, eyes flickering to the portraits on the walls. Ed knows him well enough to know he's trying not to look self-conscious. (Should he know Cameron that well?)

Cameron clears his throat, which reminds Ed of the other night, that little laugh as they watched the film, and that scene-

_(Blushing like a bloody schoolgirl.)_

Watching Cameron now, he feels that same shiver. Cameron giving that little smile he sometimes gets when he finds something amusing and then he tugs his shirt a little straighter, with that pucker of his lips and-he looks-

That shiver goes down Ed's spine, the dialogue from the film stuck in his head. Cameron pats his shirt down, exposing the skin at his collar for the briefest second, and the words from the film and Cameron's skin collide in Ed's brain because Cameron-Cameron looks-

_Sexy_ flashes into Ed's head, completely unbidden.

He nearly jumps. His fingers curl into his sleeves. He bites his lip because _do not think that word. Do not think that-_

"Anyway-" Cameron's saying, while Ed tries not to notice the way he pronounces things. "No doubt it was a relief for you."

It takes a moment too long to sort through the words. "What was?"

Cameron nudges him. The touch make something swoop in Ed's stomach. "Not being temperamentally similar to an evil Tory."

Ed looks up at him slowly. "I don't think you're evil" he says, and he comes to a stop, one hand clutching at Cameron's sleeve before he realises it. "I told you that-"

Cameron's grin doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Come on, Miliband. Half your party do-"

"No, they _don't."_ Ed doesn't realise how loud his voice is until Cameron's eyes widen. He glances around guiltily, but they're alone at the top of the Member's Staircase now.

"They _don't"_ he says, voice a little lower, tightening his grip. "You_ know_ they don't. It's not as if _you _struggle-"

He falters, then lets go and turns away abruptly, before any bitterness enters his voice.

_Cameron_ hardly struggles with that sort of thing.

Cameron speaks very carefully. "Do you think my party dislikes you?"

There seems to be no right answer to this, so Ed takes a leaf out of Cameron's book and doesn't answer the question.

"They like you. Most of them."

At that, Ed makes a small, disbelieving noise.

"Oh, come on." Cameron's tone's a little more teasing now. "I thought you said you didn't hate us?"

"I _don't-"_ Ed sees the grin and glares.

"Michael's wife Sarah certainly likes you."

The teasing note makes Ed's cheeks feel warm. He eyes Cameron uncertainly.

"She described you as, ah-I believe _dashing_ was the term she used."

At_ that_, Ed makes an odd, spluttering sound. _"Dashing?"_

"Yes." Cameron sounds even more amused by the spluttering. "She was keen enough on it to tell the _Standard,_ so-"

Ed splutters again. When Cameron's grin deepens, he stares at the floor and mutters something.

"What was that?"

Ed takes a deep breath, tries to force out a laugh, seeing Marr holding up those stupid posters again.

"Chance would be a fine thing" he manages lamely, fixing his gaze on the bannisters, pretending to be fascinated by the stone.

"Oh, for goodness' sake." Cameron's voice is curled with amusement and something softer, too. "Come off it, you know you're gorgeous-"

Ed freezes. He tries to turn to Cameron, then nearly walks into the bannister.

Cameron's hand grabs his sleeve clumsily, but Ed's already righted himself. "Um-ah-um-I'm fine, thanks-" It comes out in jagged syllables, his mouth working silently around _What did you just say?_

Cameron's own mouth is opening and closing. "I-ah-" His cheeks are pinking. His blue eyes skitter back and forth, as if looking for an escape route.

Ed can't even enjoy the sight. He's too busy grappling with the-

The-

A rush had gone through him even as he recognized the word, even as the _What?!_ had gripped his brain and his stomach and his chest-

A rush that's tickling his blood, sending his heart pounding wildly, and-

He feels a strange, soaring sensation in his chest. He's almost light-headed. He hasn't got a clue what to say.

"I-ah-" Cameron manages a laugh. It's a little high-pitched. "I-um-sorry. Just-um-thinking aloud."

His cheeks flush scarlet. Ed opens his mouth. Absolutely nothing comes out.

_Do you think I'm-_

His fingers curl and uncurl.

"I mean-" Cameron's jaw is tense, his words quickening. "Not that I-not that I was thinking that you're-that-" He flushes even deeper. "But not that-I wasn't thinking-I mean-you look-you look fine. Miliband. More than fine-I mean-"

Cameron's utterly wrong-footed and falling over his words and blushing-Cameron's _blushing_-and Ed can't even-

"No-no, I, um-I know-" he hears a voice say vaguely and realises it's his own. He has no idea what he's agreeing that he knows.

_Do you really think I'm-_

"Right." Cameron nods. "Right. Ah. Right. Yes. Good-"

"Yeah." Ed's voice sounds a little weak. He and Cameron are standing a little too close to each other. They should probably move back a little.

Cameron's eyes flicker to his and then down. Ed's gaze somehow ends up on Cameron's mouth. His lips look soft from here, pink and full and-

Ed's hands curl around his sleeves. He can feel the bannister pressing into his back suddenly lessening and realises he's leaning forward. Cameron's eyes find his, big and blue and almost nervous. They flutter a little and Ed hasn't stopped moving closer-

They hover nervously and then they both lean back almost exactly as the door clicks open. Ed swallows, remembering to breathe.

"Gladys-" Cameron's already smiling at the cleaner, who's wearing her usual contented smile and singing quietly to herself, as though there's nowhere in the world she'd rather be.

Ed is fond of Gladys-he still remembers the time she helpfully guided him back to the lift when he was late for a meeting at Norman Shaw South, still singing the whole time-but he's grateful that Cameron's the one speaking. Grateful, and that's all he can bear to think about.

_What-what just-?_

His hands open and close around the bannister reflexively, heart banging madly in his chest. _Gorgeous _shines brightly, like a silver bell ringing over and over in his mind.

* * *

By the time Ed goes to bed, he's wound up.

He tosses and turns on the pillow. He pulls the duvet on and off. His mind has been replaying that little tableau all afternoon-the way Cameron's lips pursed, the dimple that dented his cheek, the way _gorgeous _had just fitted perfectly in his mouth-

It's ridiculous, Ed has told himself firmly all afternoon. Absolutely ridiculous. It's annoying. Of course it is.

Annoying.

It's _Cameron._

_Cameron _with that annoying smile and that irritating smooth voice and the way his cheeks just pink a little and his smooth, dark hair and his eyes, blue and mischievous when he's being distractingly _amusing-_

Cameron being_ annoying _and _irritating_ and aggravatingly _confident _and_ infuriating _and Ed can't stop _thinking _about him.

It's left him snappy and out of sorts all afternoon, leading Spencer to ask far too cheerfully "Everything all right? Something on your mind?"

Ed had nearly jumped out of his skin. "Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be all right? I'm absolutely fine. Nothing on my mind at all. Nothing" he'd almost barked out, his cheeks suddenly unbearably warm, his fingers tap-tap-tapping a pen against his desk over and over, while he replayed that moment of Cameron tugging his collar open a little over and over again.

Cameron's so _irritating,_ which is why Ed just can't stop _thinking _about him.

_Oh, for goodness' sake. Come off it-_

That roll of the eyes, with his voice clipped and polished and-

Ed's fingers curl into the mattress.

Justine's turned away from him, asleep on her side, but after a bit, Ed goes to the spare room, anyway. He takes his book and tries to read, eyes staring at the pages too long, the sentences just refusing to fit in his head.

(He keeps hearing them in Cameron's voice and he shouldn't. He really shouldn't.)

He puts the book down and tries to sleep, tossing back and forth on the pillow, feeling pent up and taut and just so-

He's restless and every time he thinks about Cameron and that grin and his mouth and that_ rush_ that had gone through Ed, like missing a step going downstairs when he'd stared at Cameron's mouth-

That word comes into his mind again and Ed feels his cheeks flush.

He's just got to-

Stop _thinking_ about him-

The duvet's tiresome and annoying. He kicks at it fiercely.

Just stop thinking about Cameron's voice and his eyes.

He's not going to see him until next week, and something about that's a little like relief and something about it makes Ed feel a sort of aching emptiness in his stomach. Like being hungry and not knowing when he can next eat.

Just don't think about that moment after he said the word _gorgeous_, when that insane happiness had caught hold of Ed, and widened his mouth in a grin and soared insanely high in his chest, even as that _What?_ stuttered in his mind.

Don't think about how good he smells, like soap and something warm and sweet and-

(What's _happening _to him?)

Ed almost punches the pillow.

He tries not to think about how taut and restless he feels, how his skin seems to prickle at every bit of contact it receives. How it's winter, but he feels a little too warm. As though some energy in his body just won't shut up, just needs to be let out, needs something, somehow, to-

Don't think about it.

Ed squeezes his eyes shut and lies still.

He doesn't know when or how he drifts into a fitful sleep, the lamp still on, but he does. He dozes fitfully, eyes opening for a few minutes and then falling closed again, that feeling of wanting lurking under his skin.

He's back there on the stairs, suddenly, and Cameron's looking at him and saying "You're gorgeous" and Ed's saying "No, I'm not" and Balls is sitting to his right, because somehow the House of Commons debating chamber is right there at the top of the Members' Staircase, and Balls is saying "Why don't you tell him he's right?" and Bercow's shouting "Order, order!" and Cameron's glasses have somehow appeared, where he's sitting on the front row with Osborne and Samantha and Bercow's telling Gove off-

_Well, you are_ Cameron says, and they're alone again now, and Cameron's glasses are gone. They're at the top of the stairs and Cameron's leaning into him and somehow plays with that white streak in Ed's hair, which should be impossible.

Ed doesn't know if he says anything back and Cameron's suddenly saying in that tone he uses in PMQs "Well, you_ are_ gorgeous-perhaps the Right Honourable Gentleman would like to pay attention to some proof-" and his thumb traces Ed's cheek, which tickles and-

Ed starts to say something, but-

He doesn't know when or how, but suddenly Cameron's mouth is against his.

That's all he feels, Cameron's mouth, warm and soft, and their mouths moving into each other, slowly.

Then-Cameron's kissing him, he thinks suddenly, in an oddly disembodied way. Cameron's kissing him, his hands holding Ed's face between them, and _oh._ _Okay._

Ed's kissing him back and all he's aware of is the warmth and softness of his mouth and his arms have ended up around Cameron's neck, and he can smell his soap and his shampoo, and they're just kissing, and Cameron murmurs something that Ed knows is sarcastic, but he can't be bothered saying anything back to-

And then his back's against a bannister or a wall, but his legs are around Cameron's waist, around his suit, and their hips are moving. They're still kissing, but their hips are grinding against each other, harder and harder. There's an ache growing in his body, bigger and bigger, his heartbeat pounding, all that tautness and wanting an ache that's getting better and better, his hips grinding into something softer now, and a little gasp comes out of Ed's mouth, and then another-

And the pillow's tight over his face, and he lifts his head with a gasp to find he's lying there and the lamp's still on, and his hips are pushing themselves into the mattress and something touches-

His hand's fumbling clumsily and Ed's slipping it under the waistband of his boxers even before his eyes open properly, and he just keeps moving his hips, the ache in his body huge and taut and trembling-

_"Oh-"_ comes out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and then his hand wraps around and something swells suddenly, all the energy and restlessness that's been there swelling, and he's just thinking about Cameron and his face pressed into his neck and kissing his warm skin, tasting him, breathing him in, and this-this never happens-but that ache's stronger and bigger, and-_oh, oh-_

He pushes his mouth into the pillow, because he can't stop, his knuckles knotting into the pillow, he can't stop, he _needs-_

His hand moves once, twice, while his hips jerk and twitch as one jolt goes through him, then another.

And then his hand moves and his hips thrust and something snaps and a high-pitched sound comes from his throat, and it's there, swelling and rushing up all at once-

And then it's happening, long, aching shudders going through him that are so _good,_ his teeth grinding together at the sweetness of it, long groans dragging themselves out of his throat into the pillow, his whole body thrusting up and down, as pleasure judders through him, the release sweet and aching, until with one last glorious little shudder, he slumps down into the mattress and just _gasps_ into the pillow.

He lies there, sodden and limp, his entire body feeling blissful.

_What was that? _whispers something in his head weakly, because that hasn't happened in-in-

Since before he was married. Since before they moved here. Since before _Justine-_

But even before, it was never like-

His mind lets go of it, and he slumps again, enjoys the afterglow seeping through him, the fact that that restlessness has finally calmed. He sighs, a small, contented sound creeping out of his throat.

He manages to push himself up a few moments later, make his way on unsteady legs to the bathroom, pull off his boxers and wince at the stickiness he feels, the first feeling of apprehension creeping in. He does what he can to clean them before he drops them, rinsed through, in the laundry basket and staggers back to the spare room, his mind thick with afterglow-exhaustion.

He collapses back into bed, relishing the warm sleepiness that's settling into his body, the relief leaving him utterly exhausted. His eyes flicker closed, and he can feel himself smiling.

His mind drifts, back to the warmth and the smell of Cameron's shampoo in his dream.

He was thinking about-

He was dreaming about-

His eyes fly open.

What.

His head's still aching with tiredness, but-

_What?_

He was dreaming about-

_What?!_

It's almost a shriek in his head.

_Cameron-!_

He nearly sits bolt upright, but he's too tired and his brain's still muzzy, and his eyes are heavy, so he just lies there, with those words shrieking over and over again.

_What?!_

_Cameron-!_

No. _No._

No, it can't be. He just-dreamt about-

Cameron kissing him.

Cameron-

Ed's eyes open again and even through his sleepiness, horror grips his stomach.

Oh God.

No.

_No._

No, it was a _dream._

But he-

No, it was a _dream._ Just a _dream._

He's tired enough to keep telling himself that. He doesn't need to get up, because it was a dream. Just a dream.

He was _stressed-_

A squeak escapes Ed's throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

(That was better than anything he's had before)

(How can it be-)

He was _stressed-_

His eyes are heavy so he lies still. He lies still and-

He was not thinking about Cameron.

It was just a dream.

He's tired enough to hold onto those two thoughts over and over, until he falls asleep.

Not Cameron.

Just a dream.

When he falls asleep, he's thinking those words over and over again, and, though he'd stop if he wasn't too tired, though it only creeps in under the words, he's thinking of how strong Cameron's hands would feel against his cheeks and how his legs would feel, wrapped around his back.

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Dashboard-Modest Mouse-"Well, it could've been/Should've been worse than you would ever know..Well, we could've been/Should've been worse than you would ever know..Well, we scheme and we scheme but we always blow it/We've yet to crash, but we still might as well enjoy it"_

_Miracle-Paramore -"I've gone for too long living like I'm not alive/So I'm going to start over tonight/Beginning with you and I/When this memory fades/I'm gonna make sure it's replaced/With chances taken/Hope embraced...We've learned to run from/Anything uncomfortable/We've tied our pain below and no one ever has to know/That inside we're broken/I try to patch things up again/To kill my tears and kill these fears...And I'm not leaving/I won't let you/Let you give up on a miracle/When it might save you...We'll get it right this time/It's not faith if you're using your eyes"_

_Sippy Cup-Melanie Martinez-"Blood still stains when the sheets are washed/Sex don't sleep when the lights are off/Kids are still depressed when you dress them up/And syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup/He's still dead when you're done with the bottle/Of course it's a corpse that you keep in the cradle/Kids are still depressed when you dress them up/Syrup is still syrup in a sippy cup"_

_I've Got This Friend-The Civil Wars _ _-"I've got this friend/I don't think you know him/He's not much for words/He's hidden his heart away...It'd be such a shame/(If they never meet)..Ohh, I've got this friend (if the right one came)/If the right one came along"_

_Warm In The Winter-Glass Candy-"We're warm in the winter/Sunny on the inside/Love is in the air/We're warm in the winter/Sunny on the inside"_

_Take It With You-The Ettes-"You think that you know what you know now/You say that you know what you got now/You know what you want but it's gone now/I know, I can see in your eyes now/You know and you know and you know and you know/I can tell you're having fun/And pretending that you're still young...I see all the future outside now/Everything is turning around now/You know that you can't take it home now/You know that it's gotta go on now/You know and you know and you know and you know"_

_Fever-A Fine Frenzy-"When you put your arms around me/I get a fever that's so hard to bear/You give me fever when you kiss me/Fever when you hold me tight/Fever, in the morning/Fever, all through the night/Sun lights up the daytime/Moon lights up through the night/I light up when you call my name...Fever till you sizzle/What a lovely way to burn/What a lovely way to burn"_

* * *

_(Spencer) Livermore went on holiday to Italy that August (2007). His mind kept returning to the advantages of an autumn election. It became almost an obsession. When he returned mid-month, he went straight into Number 10 and tapped out a two-and-a-half side, highly secret document in which he laid out the arguments for and against going early...He was aware of the need for extreme confidentiality with the note, and made just one copy, which he presented to Brown in the "den" at the end of the Cabinet Room. Balls, Ed Miliband, and (Douglas) Alexander were all present, and Brown passed the note around. The attraction of going early was considerable, but the risks were enormous. Nothing was decided at the meeting. Brown barely gave the idea much thought over the next ten days, his mind very much focused on the forthcoming party conference. He would later tell Livermore that he **"deeply regretted"** not using those ten crucial days to decide one way or the other. The memo also included two critical pieces of advice. The first was that discussions should be conducted in strictest privacy. The second was that a final decision must be made before Labour conference. Brown was to ignore both. Livermore's memo divided opinion within the group. Ed Miliband was against going early, in part because he had responsibility for the manifesto, and he doubted that the policy work could be completed in time. Balls took a similar view, albeit not as strongly, and did not rule out continuing discussions. Like Brown, he recognised that talk of an election was making life uncomfortable for the Tory leadership. The most enthusiastic of the three was Alexander, who had been emboldened by his audit of the Labour Party's capability..When politicians began to trickle back to London after the August bank holiday, speculation about an early election began to wax...Still the momentum built. Within his inner circle, the balance of opinion had now tilted towards calling an election. Even Ed Miliband, the most sceptical, was beginning to thaw. Alexander became even more of an advocate:** "I became convinced in September, that if we were to win a fourth term, it would require audacity. I was always aware of the massive risks, but I felt we could win"** he recalls. Bowing to the pressure, on 7 September, Brown gave an explicit instruction to "get the party ready", though falling far short of a commitment to proceed with an election. Alexander began to prepare the party in earnest for a campaign...On 16 September, the BBC reported that Brown was set to announce the election at the Labour Party Conference and on 19 September...an ICM poll in The Guardian put Labour still on 40 per cent and the Conservatives on 32 per cent. Three days later, the first poll since the run on Northern Rock..had Labour still six points ahead..._

_Brown, ever the party politician, understood the advantages of maintaining pressure on the Conservatives, but in his heart remained cautious, still wary over whether the benefits of an autumn election outweighed the profound dangers. Some believed he was set against. **"Brown never intended to hold an election. He enjoyed taunting the Conservatives about the possibility, but it was not a risk he was willing to take**" said one minister. Veteran US pollster, Stan Greenberg, was another who questioned Brown's seriousness...Team Brown, however, were firming up their conviction almost day by day. As they surveyed the months ahead..they were concluding: **"This wasn't just Gordon's best chance of winning, it was Gordon's only chance."**..On 21 September, on the very eve of the conference, Brown convened a lunch at Chequers with Alexander, Livermore, Ed Balls, Ed Miliband, Damian McBride and Bob Shrum. At the end of the meal, the election topic was raised.** "Look at the polls. There is a clear case for holding one"** said Livermore. **"If that's the case, we should be much better-prepared"** Brown retorted, rather gracelessly telling his team that if they had wanted an election, they should have cancelled their holidays. **"We needed a holiday. We were all knackered. We need to look at the current situation. Cameron's doing badly. We have a big poll lead"** Livermore replied. Debate raged, concluding with Brown's agreement to commission detailed polling in marginal seats. **"We need to get the work done to see precisely where we stand with the country"** he said. Despite not having made up his mind, Brown's team went away with one further instruction: talk up the possibility with journalists in order to panic Cameron.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_On (Livermore's) return from his August holiday, he wrote a memo listing the pros and cons. ..Brown passed a copy of the note to his allies in the Cabinet. Ed Balls was cool, as was Ed Miliband. Douglas Alexander was growing warmer, telling the Prime Minister: **"You must look at this seriously."** But it was not properly discussed by Brown and his team during August..Brown later told his circle that one of his great regrets was** "those lost weeks."** It was only in the first week of September that he dug out and re-read the Livermore memo. He discussed with Alexander, Balls and Miliband how they were going to deal with the subject when the trio, assumed to be privy to Brown's innermost thoughts, were asked about an early election in pre-conference interviews. They were sanctioned **"to keep it running."** Not because Brown had decided on an autumn election-he was still far from persuaded-but **"as a means of toying with the Conservatives. It was tactics, not strategy." **Michael Gove and other members of Cameron's inner circle were aware that **"He saw it as a way of destabilising the Conservative Party and a way, essentially, of making political mischief." **A minister very close to Brown agrees: **"It started as a tease, then Gordon let it all get out of hand."**..Brown's inner circle could not make up his mind for him because they were divided and in flux. Spencer Livermore, the hottest advocate, argued with Brown that he should announce an election in his speech to the party conference. Douglas Alexander was growing more bullish. So was Bob Shrum, the American political consultant who had been close to Brown for years. Ed Miliband remained unconvinced. Ed Balls was beginning to change his mind, a shift which was reflected in the spin put out by Damian McBride. Sue Nye was **"in a frenzy"** about how she would organise a leader's campaign tour at such short notice.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_By the time Cameron returned from Rwanda...speculation was mounting that there would be a snap election. Gordon Brown's arrival at No.10 in June had transformed the political scene. Labour's share in the polls climbed throughout the summer, along with the new PM's personal ratings. As the Tories struggled to articulate a message, voters who had grown wary after ten years of Tony Blair were eager to give his successor a chance to show what he could do. Having led consistently in the polls for more than a year, Cameron's Conservatives found themselves up to ten points behind. Westminster was buzzing with the expectation that Brown would make the most of his honeymoon and call an early election. As the party machines cranked up. MPs in marginal seats scurried back to their constituencies. Across beaches and back gardens, holiday sun loungers were being abandoned by party workers and volunteers determined to spend every minute preparing for the big test._

_Despite the growing excitement, Cameron spent half of August on holiday in Brittany. It was his second foreign break in three months: the family had been in Crete over half term. At Conservative headquarters, it was left to James O'Shaughnessy to cobble together a manifesto and prepare for party conference, the last hurrah before the country went to the polls. The atmosphere in the office was grim. O'Shaughnessy says: **"I had to get a chunk of policies in place for party conference, and work on the manifesto, with the expectation that we'd get to the other side of conference and Brown would call an election. I was trying to amalgamate what crumbs of thought had come together and turn them into something half decent."**He recalls frantically sifting through the recommendations in the policy reviews-which had yet to be properly examined-for eye-catching proposals. He also remembers a sinking feeling that efforts to haul the party into the twenty-first century might come to a juddering halt, or even go into reverse. ** "There was a sense that the whole modernisation process could be stillborn-that if David lost, there would be a temptation to go in the other direction"** he recalls. In local branches of the party, too, there was mounting alarm. Don Porter, then deputy chairman of the party board, recalls receiving a gloomy phone call from Michael Spicer, then chairman of the 1922 Committee of backbenchers, as he drove home from a local constituency function in Sussex. **"What's the feeling among the volunteers?"** Spicer asked. **"Pretty grim"** Porter replied. **"We all feel Labour's going to win. What's the feeling in the parliamentary party?"**_

_**"Exactly the same"** Spicer answered. **"What should we do about it, Don?"**_

_**"Well, somebody needs to go in and tell David how serious it** is" Porter replied._

_**"Yes, I agree. The executive has met and thought you were the best person to do it"** Spicer said._

_A few days later, Porter arranged to see the party leader. His message was blunt. **"Look, the feeling is Labour is going to win" **he told Cameron. **"We are well behind; we've lost any initiative-or we never had any initiative. Morale is very poor. There's got to be something at party conference that actually changes everything."**_

_Cameron nodded gravely. Porter says now: **"I think he was very worried and knew they had to come up with something big. He reassured me. I think his exact words were: "Don, rest assured-something is going to happen."** I got the feeling that something was going to happen of significance."_

_In front of MPs, however, Cameron was characteristically upbeat. Desmond Swayne, who was his parliamentary aide at the time, recalls: **"That was the darkest time-it looked very bleak for us. Labour was well ahead in the polls. We thought Brown would call an October election, or even a September election, and we would have been toast. And yet I remember Cameron's attitude being: "Hey, we're riding the dip." He was not downbeat or grumpy. He wasn't prepared to be beaten at that stage. It had a huge effect on steadying the ship."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_When Brown overtook us in the polls, rumours began swirling around about an impending vote of no confidence in my leadership. It really was personal. Brown summed up the mood at PMQs (that's how bad things were-Gordon Brown was making effective jokes): **"The wheels are falling off the Tory bicycle, and it is just as well that he has got a car following him when he goes out on his rounds."** William Hague was emphatic that if Brown was thinking straight, he would call an immediate general election, before the party conference season even began. That way, he would give us no chance to make up the ground we'd lost. I knew that we had just one chance: we had to deliver a Conservative Party conference in October that would metaphorically blow the doors off. _

_Though our policy-review teams hadn't even reported back yet, we cobbled together a bumper series of announcements for each day of conference, from cutting stamp duty to introducing new cancer treatments.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_The floods seem to symbolise a summer of falling polls and fading prospects. So, faced with mounting pressure from our own party and the prospect of an early election being called by a seemingly confident Brown, we start to prepare a lifesaving party conference and manifesto. Just in case....We need some nice, softer stories for this weekend's interviews. A hospital visit for the Saturday. Something strong for The Andrew Marr Show. Monday is George' s day, and he wants at least one story to brief into the morning papers as well as one for the conference hall. Tuesday is our weakest day, when things can blow off course. (In later years, it will become Boris day, we will never have a clue what he is going to say, though we are pretty sure it will overshadow everything else.) Wednesday is David's big speech. We spend the week before conference in a manic series of policy meetings and speech prep while standing by on **"election alert."** We reach Friday without Brown having called an election, to sighs of relief all around the office. We have a strong programme of policy announcements and a media plan ready to roll out. We are as ready as we are ever going to be. Most secret of all is George's plan to announce the abolition of inheritance tax for homes worth less than £1 million. We think this is the right thing to do, and it is also about time to throw a bit of red meat at our unhappy supporters who are tired of their menu of soya beans. This new policy is known only to David's and George's teams, and we trust each other completely.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_Selected leaks from McBride and Balls had worked their magic. Labour went off to Bournemouth (for conference) with sections of the media whipping each other up into a frenzy. **"The problem was that it got out of hand and became public. The media found out that there was a deliberative process going on, and that was bound to create huge problems of its own"** says policy adviser Nick Pearce. But Brown was fuelling the fire, allowing his team to talk up the prospect of a poll. Alexander, as election coordinator, responded to journalists' queries by telling them:** "No decision has been taken, but we do have a decision to take."** His comments reflected Brown's uncertainty while also acknowledging implicitly that preparations were being made. Balls says now that **"we went into Bournemouth not thinking that we were going to have an early election."** However, he had briefed that there might well be one. Cabinet were bullish. **"Many of us definitely thought it was going to happen"** says a former minister. Labour's regional officers were phoning the constituencies and saying: **"Get ready to go."...**Balls asked his team to open up a campaign office in his own constituency...All day on Sunday while finalising his speech, Brown's mind played over the question of timing, and the impact of that judgement on what he should say. The mood in his camp seemed to firm up on the Sunday: Ed Miliband whispered to Balls: **"My God, we've got to do it."** Balls now agreed; with his highly-tuned political radar, he was one of the few members of Brown's team to see that the media frenzy now made it impossible to pull back. He told the Prime Minister that he believed most papers would now endorse him, which they would not do in a year's time...Brown realised disaster loomed if he did not achieve clarity, so he convened an urgent meeting in his hotel suite of Balls, Livermore and Greenberg whom fellow pollster Bob Shrum had advised Brown to consult. Greenberg's advice was unequivocal:** "You will win and you should run, though you will have a reduced majority of forty to fifty seats."** However, he was stunned by what he heard and saw. Brown's speech was only hours away, but his team were frozen in the headlights about the election timing, and hence what agenda he should set out. They had failed entirely to take the advice in Livermore's memo and make a decision before conference. More problematically, they had deliberately stoked up media speculation. Panic was beginning to set in.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_The refined data was ready to be presented to Brown by Sunday, the opening day of the conference in Bournemouth. He gathered his inner team at the Highcliff Hotel, overlooking the Dorset resort's sandy beach. They sat in a suite which had been turned into the Prime Minister's office for the conference week. Alexander, Livermore, Miliband and Shrum were with him in the room as Stan Greenberg gave the presentation in his New York drawl. He confused some present by **"using American terminology."** But his headline conclusion was clear enough: Labour would win an autumn election with a probable majority of between thirty-five and forty-five. Brown was taken aback. This was not what he had been anticipating. The press, applying crude extrapolations to their poll results, was suggesting that Labour could do much better than that. **"Gordon had been reading newspapers saying he'd get a three-figure majority"** says one present in the room. Brown grumpily wrapped up the meeting by telling the pollsters to go away and **"do more work."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_On the Tuesday evening, Mattinson arrived in Brown's conference suite to present the results of the private polling, commissioned before the conference, which she had conducted with Greenberg. It was a critical meeting, and** "unbelievably tense."** Shrum, Nye, Ed Miliband Alexander, and Livermore were all in attendance. Greenberg explained that Labour's central problem was poor performance in what he termed the **"Southern East Middle Class"** demographic, where the Tories enjoyed a 5 per cent lead, much to Brown's chagrin...Brown's speech may have gone down well with the media, with whom he was still in his honeymoon period, but it did not please either the left or right of his own party..The speech even worried members of Brown's close team, already wary of his desire to throw every conceivable policy initiative into his speeches. **"We ran around collecting stats and small policy announcements that didn't add up to a row of beans"** says one..Cabinet ministers, none of whom felt they knew what was happening, had become increasingly frustrated over the course of the week by speculation on the election timing. Some objected that there had been no meeting to discuss it. That Thursday, the Daily Telegraph published an article saying that Cabinet was split on the issue. It reported that the two core enthusiasts in the **"go now"** camp within Brown's inner circle were Alexander and Balls, who were joined in their enthusiasm by the Cabinet "young guns", such as David Miliband, Ruth Kelly, and (James) Purnell. The cautious camp, in contrast, included Alan Johnson, (Jack) Straw and (Alistair) Darling. What of Ed Balls? Brown would have been strongly influenced by his opinion, and the School Secretary had given the question of an early poll careful consideration. As Greenberg notes: **"I was surprised by how much thinking Ed Balls had done on this." I**n July and August, he had been a sceptic, but by the time of conference "he and Livermore were the two principal advocates." Balls's reputation would be badly damaged by the **"election that never was"**, because many suspected he was behind vicious briefings against his colleagues, but on the election decision itself, he had called it right: he had shared Brown's doubts at the beginning, knowing that the honeymoon could be temporary. And once momentum had built, at Brown's own instigation, he realised more than anyone that pulling back would be suicide. He swung behind the election not only because he believed it could be won, but also because he realised it was too late to cancel. Brown would have no one to blame but himself.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_The Prime Minister himself openly joined in the game. That lunchtime, the fever was further intensified by Ed Balls, when he was asked on the radio whether it might not be risky to go to the country early. The Children's Secretary revealingly replied: **"It's a very interesting question as to where the gamble really lies."** Balls **"kicked himself"** the moment the interview was over. He was now converted to the idea, but he had not meant to go that far in public. The Sunday after the conference, Balls had a long and influential discussion with Brown. **"It is your decision, but I would go for it"** said Balls. **"What you can't do is make a half-decision."** One reason to go for it, he argued, was that it was unlikely the media **"will give us such an easy ride at any other time."** By the end of the week in Bournemouth, ministers felt it **"building to a frenzy."** Ed Miliband began trawling **"frantically"** among Cabinet ministers for ideas to put in the manifesto. Most Labour MPs were convinced that it was on. Jon Cruddas-whose partner, Anna Healey, was principal aide to Harriet Harman-was typical: **"I remember going away that weekend, talking to my agent and preparing the ground, as every MP in the land was doing. There was no doubt that it looked like a no-brainer that we were heading for an election."** Frank Field had been sceptical, but **"by the end I believed that he was going to have an election. I even wrote my election address; fortunately, I didn't put a date on it."** The published polls the weekend after the conference gave Labour a lead of between six and eleven points. Some of the Cabinet openly talked about a dash to the country...Staff in the Number 10 Policy Unit were working flat-out, **"all writing chapters for the manifesto. We really thought it was going to happen."** Campaign grids were drafted. The unions were **"kicking in money."** Brown ordered several crucial events to be brought forward to create a springboard...**"It was all systems go"** says one member of the Cabinet. Discreet inquiries were made of Buckingham Palace to ensure that the Queen would be in London if Brown needed to ask for a dissolution of Parliament.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_That Sunday, he (Brown) convened a lunchtime meeting of his closest aides at Chequers. He told them that he had still not reached a decision, but wanted several preparatory steps put in place...In contrast to the rising euphoria in the Labour camp, the Conservatives were deeply anxious. The party's high command had been wrong-footed by Brown's success as Prime Minister.** "We constantly told ourselves not to underestimate Brown, but we were surprised when he did even better than expected. He seemed to have reinvented himself. It was demoralising"..**.Cameron's widely criticised trip to Rwanda in late July coincided with rumours of disquiet and a story in the Sunday Telegraph that several Conservative MPs were seeking a vote of no confidence in his leadership.** "Morale in the parliamentary party was very low indeed when MPs left for the summer break.".**..At a shadow Cabinet "away day" just after Brown's speech, Cameron told his senior team that they had to "perform the biggest turnaround in a party's poll fortune in modern political history." Press reports on the eve of his conference suggested that the Conservative leader was "very down." The media were in agreement: this was make-or-break time for Cameron. The pressure was on. The party were petrified that Brown would call the general election for the autumn-some even speculating he would announce it in the middle of their conference-so its hidden strategy was "all about spooking Gordon Brown into not calling the election by the end of the week." Cameron had to call Brown's bluff. On Sunday 30 September, he looked deliberately calm in front of the television cameras and said he would relish an early election-he was ready. Nevertheless, Labour went into that week by far the stronger party, but emerged in shreds. Why?_

_Out of the blue came a Tory move that left Labour reeling: shadow Chancellor George Osborne's announcement on the Monday that his party planned to raise the threshold for paying inheritance tax to £1m. At a stroke, this would exempt some nine million voters from much-resented "death taxes." To pay for it, Osborne devised a new charge of a £25,000 levy on "non-doms"-wealthy foreign residents of the UK. Before the 2007 Budget, Brown's own team had debated populist alternatives to please the electorate...as well as raising the inheritance-tax threshold. Had the latter option been selected, it would have pulled the rug from under Osborne...Brown came "close" to choosing this option, according to Treasury officials, but was deterred by the £1bn cost. Moreover, Balls strongly opposed the move. It was thus doubly galling for Brown's team to watch Osborne pull off a populist coup that could have been their own. Livermore was watching coverage of Osborne's speech with Alexander at Labour headquarters in London's Victoria. **"That's it, we can't have an election"** he told Brown. Advisers were in no doubt about the significance. **"It was the turning point"** says one.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_The Tories trudged up to Blackpool for their conference looking as defeated as the faded Lancashire resort...More than two thirds of voters expected Labour to win an election...Senior Conservatives that I spoke to before this period trembled before the prospect of a fourth defeat. One member of the Tory frontbench said: **"David Cameron may no longer be leader of the Conservative Party by Christmas."** Cameron told a friend: **"My political career could be over before I'm forty-two."**_

_Brown's calculation when he stoked election speculation was that it would divide the Tories and they would fall apart under pressure in Blackpool. Given the Conservatives' long history of committing suicide in public, it is easy to see why Brown gambled on the Tories imploding. Yet it turned out to be a serious miscalculation to assume that Cameron and his party would not fight back. The threat of an imminent election galvanised the Tory leadership, rallied their activists and muffled dissent. David Davis, who was Cameron's rival for the leadership two years earlier, cancelled all his appearances at fringe events to deny the media any opportunity to interpret anything he said as divisive. The centre of attention on the first day of the Tory conference was George Osborne, the Shadow Chancellor. The issue he targeted was inheritance tax. More people had been sucked into its net over the past decade, largely as a result of the boom in property prices. Even so, barely more than a twentieth of Britons were wealthy enough to be touched by inheritance tax. It had nevertheless become a hot-button issue among the middle classes, not least owing to noisy press campaigns against the** "death tax."** Osborne unveiled a crowd-pleasing promise to exempt all but millionaires from inheritance tax. He said he would finance his pledge by introducing a new levy on wealthy foreigners living in Britain-the **"non-doms."** This artfully made his promise seem a cost-free gift to British citizens at the expense of rich foreigners._

_Douglas Alexander and Spencer Livermore watched Osborne' speech on a television at Labour's headquarters in Victoria Street. **"That's it"** said Livermore. **"We can't have an election."** Alexander looked glum: **"Do you think?"** The next morning's press largely cheered Osborne for proclaiming **"Death to Death Taxes."** Deborah Mattinson was running focus groups in key southern marginals...to test voter reaction to the Tory conference. She was soon reporting a **"definite mood swing"** to the Conservatives. Osborne's inheritance tax pledge** "was like a laser to the heart of the swing voter in marginal seats."** Brown had received and rejected advice to do something about inheritance tax in his last Budget the previous March...After Osborne's speech, Brown told Darling to quickly rustle up a Labour version of an inheritance tax cut. The Chancellor was resistant. Darling protested that there was no time for the Treasury to do proper costings. Shaky maths was precisely the grounds on which Labour was attacking Osborne.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Osborne's coup de grace put Labour in a flat spin. How can it have come as a surprise? Inexplicably, Brown's team had failed to foresee that the Conservatives might respond to the pressure of a possible election. They had talked up an early poll to spook them, but had failed to look even one move ahead. Now it was they who were on the defensive. On the Monday and Tuesday, Brown had long phone calls with Balls in which they debated how to react. Suddenly, the whole dynamic had changed, and the possibility of an early election looked in jeopardy. They came up with a plan to raise the inheritance-tax threshold, but not as high as the £1m Osborne had proposed. Ed Miliband was told to include it in the manifesto...Brown's opportunistic plan to upstage the Conservatives with a visit to Iraq on the Tuesday of their conference now fell flat on its face...The trip and announcement were quickly seen as a cheap stunt, especially because of the delicacy of Britain's position in Iraq, and it damaged Brown's standing with the right, which he had worked so painstakingly to build the week before. Cameron knew that he was fighting not just for his party, but also for his own future, and would have to deliver an even stronger performance on Wednesday 3 October than in Blackpool two years previously. The original plan was to deliver the speech from notes, but as his confidence grew in the days leading up to it, he decided to speak from memory. Sensing Brown was on the run and he was regaining control, he roared out: **"So, Mr Brown, what's it going to be? Why don't you go ahead and call the election? Let the people pass judgement...call that election."** He left the conference hall as quickly as he could with his wife, Samantha, chief policy aide Steve Hilton and others, speeding from Blackpool towards the main railway line at Preston to catch a train back to London. On the outskirts of the town, they stopped at a pub where Cameron offered the verdict:** "Well, it wasn't great, but I think it's going to be okay."** The polls, however, suggested that his speech and, indeed, the entire Tory conference had been more than just "okay."..Labour's lead from the previous week had been cut from eleven points to just four. The heat was now on Brown. It was about to become very intense.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_Campaign planning continued to gather pace. Billboard sites for advertising were hurriedly booked. Battersea Heliport in south London was asked to find 100 landing and take-off slots for campaign tours. By the end of the week, Labour had committed itself to £1.2 million of campaign spending. As one Cabinet minister puts it: **"It had gone way beyond "on your marks.""** In the middle of the Conservative conference week, the Prime Minister made a sudden appearance in Iraq. The concept was to upstage and diminish David Cameron by projecting Brown as an international statesman while his petty opponents fought among themselves. But the Tories did not fall apart in Blackpool. And Brown did not look statesmanlike in Iraq. He came over as crudely opportunistic...The headlines were almost universally critical. This also supplied David Cameron with the opportunity to present himself as a contrast to the machinating Prime Minister. On his conference's climactic day, the Tory leader delivered his sixty-seven-minute speech without an autocue. He spent the previous day committing his text to memory, a trick he mastered at Eton. **"It might be a bit mess, but it will be me"** he declared before achieving a near-faultless delivery as he strode the stage of the Winter Gardens. This feat-**"Look, Mum, no notes"**-was a stylistic triumph. It was a high form of spin for Cameron, the former PR man for a TV company, to project himself as unspun. Yet even Labour people acknowledged the success of the performance. He presented himself as nerveless and bluffed that the Conservatives were much more confident than they truly felt. **"You go ahead and call that election"** Cameron goaded Brown. **"Let the people pass judgement."**..At the end of the Tory conference week, there were three more published polls to digest. In one, Labour's lead was cut from eleven points to four. In another, a ten-point lead shrivelled to just three. In a third, the Tories had closed an eight-point gap since the start of the conference season to get neck and neck with Labour.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The week progresses as well as can be. I stand at the back of the hall with Ed to listen to George make his big announcement on inheritance tax. No one is expecting it, and there is a roar of approval from the audience. He looks so surprised and pleased with himself, we are worried he is going to burst out laughing. David joins him on the stage and pats him on the back. A gesture of pride in his friend and political ally, and also of relief. Something is going to plan. After he won the leadership, many had urged David to move George and make way for a more experienced Shadow Chancellor, someone who might compliment David's own youth. But he did not. Instead, when the pressure mounted, he chose to appoint Ken Clarke as Shadow Business Secretary to add a bit of grey hair to the economy team. Right from the start, David embraced George as his political partner and equal. _

_As we approach the end of conference week, there is a growing excitement round David's speech. This year, however, there is a twist. We'd been well into our twentieth draft when Steve had taken David aside and persuaded him he must make the speech from memory, his argument being that this was one of those moments when you need to stun the audience, and an ordinary scripted speech would not cut through. It started as their secret-David and Steve's. Steve loves to do things secretly, which is ironic for someone who is so keen on transparency. **"God, this is high-risk"** said Ed (Llewellyn) nervously, when we found out. **"Just don't mess up"** George added, helpfully. Andy (Coulson) remained silent, probably wondering once more why he had joined this mad house. At the Imperial, I watch David pace up and down his suite while he tries to memorise pages and pages of text. Then Andy has a sort of "surrogate meltdown" about Samantha's outfit for the next day (he is actually anxious about David delivering his speech from memory.) She is not yet in the habit of finding a "conference dress." We show Andy the options which, in his eyes, fall short. Always with an eye to the photos, he wants bright colours, and Samantha has chosen elegant black. He charges furiously down the hotel corridor and demands to see my wardrobe. I am about five inches shorter than her, but Andy is undeterred. Flicking through my dresses he turns and says: **"That's the one."** And in that horrible moment I realise that he is referring to the dress I am wearing. A favourite, it is black and white with angels and hearts all over it. Apparently, I have no say in the matter. Dress duly handed over, Samantha takes to the stage, looking much better in it than me. I wait with David in the wings for Liz Sugg to give the go-ahead. Sountrack: The Killers. David walks onto the stage to deliver what we hope will be another career-altering speech. It is. A full fifty minutes without a single false note. He takes the conference patiently through his aspirations for the country and, hearing him addressing them so directly, his audience responds.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_He (Cameron) had put Conservative Campaign Headquarters (CCHQ) on a full war-footing...The manifesto was being cobbled together by Oliver Letwin. Leaflets were printed and addition_al _personnel hired. Hosting a pre-Conference meeting of the shadow Cabinet, Cameron told them they had to mount the **"biggest political fight and comeback of their lives"** over the coming week. Labour had hoped that the Conservatives would fracture under the threat of the election, but it had the opposite effect-a defiant esprit de corps began to flow from Cameron through the shadow Cabinet. When he invited the key players to the conference war room-a suite in the Imperial Hotel in Blackpool-on Saturday 29 September (2007), hopes were beginning to rise that Brown might have missed his chance. **"We always thought that his best chance of calling the election was before our conference"** recalls one key figure. **"But we also knew that weekend that no pollster would be able to tell him with certainty that he would win an overall majority."** Cameron did his best to project sangfroid. Reviewing another negative set of headlines predicting that the Tory conference would descend into a festival of internal feuding, an aide suggested that surely this was **"rock bottom." "Oh no"** Cameron replied, **"we've got tons of bedrock to go-and then there are miles and miles of molten lava. I know that I'm supposed to "ride the dip" but this is turning out to be a journey to the centre of the earth!"** The start of the conference the next day proved his cheery pessimism correct. A faulty microphone meant that the official welcome couldn't be heard. Some representatives, dismayed by this evidence of their party's incompetence, began to barrack the stage. Gleeful journalists predicted that an epic political disaster was about to unfold. And then, suddenly, it all went right. Hague gave a brilliant, rallying speech and then, the next day, Osborne had what Ann Treneman, The Times's parliamentary sketch-writer, dubbed his **"million-pound moment."** His announcement that a Tory government would abolish inheritance tax for all homes worth less than £1 million was met with such a storm of approval in the hall that the shadow Chancellor looked stunned. Then came a stroke of luck. Liam Fox's speech on defence coincided with a trip to Iraq by Brown, where he signalled troop withdrawals but failed to announce them explicitly. According to Ashcroft's polling, Fox's stinging rebuke that Brown was cynically using British soldiers as a khaki election backdrop resonated strongly with voters._

_Cameron had started the conference intending to give a standard speech from notes. As the week progressed, however, he grew in confidence and started to contemplate a stunt he and Hilton had toyed with but rejected. He would, after all, speak from memory, thus repeating the feat performed in his 2005 speech during the leadership race-delivered in the same hall-but on a far greater scale. It was a typical Cameron gamble-an unashamed look-at-me, high-wire act of political theatre. He calculated that the contrast with Brown's plodding delivery of a list-laden text the previous week would be irresistible to the media. He doesn't often admit to bouts of self-doubt, but he has said that he was **"incredibly nervous"** in the hours before he took to the stage at the Winter Gardens on 3 October. To clear his head, he and Samantha gave his police and media minders the slip and, letting themselves down the hotel fire-escape, went for a walk on the beach early on the morning of the conference's last day. Then at last he stepped on to the podium, placed his watch and a sheaf of reminders on the lectern, and began. **"It may be messy but it will be me"** he began. When asked a year later what was the best moment of his political life to date, Cameron cited the moment during the 2007 conference speech when "I knew I was going to be okay. There was a wave of relief." The subsequent gush of positive coverage overlooked the fact that the address was indeed messy-and very long. It ranged from MySpace to Swampy via Iain Duncan Smith and many other points in between. But the finale was stirring. So, Mr Brown, he said, what's it to be? ** "Let the people pass judgement on ten years of broken promises, let people decide who's really making the arguments about the future of our country. Let people decide who can make the changes that we really need in our country. Call that election. We will fight. Britain will win."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Labour had a successful conference in Bournemouth, where Brown's chief bruiser Ed Balls was briefing that there would be an election. Then came our turn in Blackpool. A cliff-edge moment for our party-and for me. William opened with a cracker of a speech, chastising Brown for hosting Margaret Thatcher in Downing Street the previous month (a move he must have hated but which made him look both magnanimous and bold.) George then unveiled what I termed his** "hammock idea",** the conference announcement he'd always dream up while reclining somewhere hot over the summer. This year was the biggest yet: raising the inheritance tax threshold to £1 million. It was deeply Conservative, rewarding people who worked hard, saved, and wanted to pass something on. The finale of the conference was, as always, the leader's speech. It would be back in the Empress Ballroom of the Winter Gardens where I'd delivered that leadership-winning, no-notes speech two years earlier. I had been pondering whether I could repeat the feat, not as a stunt, but because I was genuinely frustrated by my inability to get across who I was, what I thought and what I wanted to do for Britain. The lecterns I spoke behind felt like a barrier between me and the audience, distorting what I was saying and what people were hearing. Steve Hilton agreed. Sam told me to go for it. But last time was just ten minutes, I said. This is an hour. I have to cover everything. And it's my political life on the line now._

_But I knew what I wanted to say. It would be me up there, no artifice, no barrier. So in the run-up to the conference I was not just working on my speech with Ameet Gill, but secretly learning its structure, key points and key phrases as we went along. Come the morning of the speech, I had rehearsed sections but never practised the whole thing in one go. Sam and I snuck out early for a walk on Blackpool beach. I bounded back full of vim. _

_As I walked out onto the stage, I knew it was do or die. **"It might be messy, but it will be me"** I told the packed hall. As well as being "me", it was terrifying, exhilarating-and knackering. After an hour, I reached the peroration: **"So, Mr Brown, what's it going to be? Why don't you go ahead and call that election?...Let people decide who can make the changes that we really need in our country. Call that election. We will fight. Britain will win."** I wish I could say I owed it to Cicero. In fact, it was inspired by the moment that David Niven loses his temper with Gregory Peck at the end of one of my favourite films, The Guns Of Navarone. All that classical education gone to waste.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_On Wednesday, the mood in Number 10 and the Labour Party headquarters was bleak...Brown's team forensically scanned the data on the marginal seats, concluding that there were just too many uncertainties to make confident predictions. Mattinson told Brown that she was not sure that Labour could count on automatically winning seats from the Liberal Democrats. Worse still, polls showed the Tories were making significant inroads into the centre party's vote.** "We couldn't go many more days without calling the election. We were right up against the timetable"** she says. Brown, fatigued from his Iraq visit, was described as **"very tense"** as he witnessed Labour's polls sliding. Crunch time came on Friday 5 October in Downing Street. Intense conference calls had been taking place from early on that morning. The first private poll results from key marginals were showing a small Tory lead, but Balls believed it was too late to go back. At 6am he spoke to Brown, who indicated his agreement. Tension mounted...A fraught meeting took place that morning, in the ground-floor, bow-windowed room at the front of Number 10, attended by Brown, Alexander, Ed Miliband and Livermore, as well as pollsters Mattinson, Shrum and Greenberg. Everyone was in a gloomy mood and Mattinson describes Brown as **"late, tired and monosyllabic"**, both impatient to be told the conclusions and frustrated by them. It was a disjointed meeting, constantly interrupted by late entrances and hurried departures. The one major absence was Balls, who was spending the day in his Normanton constituency. A report of the meeting in the Daily Telegraph by Patrick Hennessey, one of McBride's favoured journalists (later Ed Miliband's Deputy Head Of Communications) suggested that, against all the evidence, Balls had been **"one of those urging caution"** in the face of the upbeat advice of his fellow top aides. Greenberg and Mattinson presented their findings, which offered a less optimistic picture than the week before. Greenberg said that Labour would win a November election, but it would be **"close and risky"**, leaving Labour with a reduced majority...Brown was described as being **"very negative"** at the meeting. He had entered the room a cautious advocate of proceeding: now he had the shakes, and he halted it. After thirty minutes, the formal meeting broke up, and Brown left "without comment" to attend to other business. As he passed him, Shrum prophetically remarked:** "Remember, three years is a long time, you know. That's all JFK had."** By the end of that meeting, most present were saying that they **"did not believe it was going to work."** Livermore was almost the only person still arguing for a November election, and Shrum was the biggest sceptic. The evaporation of confidence in the room was principally down to polls in the marginals, extreme doubt as to whether the sixty-six majority from 2005 could be bettered, and increasing scepticism about any plausible story they could tell about why they were calling a general election after just two and a half years, especially when Brown patently lacked any new personal agenda or case to offer the country._

_Desultory discussions continued after lunch. By early afternoon, Alexander thought Brown was moving to thinking it would all have to be called off. The Prime Minister worked in the Cabinet Room that afternoon, deep in thought. In late afternoon, he called Balls to say: **"It is all off."** Balls urged him to reconsider, but Brown said:** "It is too late."** Balls was **"distraught"** and told Brown he was making a terrible mistake. In the early evening, many of the group reconvened and the decision not to go ahead was finally taken. **"That's it. We can't do it**" Brown said. He realised the enormity of what had happened and he had tears in his eyes when he spoke. Everyone was very quiet.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_The **"crunch meeting"** took place at Number 10 on Friday, 5 October. Early that morning, in a phone conversation with a close Cabinet ally, Brown was **"still going for it"** but sounded anxious about what he was going to hear from his pollsters. The inner court gathered in a ground floor room on the right hand side of Number 10 with a view of Downing Street through its bow-fronted windows. Ed Balls was the only absentee. Stan Greenberg put his laptop down on the table and fired it up. Sue Nye then brought in the Prime Minister. Brown sat opposite the pollster, who positioned the laptop between them so that the Prime Minister could squint into the screen. Everyone else stood about, shifting nervously. Alexander and Livermore, who had already been shown the fieldwork, looked grim. Greenberg presented a gloomy analysis of fieldwork from 150 key marginal seats. Labour had lost ground to the Tories whose promise on inheritance tax appeared to be responsible for much of the dramatic swing to them, especially in marginal seats in the Midlands and the South. The **"balance of risk"** was that Labour would achieve **"a small win."** Looking across at Brown, Greenberg said: **"I can't guarantee what your majority will be."** They were in the territory of a parliamentary majority in the teens. If the campaign didn't go well, it could be worse: a hung Parliament.** "It was awful, a depression settled across the room"** says one present. Brown looked at the pollster: **"So we can't do it?"** Greenberg responded: **"It looks very difficult now."** Livermore made the case that they had gone too far to pull back now: **"If we don't do it, the only people who will be celebrating are Tory Central Office."** Shrum disagreed: **"That's the very worst reason to do it."** Miliband said it confirmed his view that an election would be a mistake. Alexander shifted towards the antis. Brown walked out, saying he was late for a meeting on Burma. Once he was gone, they had a franker debate. They could say in his absence what they could not say in his presence: that pulling out would be devastating to his reputation. But to nearly all in the room it was already obvious that **"Gordon had gone cold on the whole idea."**_

_The Prime Minister looked into the suddenly icy water and became scared of a risky plunge. One member of the Cabinet very close to Brown says: **"Gordon had never been that firmly persuaded. So it didn't take much to push him off."** If he pressed ahead now, it would be against his cautious instincts, against the advice of the most seasoned operators in the Cabinet, against the pleas not to send them into battle from some Labour MPs in marginal seats, and against the counsel of his opinion pollsters. The inner circle reconvened that afternoon, this time in Brown's office. He asked each of them in turn-Alexander, Balls, Livermore, Miliband, McBride and Nye-what they thought. No-one expressed a clear view. No-one wanted responsibility for the decision. **"So we are not going to do it then?"** asked Brown morosely. Everyone avoided his gaze. Less than fortnight since the triumphalist Labour conference and the ill-judged tease about seeing the Queen, he was going to have to retreat. He asked Balls to walk with him in the garden to discuss how they might limit the damage.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Hague had told Cameron in early summer that if Brown were to call an election he would do so on 4 or 5 October. The days passed with no word from Downing Street but plenty of evidence that Labour was still gearing up for the fight. By Friday the 5th Cameron had on his desk data marked "Field-Work: Daily Tracker"; it was Ashcroft's polling and it couldn't have been more encouraging. Not only were the Tories closing the gaps on all measures, it was clear that the inheritance tax announcement had been a smash hit-an astonishing 22 per cent were able to cite it without prompting. On Friday Cameron had lunch with the German Interior Minister Wolfgang Schauble at the Carlton Club, a once grand but stuffy gentleman's club on Pall Mall. Although Schauble has a reputation as one of the starchiest, most conservative of European politicians, Cameron managed so well to feign interest in the complexities of the German domestic political scene that he was congratulated by his guest for his good manners. In truth everyone at the table knew that the Tory leader was on tenterhooks. Llewellyn received a text message halfway through the lunch with the latest poll figures. He passed the information on to his leader: it was neck and neck.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Sadly for Brown, his fortunes were about to be dramatically reversed with the infamous **"election that never was."** This would be the most significant turning point in Brown's troubled, three-year premiership. From this point on, he would be portrayed by the gleeful Tories and their media allies as the man who **"bottled out"** of gaining a mandate of his own from the country. To this day, his critics wrongly claim that Brown had been clamouring to go to the country and then changed his mind at the last minute on inspection of private polling. The truth is more complicated and nuanced. Brown was in fact sceptical throughout. He wanted to continue his political honeymoon and hold an election some time in 2009, after rolling out a policy agenda distinct from that of the Blair government. Ed Miliband, never one to rush to judgement, and always preferring analysis and deliberation to rushes of blood to the head, broadly shared this view. Ed Balls, however, did not. The combative Children's Secretary thought it was the perfect opportunity to smash the Tories and gain a new term in office. Brown was persuaded to keep the option open-publicly, at least-during the Tory conference, to unsettle the opposition. So while nudges and hints were being dealt out to the media about the prospect of an early election, shambolic last-minute plans were under way to prepare Labour for the event should Brown decide to make the call. _

_It was a chaotic period that would test old friendships. Douglas Alexander suddenly found himself having to organise and produce election material and work out a strategy for the campaign, while Ed was put in charge of the manifesto. According to Peter Watt, then the general secretary of the Labour Party, Alexander expressed amazement at the lack of policy progress by Ed and his manifesto team:** "You'd imagine that after ten years of waiting, and ten years complaining about Tony, we would have some idea of what we are going to do, but we don't seem to have any policies."** On 1 October, in the middle of the Tory conference, George Osborne announced his hastily formulated...plan to raise the threshold of inheritance tax for estates worth £1million. If the plan was an attempt to frighten Brown, it worked....News leaked out that Brown had recorded an interview for BBC One's Sunday Andrew Marr Show on Saturday 6 October, at the end of Tory conference, confirming that he was calling off plans for an early election so he could pursue his **"vision of change"** for the country. By the following day the Sunday papers were full of the fallout, including claims that Ed Miliband and Douglas Alexander were to blame for **"dithering"** and **"bottling out"** of the plan to go early. The truth is that from the outset, Ed had been highly ambivalent about an early election. He saw it, perhaps wrongly in retrospect, as a stunt which would not help Brown in the long term. But Ed was not only sceptical-he was woefully unprepared. As well as being against the idea of Brown going to the polls in the same year as he took office, he had not seen the crisis coming, had not expected it, and had therefore not got working early enough on the manifesto.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_The question now was: how to let the world know? There was no easy way to do this. Brown was insistent that there would be no press conference, which could have been very humiliating. McBride decided he should announce it on Andrew Marr's Sunday-morning programme on BBC1 in an interview prerecorded at Number 10 on the Saturday. The reason Marr was selected was thought, by some, to have been because Balls had tipped him off a few days before that the election was definitely going to happen, and he and McBride thought it was a way of squaring the veteran journalist:a claim Balls denies. Immediate dissent broke out among his team. **"It was a really crazy decision to announce: "We are not going to be calling a general election." Crazier still to give it to just one outlet"** says one aide...The media were, as the team predicted, furious at the manner that Number 10 had chosen to communicate this major news story. **"We were all watching Downing Street very intently that weekend and the notion that they could call someone in and that one person would keep the news quiet was simply absurd"** says Sky News political editor Adam Boulton. Marr himself was embarrassed to have been given "the nod" and after the interview in Number 10, he came out and made a point of briefing the reporters in the street about the story that was supposedly embargoed until the next day.The media had tipped each other off about the interview: "We all knew that a poll for the News Of The World was showing the marginals were not looking good for Labour, so we all rushed to be outside No 10, in anticipation of the story" adds Boulton. Marr announced on the doorstep that Brown had told him: **"There is not going to be an election this year, and unless there's an extraordinary circumstance, (he) was pretty sure that there will not be an election next year either."** He described Brown as **"remarkably calm",** but added **"He knows the single phrase that is going to be used most often about him is that he "bottled it.""** The weekend was appalling for Brown and his government, with almost every media outlet condemning him. The cack-handed manner of the announcement allowed Cameron to appear on television before Brown put his case to the nation on Sunday morning._

_On Monday, as he arrived at the rostrum to start his monthly press conference at Number 10, Brown looked worn and grey. He was accused repeatedly, just as he knew he would be, of **"bottling it"** at the last minute. Visibly shaken, his premiership seemed to be collapsing around him, and in the most public of settings. ..He made a cardinal error in denying that the polls had influenced his decision. It was the most transparent of lies. By saying so, he fractured the trust between himself and certain key members of the lobby and indeed, the electorate, which, in turn, generated far more hostility than would otherwise have arisen. The image of a dissembling Prime Minister only served to compound the damage the episode had already caused. Already indecisive, partisan and opportunist, he now appeared fundamentally dishonest. ...**"The Prime Minister offered every excuse, apart from the obvious truth"** said a newspaper editorial.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_David leaves Blackpool with the goodwill of his party behind him. We are all so exhausted that we can hardly speak. But I am not so tired I cannot make it to my own birthday party, which my husband has arranged with my twin sister. The celebration soon evolves into a "We saved the day" party, as, straight off the train from Blackpool, Team Cameron join us. But we have not quite saved the day. The mood about us may be more positive, but there is still talk of Brown calling an early election. And everything depends on whether our conference has had any effect on the polls._

_Walking back from CCHQ with George and Oliver Letwin on the Friday morning after the conference, we hear rumours that the election is going ahead. We are full of despair. Oliver quickens his pace. He has a manifesto to write! It turns out to be a false alarm. A key poll comes through: we have drawn level with Labour. In the end, Prime Minister Brown, who has waited over a decade for the crown, cannot bear to take the risk of losing it after just a few months. Gordon bottles it and we are back in business. We'll have another chance to convince the country that we have something to say-that there is another way but Labour.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_Then on Saturday 6 October word came through from (Andy) Coulson that Brown had summoned Andrew Marr, the BBC journalist, to Downing Street for an announcement. Coulson also told Cameron that his former newspaper, the News Of The World, was carrying a poll showing the Tories ahead in marginal seats. Taken together, the information could mean only one thing-the election was off. The next day came the Marr interview, during which Brown's agony was there for all to see. Cameron was jubilant, but because of Dean's terrible phone reception he had to keep running into the garden to take calls from Osborne and others on his mobile. They had-as Cameron had urged them to do-staged the political come-back of their lives.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Most of the Cabinet were in a state of ignorance about what was happening inside Number 10. The majority of ministers assumed that they were heading for an election having heard nothing to the contrary from Downing Street. That Friday evening, I spoke to several senior members of the Cabinet, all of whom believed that Brown was now so far down the runway that it was too late to abort take-off. One senior minister said: **"You know I was always against this, I told you that at the party conference and I haven't changed my view, but Gordon has let it go so far that I can't see how he can back off now."** Another senior minister who always regarded an early election as crazy believed it was too late to retreat because **"it would look like we were running scared."** Labour MPs likewise assumed that **"it was a lock-down decision, there was no getting out of it, there was no rewind button to hit, we were off, the election was about to be called."** Senior Lib Dems and Conservqtives thought so too. David Cameron briefed staff at Tory party headquarters that Friday and told them the date would be 8 November. _

_By breakfast-time on Saturday, Brown had absolutely concluded that he would not risk it. The next question was how to announce his climb-down to the world. In the middle of the morning, Damian McBride rang Barney Jones, the editor of the Andrew Marr Show, to fix an interview with the Prime Minister. Brown had got into a habit of doing pre-recorded interviews with Marr because Brown thought it was more controllable than a live interview. Jones warned McBride that it was perilous to record this interview on Saturday afternoon and expect its contents to remain secret until the next morning. **"If he is going to say what I think he is going to say, the idea that this will hold till Sunday is for the birds"** the BBC editor presciently protested to McBride.** "This is bad for us and bad for you."** McBride rejected that advice and insisted that Brown would only do it as a pre-record. Jones and Marr were told by Number 10 that they were to share the Prime Minister's announcement with no-one else, not even colleagues at the BBC. To a member of the Number 10 communications team, this showed that Brown **"fundamentally didn't understand the media. He thinks it is about dividing and ruling with journalists as it is with everyone else. There was never a shift in the mindset from being a Chancellor who wants to be Prime Minister to being Prime Minister."** It was delusional to think that news of such magnitude could be managed like this in a 24/7 media environment. By Saturday morning, senior members of the Cabinet were in the loop and word of the cancellation of the election was reaching any political journalist with decent contacts. One troubled member of the Cabinet observed to me that morning: **"The big, precious thing Gordon had-his reputation for solidity-that will be eroded."**** "We're going to take a terrible hit for this"** correctly predicted one of Brown's Cabinet allies. **"So much for Gordon, the great strategist"** sighed a third member of the Cabinet. The Tories got wind of it by Saturday lunchtime. As Jones and his crew tried to slip in and out of Number 10 that afternoon to record the interview, rival broadcasters already had the scoop. Adam Boulton, the Political Editor of Sky, stood outside Downing Street venting his fury that a statement of such importance had been exclusive handed to the BBC and describing the retreat from an election as an abject humiliation. By mid-afternoon, the airwaves were already shrieking with the scorn of Opposition MPs and derision from some Labour ones as well.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_On Saturday 6 October, in an interview with the BBC's Andrew Marr, the Prime Minister dramatically ruled out an early election, claiming he wanted more time to show the country his "vision for change." To widespread derision, he insisted his decision had nothing to do with the polls. At home in Dean, Cameron was glued to the television, amazed by what he was hearing. **"My mobile phone doesn't work that well in Oxfordshire so I had to keep running between the garden and the television"** he recalled. **"So it was rather farcical. I'd actually found out the day before, but still it was fascinating to watch...We saw this incredible surge in the polls during the week before..we started to do better and he then bottled it...when he said that not calling an election had nothing to do with the polls (it) was quite a big moment for me because I just thought that was such rubbish."** Once again the polls reversed. The Conservatives took the lead the weekend of Brown's announcement, and by the autumn had extended their advantage into double figures. Having seen Brown as strong, competent and straightforward, voters began to regard him as weak, dishonest, and a ditherer. It was now clear there would be no election until the last possible date in 2010.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_Before the conference began we had commissioned a "tracker" or daily poll to see if anything we were doing was shifting the dial in terms of what the public thought. And we decided to continue the poll as the conference came to an end. It was money well spent. Our poll ratings ticked up daily through the conference-and then shot up at the end. I watched the news that evening and thought that I could see-for once-that I had really made that vital connection: from the hall, through the television, to the viewer at home. But the country's cameras were now trained once again on Gordon Brown: will he or won't he? The next day, we were straight back into election planning meetings, as the tracker revealed we were neck and neck with Labour. _

_Then on Friday, as I drove to Dean, Andy phoned to tell me about a significant opinion poll which would be in that Sunday's News Of The World. It had been carried out only in marginal seats, and it showed, pretty comprehensively, that Labour would not win an election. Far from extending their majority, they would be losing seats to us. It was the final-and in my view, the key-factor that caused Gordon Brown to decide not to hold an election. Brown argued that his decision had nothing to do with the polls. This enabled us to get the narrative going that as well as being decisive and temperamental, he was taking people for fools. Andy came up with the refrain "Brown's bottled it", and we even had bottles of Brown ale made...Everyone who was there during the summer and autumn of 2007 remarked on how calm I was. Calm on the eve of the make-or-break conference...Ed found it infuriating that, just as I didn't overreact to bad news, I was often disappointingly unimpressed when he brought me good news-treating triumph and disaster just the same. People may interpret that as being indifferent, or "chillaxed." It's not. It's because I know that bollocking people, blowing your top, throwing tantrums, doesn't get you anywhere. It didn't help Gordon Brown._

_But Brown had helped us. By flirting with an election, then pulling out, then denying his reasons for doing so, he exposed his weaknesses. At the same time, he had brought out our strengths-our ability to refuel, to recalibrate, to come together as a team when we were under assault, to stick to the course even when events were trying to divert us. And the fact that our modernisation was working.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_According to one insider, Miliband found himself **"caught in the crossfire"** of the extensive briefings and counter-briefings about who was to blame for the fiasco that followed. The real target, say some senior Brownites, was Douglas Alexander, who was seen as having moved over to the Blair wing of the party since his elevation to the Cabinet in 2006. Alexander would acknowledge in July 2009 that **"there was clearly briefing against me."** It is widely assumed that the chief culprit was Damian McBride, Brown's press secretary and a close ally of Ed Balls. Indeed Spencer Livermore would later claim in a Radio 4 documentary that Ed told Alexander: **"I bet within twenty minutes we find we're going to get the blame for this." **According to Livermore: **"Twenty minutes turned out to be slightly longer than it took...Damian told me he had been instructed to blame certain individuals."** Livermore says McBride told him that the order had come from Balls. Today, Balls and McBride both deny being responsible for the briefings. But Ed, who these days claims not to **"care"** about the affair, certainly did at the time; he and Alexander pored over newspaper websites, totting up the number of pieces in which their names were mentioned. They were convinced that the blame for the briefings against them lay with McBride, a figure whom Ed would become increasingly mistrustful of. On the morning of Sunday 7 October (2007) there was an extraordinary telephone conversation between Ed and McBride, which McBride would later tell friends showed Ed's **"hard"** streak for the first time in his experience. McBride rang Ed on his mobile, saying: **"Ed, there's this real problem. I'm having this stuff chucked at me."**_

_Ed was cool: **"Damian, where does all this stuff in the papers today come from?" **But McBride insisted: **"Ed, I'm telling you, I am not responsible for any of the stuff in the papers today about you or Douglas or anyone else."** At this point Ed said bluntly, **"Damian, I don't believe you."** After yet another impassioned denial from McBride, Ed repeated that he would like to believe the spin doctor but he just didn't. McBride appealed: **"Ed, don't call me a liar-you cannot call me a liar. I cannot be in the position where you're calling me a liar."** Ed, however, did not budge: **"But you are lying, Damian, I don't believe a word of what you're saying."**_

_McBride explained that for a minister to make clear he did not believe the word of the Prime Minister's press secretary would provoke a serious breakdown in relations: **"Ed, you realise that we can't have a relationship if you're telling me you think I'm a liar?"**_

_But Ed just said: **"Well, there we go, then."**_

_McBride pleaded for one last time: **"Ed, don't do this to me-please."**_

_Ed hung up._

_Whether or not McBride was lying, Ed showed his steely side: he was not afraid of confrontation...But it was also a demonstration of how bad feelings were between Ed-and indeed Alexander-on one side, and McBride and Balls on the other. The co-operation, the banter and easy familiarity between the three Brownite MPs would be strained from that moment onwards. As Livermore has said: **"It never, ever went back to the way it was. And that was of huge cost to Gordon because he didn't have a small team unified in purpose and totally committed to him, which he so desperately needed at that point. When he was at his most vulnerable, people had retreated to their own departments or their own priorities, rather than rallying around."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_By mid-afternoon, the airwaves were already shrieking with the scorn of Opposition MPs and derision from some Labour ones as well. John McDonnell, the Labour MP for Hayes and Harlington, laid into the **"inexperienced testosterone-fuelled young men in Brown's team"** who had **"presented the Tories with an open goal."** This was kind to the Prime minister for it laid the blame on his courtiers rather than the king himself. That court started to devour itself as members of the inner circle attempted to dump culpability for the farrago on each other. To try to distance Brown and Balls from the debacle, Damian McBride spent Saturday afternoon on the phone to journalists of Sunday newspapers. He was spinning all the blame on to Douglas Alexander, Spencer Livermore and Ed Miliband. Several reporters were successfully persuaded that they were at fault for pushing Brown towards an election and then getting last-minute cold feet. As McBride rubbished other members of the Prime Minister's inner circle to reporters, he was caught in the act by Livermore, who yelled at the spin doctor: **"What the fuck are you doing?"** McBride retorted that he was obeying orders from Balls: **"I've been told to by Ed."** The two aides screamed at each other in front of civil servants until Sue Nye dragged them out of the room._

_Many relationships in the Brown court were permanently poisoned by this calamitous episode. Alexander and Miliband would never again trust Balls and McBride. An utterly disenchanted Livermore, who was least skillful in deflecting blame for a debacle that had many authors, left Number 10 six months later. The fratricidal spinning and the interview fiasco added tactical foolishness to strategic stupidity. Gordon Brown was supposed to be the great chess player of British politics, the man who always thought a dozen moves ahead. The legend was exploded that weekend when the supposed grandmaster checkmated himself.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The heat generated beyond Number 10 was nothing compared to the fury within it. Balls and McBride seized control of the agenda, and decreed that the principal scapegoat was the election coordinator, Douglas Alexander. Alexander himself offers a charitable explanation for this: **"Both were trying to deflect attention elsewhere as a way of protecting Gordon Brown, and I was merely the fall guy." ** But suspicion rapidly arose within Number 10 about Balls' true motivations. One observer who witnessed the drama unfold says: **"He and McBride were not trying to protect Gordon Brown-they were trying to protect Ed Balls. Balls worried about his credibility, and once the election was called off, he had to protect himself and ensure he was nowhere near the blame."** Paul Sinclair, who was working as a special adviser for Douglas Alexander at the time, was one of the figures to be phoned by the journalists saying that an "officially sanctioned" briefing from Number 10 blamed the "inexperienced" Alexander for whipping up the early election fever. **"I couldn't believe they were blaming Douglas. It wasn't just utterly disloyal and scandalous; it was also crazy"** he says. Balls flatly denies he briefed against anyone. It was a defining episode. For the first time in his premiership, the dark heart of Brown's Treasury operation had shown it was still in business. Those in Number 10 who had hoped that Balls and McBride would operate differently now that Brown was Prime Minister were disillusioned. **"They were the same old paranoid attack dogs" **said Paul Sinclair. Since his earliest days as Chancellor, Brown had shown a weakness for letting his lieutenants exercise excessive influence over him. As early as 1999 Blair had felt it necessary to ask Brown to dismiss his press secretary, Charlie Whelan, because of his poisonous briefings. It was in Whelan's wake that Balls had grown in stature, rising to become unquestionably the greatest influence on Brown as Chancellor, good and bad. As Alexander had now been reminded, Balls did not flinch from deploying the dark arts of politics. Observers described him as a **"mafia politician" ** who believed that **"bullying, briefing and aggression were all legitimate tools."** That bred resentment, and must qualify some of the comments made about Balls. As one adviser says: **"The most important thing to remember about Ed is that he never, ever-ever-wanted to lose any argument. If threatened, he would attack; that makes enemies."** Again, Balls roundly denies these traits. Alexander himself was now a victim of that approach. He felt he had been poorly treated, and that **"it made it very difficult to have strategic conversations based on trust in the future."** Brown must have sensed this problem, even if he did not know about the briefing directly..._

_The briefing episode had a lasting effect on Brown's premiership. Not only had it lifted the lid on Brown's operation, but relations between Balls, Ed Miliband and Alexander, already badly fractured beforehand, now deteriorated so badly that the three would never trust each other again. **"The three pillars of Gordon's chancellorship-the two Eds and Douglas-were gone for ever"** says one.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_Balls admits: **"That was not a good (Pre-Budget Report.) Why? Because it was written for an election that we didn't call."**..Osborne knew he was on to a winner, describing the move as **"a desperate, cynical stunt from a desperate and weak Prime Minister"**, adding: **"He should have called that election and let us give the Budget. Instead, we had a pre-election Budget without an election."** Sensing the moment, he delivered words that struck home because their truth was entirely obvious to the whole House: **"A week after we put forward our own plans, the Prime Minister and the Chancellor scrabbled around in a vacuum, thinking of something to say...that is not leadership, it is "followship", Prime Minister."..**Brown displayed little adroitness at PMQs in July, and his plans to return with a newfound confidence in the autumn were now in disarray. At the session on 10 October, flanked by a visibly dismayed Darling and Harriet Harman, he had to endure Cameron's most impressive parliamentary performance to date. Excoriating the Prime Minister for his lack of honesty, the Opposition Leader asked: **"Do you realise what a phoney you now look?"** To howls of laughter from his party, he accused Brown of stealing Conservative tax plans and taunted him: **"You are the first Prime Minister in history to flunk an election because you thought you could win it."** Cameron summed up his damning indictment: **"Last week he lost his political authority. This week he is losing his moral authority...No conviction, just calculation. No vision, just a vacuum."**_

_Completing a terrible week for Brown, an ICM poll for the Sunday Telegraph put Labour on just 36 per cent and the Conservatives on 43 per cent. Reports circulated of disaffected Blairite Cabinet ministers, including Charles Clarke, Stephen Byers and Alan Milburn, decrying Brown for his **"lack of vision."** The first stirrings against Brown's leadership date to this week. The large ranks of the discontented-those who believed he should never have become Prime Minister-now had their proof.-Brown At Ten: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_The Prime Minister who presented himself as a spin-free break with the artifices of his predecessor was now seen as a manipulator obsessed with pursuing narrow partisan advantage. The self-described conviction politician was exposed as a furtively calculating politician. Worse, a calculator who miscalculated. The opportunity to have a new relationship with the electorate and start afresh was squandered. A year's work was undone in fourteen fatal days. The character question about Brown was revived. There was a reawakening of the Cabinet's misgivings about his temperament. His credibility was diminished in the eyes of the media. His Tory opponents were invigorated. David Cameron was gifted a second honeymoon with journalists who again became respectfully interested in the Tory leader. Having won the game of election bluff, Cameron was positioned to scorn Brown for a **"humiliating retreat"** and pretend that the Tories had always been confident about facing the country. **"I am disappointed"** he claimed. **"I wanted an election from the moment he walked into Downing Street because I don't believe he has a mandate and I want to take our arguments to the British people."...**On Monday morning, Jack Straw conceded the obvious: **"The opinion polls are one of the factors that we take into account. It would be ridiculous to suggest otherwise, and I don't think anybody is doing that."**_

_One person did try to pretend otherwise: Gordon Brown. He made a painful position even more excruciating for himself by insisting that the retreat had nothing to do with the polls. Everyone found this incredible and would have been even more derisive had they known just how much secret polling he had commissioned in the weeks leading up to the debacle...Many of the journalists, just like the Labour Party, had been marched up the hill and down again by the Grand Old Duke of Fife. His honeymoon with the media was definitively over. Reporters dropped any deference as they taunted Brown to admit that he had run away from the country because of the turn in the polls. They were mocking to his face when he claimed that he was so keen to **"deliver my vision"** that he would have called off the election even if the pollsters had told him he would have won with a majority of 100. This untruth was so transparent that he set himself up for further laceration when he faced David Cameron in the Commons two days later. The Tory leader jeered: **"He's the first Prime Minister in history to flunk an election cos he thought he was going to win it!"** _

_The Tories fell about laughing. On the benches behind Brown, there was a funereal silence and matching faces..._

_The following day, Alistair Darling rose to deliver a pre-election financial package when there was no longer an election. On the Saturday that Brown called it off, the two men agreed that they should pull the inheritance tax cut hastily cobbled together in imitation of the Tories. In the words of a Treasury minister: **"We were told to slam everything into reverse."** Only they couldn't. A dismayed Darling was told by his officials that it was too late: the Pre-Budget Report was already at the printers. The Chancellor's wife would later confide to friends: **"It was not Alistair's PBR."** This was true: it had been dictated to the Chancellor by the Prime Minister...When he addressed MPs, Darling made the announcement on inheritance tax with not a drop of conviction. The most he would subsequently say in defence of it was that it had **"some merit"**-damning with the faintest of praise what was supposed to be the centrepiece of his first big occasion as Chancellor. Sitting beside him in the Commons, the true author had a glint in his eye, but it was swiftly apparent that Brown had again been too tactical for his own good._

_Rather than trump his opponents with this manoeuvre, it looked as though Labour was lamely playing catch-up. Responding for the Conservatives, George Osborne largely ignored Darling and went straight for Brown. **"He talks about setting out his vision of the country, but he has to wait for us to tell him what it is"** the Shadow Chancellor mocked a glowering Prime Minister. **"We all know this report was brought forward so it could be the starting gun for the campaign-before you took the pistol and fired it into your foot."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Gordon Brown's decision to call off the early election in October 2007 came at the end of a week that marked what one pollster called the **"most violent earthquake in public opinion for 25 years."** Not since the Faulklands War had a government's popularity changed so dramatically. Brown's personal ratings suffered a catastrophic slump, compounded by his contemptuously far-fetched claim that his decision to call off the election had had nothing to do with the polls. ..Faintly at first, but then ever more strongly, Conservative MPs began to smell fear wafting from the Labour benches, particularly following Brown's performances at PMQs. He had been poor from the start but it was only when the Commons returned after the summer recess, and against the backdrop of slumping approval ratings, that his own side started to appreciate how outclassed he was by Cameron at the despatch box. The contests became so one-sided that Cameron would exchange high-fives with some of his staff on his return to Norman Shaw South.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Brown's team concluded that all their woes had one cause: **"After the cancelled election, there was no way back" **says one Number 10 aide. However, attributing all the problems of the next two and a half years to this one source is simplistic; it was more a symptom than cause and Brown still had ample opportunity to turn around his premiership. But there was no avoiding the severity of the blow and assessments written during the 2010 election campaign identified it as a defining event of Brown's period in Number 10. Mattinson agrees: **"It was the defining moment of his premiership. Everything changed within just twenty-four hours."** Stephen Carter, who was to join the Downing Street team in January 2008, said the non-election was **"like scar tissue which led to an attitude inside Number 10 that we had just two years to make our mark."** Why had the episode been so destructive? One aide says: **"Our whole strategy had been built on the idea of strength and conviction. It was totally destroyed by not going for the election."** But it was not just Brown's reputation for strength that lay in tatters. When he had arrived in Number 10 in June, he had been determined to establish a new, clean image-to be a Prime Minister who wanted an honest dialogue with the public, and who would restore trust to politics. He had tangibly warmed to his "father of the nation" status; now, he had allowed short-term party advantage to cloud his judgement. Having previously risen above politics, he had allowed himself to be painted as a tribal opportunist. And it was not just his image-his election road map also lay in tatters. His plan to go to the country after a year and secure his own mandate now looked fanciful._

_The episode had also shattered Brown's team. Alexander and Livermore had been deeply wounded. Balls, despite calling the election right, had shamed himself by sanctioning briefing against close colleagues in the name of self-preservation. The ripples would be felt well into 2010's Labour Party leadership election, when Brown's three closest lieutenants would be found in opposing camps, with Balls and Ed Miliband running as candidates, while Alexander supported David Miliband's campaign.-Brown At Ten: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashback Justine has to them on the beach, with Sam being pushed down the slide and Daniel being pulled onto the beach: https://bit.ly/38MY19P  
https://bit.ly/2ILs8DT  
Daniel and Sam were referred to as the conference's "secret weapons":http://dailym.ai/2QfhBFe  
This is the flashback Justine has to the speech at conference:https://bit.ly/3aUVewz  
https://bit.ly/2waSX1F  
Justine organising her and Ed moving in together and starting a family, and some people being unsure if he was ready:https://bit.ly/2vmzjzf  
A lot of people suspected them of getting married for political purposes:https://bit.ly/3b7wPnR  
Justine insisting the boys like leafleting and Daniel objecting can be seen at 02:20 here:https://bit.ly/2Wc6QHu  
Justine went to a private school after a comprehensive:https://bit.ly/2WffrJA  
George & Ed B's debate is here:https://bit.ly/2IOXKZa  
The PMQs is here:https://bit.ly/2IJkaey  
Some of the references, including the Plastic Fantastic, the Awkward Squad, Gladys, the Doorkeepers, and Soames finding the bar are in the documentary Inside The Commons-here, with other parts linked: https://bit.ly/3aTcX7F  
For more about Tony and Gordon's infamous Granita deal, there was a film made about it (entitled The Deal) here: https://bit.ly/2xBQRIp  
Ed did buy Justine a coffee machine:http://dailym.ai/2ILo5Hw  
https://bit.ly/3aZtwir  
The AV referendum refers to the Alternative Vote referendum in 2011, which allowed the British public to vote on whether or not they wanted to switch to a voting system of proportional representation. Ed and Nick backed Yes, Dave backed No-No won, by a large majority: https://bbc.in/2Qh8RhN  
Palmerston is the cat belonging to the Foreign Office:https://bit.ly/3d1huqo  
https://bit.ly/3b0ddBF  
Lib Dems were concerned about Danny losing his seat, which he did:https://bit.ly/3d0etGY  
There were concerns Nick may lose his seat-he didn't this time, but in 2017:https://bit.ly/38Pxg4r  
https://bbc.in/2QhiLzR  
Gordon Brown infamously didn't fight a contest to become PM-he was hinting at calling a general election, but backed out due to low poll ratings, from which his leadership never recovered:https://bit.ly/2w7gksU  
https://bit.ly/33hof37  
https://bit.ly/2IJGa99  
The Marr interview with Brown:https://bit.ly/2Qh8T9x  
The 2007 Tory conference:https://bit.ly/33kAYSx  
https://bit.ly/33ms1bx  
https://bit.ly/2QioBB8  
George's inheritance tax announcement:https://bit.ly/2J1FbRX  
https://bit.ly/2QjAcjp  
https://bit.ly/2Ucsrgn  
https://bit.ly/2Qdlz15  
https://bit.ly/2Ua9j2A  
https://bit.ly/38UVgmN  
https://bit.ly/39PoZyK  
David's speech:https://cs.pn/2TS3cRp  
https://bit.ly/2TTdtg9  
https://bit.ly/2wYPEuq  
https://bit.ly/2ILUJsP  
https://bit.ly/2xH9JpA  
https://bit.ly/38SFPeL  
https://bit.ly/2QgWmCO  
https://bit.ly/2QiaE62  
https://bit.ly/2QfRMVh  
https://bit.ly/3d3JlWY  
https://bit.ly/2UcYFIc  
https://bit.ly/3aZFqsE  
https://bit.ly/2x174GI  
https://bit.ly/33l6M9J  
https://bit.ly/3d00WPD  
https://bit.ly/2UaeQpD  
Ed B does have a stutter and plays piano:https://bit.ly/3aTou6U  
https://bit.ly/33kDPuE  
Ed M and Ed B were two of Brown's closest aides, known as Brownites, whose rivalry with the Blairites (Blair's followers) characterised Blair and Brown's time in government:https://bit.ly/2vqGc2G  
https://bit.ly/38QrfEz  
https://bbc.in/33jxTSF  
https://bit.ly/3a2TIZv  
https://bit.ly/38LSSPa  
https://bit.ly/2QjrUbo  
https://bit.ly/3cZ8Icz  
https://bit.ly/2TOAuRx  
https://bit.ly/3d9FxDQ  
You can see a documentary about Brown and his team filmed just before Labour came to power in 1997 showing a young Ed M and Ed B, entitled Out Of The Shadows, here:https://bit.ly/39RJhaP  
Also a documentary partly dealing with the election that never was, "Gordon Brown: Where Did It All Go Wrong?":https://bit.ly/39UlPKe  
Brown had an infamous temper, and was known for throwing objects at his aides: https://bit.ly/2U48Fn6  
http://dailym.ai/3cVITdz  
https://bit.ly/39QUyIH  
Ed used to heckle David when Brown was PM:https://bit.ly/39QUPLJ  
Ed played David in PMQs rehearsals with Brown:https://bit.ly/2QeK12b  
David's love of blue Sharpies: https://bit.ly/2Wg30gD  
Nick's son asking him why everyone hated him:https://bit.ly/2IMLbh9  
The tax avoidance refers to Ed infamously avoiding inheritance tax on his father's will through a legal loophole:https://bit.ly/39RG9vJ  
http://dailym.ai/2xBTxpr  
"Saving the world" is an infamous slip-up Brown made in one PMQs:https://bit.ly/2QcBsoo  
Sarah describing Ed as "charming and dashing":https://bit.ly/2wUFif6  
Ed being shown cartoons of himself as Wallace:https://bbc.in/3aZsYJp  
http://dailym.ai/2IK6Rug  
David's dislike of Spongebob Squarepants:https://bit.ly/3aZtzL9


	8. Transatlantic Transactions, A Harem Of Hues And Financial Flirtations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which chips are not supposed to be green and economic terms are an acceptable form of flirting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my  
The reference quotes for this chapter deal with David's visit to the US, Obama's dislike of Ed, the time Barack tucked David up in his bed, and the Cameron and Osborne children carrying Florence in a bag in the Downing Street garden.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Later that day, Cameron flies on Marine One back to Andrews, and then by Air Force One to Dayton, Ohio for a basketball game. The White House say they want him to see the interior of the US rather than just the coastal cities overseas leaders normally visit...For Cameron, the basketball game is largely an irrelevance, but **"for Obama, bringing the Conservative British prime minister in to Ohio-a swing state-flaunts his foreign policy credentials and underlines how he's improved America's image abroad"** reports the press. On the British side, Craig Oliver makes the most of Cameron being the first world leader to fly on board Air Force One: the BBC's Nick Robinson rates it even higher in PR terms than both leaders flipping burgers at the Downing Street barbeque the year before. On the flight back to Washington, Obama even allows the jet-lagged Cameron to curl up in the hallowed presidential bed.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_There would be several firsts on trip. I was the first foreign PM to hitch a ride from Washington on Air Force One. And when we landed in Dayton, Ohio, I would see my first-ever basketball game. Obama spent much of it explaining the rules to me, and I spent most of it pretending to understand. Travelling back on Air Force One, I was beginning to flag. It was about 3.a.m. UK time. **"Why don't you use my bed?"** Obama asked. He opened a door at the front of the plane, to reveal a double bed in its nose. As I leaned back on it, he proceeded to tuck me in with a blanket emblazoned with the White House crest.** "I bet Roosevelt never did this for Churchill"** he said.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_ **Hay-Adams Hotel, Washington DC** _

_I made it, albeit a day later than planned. The sky is a piercing blue. The sun lights up the White House, which glows brilliantly in the distance. This is the carefully-chosen backdrop for the prime minister's television interviews at the start of his two-day visit to the White House. It's clear that the message Downing Street want viewers to take away is simply summed up as **"If Obama had a vote, he'd vote for his friend David."** So, having asked the PM about all the worthy stuff, I drop in a question prompted by one of those characteristic Cameron indiscretions in a recent newspaper interview. The man who revealed that the Queen purred when she heard the result of the Scottish referendum recently blurted out that he was on pretty chummy terms with Obama. **"Does he really call you "bro?""** I ask. Cameron grins a tad sheepishly before replying coyly that normally it's more a case of David and Barack. It'll be interesting to see if the president's in on the joke._

_ **Blair House, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington DC** _

_The travelling hacks have been invited for a briefing by the PM in the president's official guest house just across the street from the White House. I find my attention wandering as I examine the crystal chandeliers, gilt mirrors and magnificent hand-painted wallpaper in this house, which is where every king and queen, president or prime minister you care to name has stayed over the past few decades. Then, one phrase jolts me out of my reverie. David Cameron says of one policy or another, **"In a future government, hopefully led by me..." **It is the first indication that I've heard that he is aware of his own political mortality, that he knows this may be his last-ever visit to the White House as a prime minister in his final weeks of the job.-"Thursday 15th January 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Own Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Today, the US and UK press corps are crammed into a White House briefing waiting for the Obama-Cameron news conference. It looks very glamorous on The West Wing. In real life it's anything but. It's cramped and shabby. I try to think of a good question to ask the two leaders. The theme is obvious: terrorism...._

_**The east room, White** **House**_

_The bromance, it seems, is well and truly on. Obama opens the news conference by welcoming his **"great friend and outstanding partner"** David to the White House, having teased **"commentators who'd got into a tizzy"** about what he'd really meant by calling him "Bro." Short of a hug for the cameras, Cameron could not have wished for more. _

_I ask first about security at home and then the question to which I really want to know the answer. Do you worry that what we are seeing may be linked to the decision of both the US and the UK to sit on the sidelines as a bloody civil war developed in Syria? The president fixes me with a stare. It's clear he really dislikes the premise of my question. First, he dismisses the idea that the violence out of Syria is occurring because we're **"sitting on the sidelines."** Then he denies that that's what the US and UK have been doing. Finally, he asks me to ponder the notion that we would all have been safer if Syria had been invaded. This is, he argues, a heartache and a tragedy that cannot be confronted with weapons. Interesting. Revealing. A tad defensive, I think. I chose this question because I know Cameron regrets that more was not done to help the Syrian rebels in the early days of their conflict with President Assad. I know, too, that Obama dates many of his political problems back to the moment he first prepared his country to take military action against Syria, in response to the use of chemical weapons, and then pulled back._

_Sadly, the exchange won't make its' way on to the TV bulletins. Once again Obama served up not so much an answer as a seminar, less a soundbite and more a full banquet with multiple courses. It's a fascinating reply and hopeless telly.-"Friday 16th January 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Before they have too much time to mull it over, a message is received that Obama wants to speak to Cameron: **"Hey, brother, I know you had a tough few days. I totally get it."** This is the president at his most gracious. Deep down, he is conscious that the White House haven't made it easy for their friend across the Atlantic...Obama has been monitoring progress closely in the Oval Office when the news of the (Syria) defeat comes through. His own anger and dismay are not so much directed at Cameron personally, though he immediately realises that the defeat will make American action much more difficult, perhaps impossible. Obama himself likes Cameron, and admires his fight to secure parliamentary backing....The White House primarily blames Ed Miliband and Labour for the Syria vote fiasco. Obama's team lobbied Miliband hard to support the government, assuming he and his party would be behind the action, but he refused to do. **"We just couldn't see how the Labour Party could oppose military action against such a regime for using chemical weapons"** was their response. They suspect Miliband of prioritising political advantage over national security. Obama's team respond to **"personalities and stature"**: they don't regard Miliband as impressive on either. By the summer of 2014, they conclude they would rather see Cameron win the general election, even if it means a referendum on British membership of the EU, than have Miliband in Downing Street._

_Miliband has a far from successful meeting with Obama in Washington on 21 July (2014), described as **"awkward"** by many, which further underlines the Labour leader's lack of gravitas. A starker contrast with Blair's pre-election visit to see President Clinton in 1996 could hardly be made. In April 1996, John Kerr, the British ambassador, said: **"There is no doubt that Blair had the scent of victory about him, and he was already the big draw in Washington."** Miliband's trip, however, is a paltry affair, involving little more than a **"brush-by"**, as Americans describe it, with Obama. Miliband has already hired as his senior election aide David Axelrod, Obama's influential adviser for the 2008 election, though it does little to warm up relations with Washington. Miliband's team expect much more help and understanding, believing there to be a special bond between the Labour Party and the Democrats. The White House is not impressed either by Labour's subsequent reaction to the visit. For Miliband, it is a signal failure for a man desperate to acquire the credibility of a prime minister in waiting.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_**"I've learnt something about David Cameron"** Obama says in his after-dinner speech (in 2012). **"He is just the kind of partner that you want on your side. I trust him. He says what he does, and he does what he says."**** "There are three things about Barack that really stand out for me" **replies Cameron. **"Strength, moral authority and wisdom."** It clearly means much to Cameron that he and Obama spend so much time together. Number 10 estimates they have an unprecedented nine hours together on the (2012) trip. In the private flat in the White House, they discuss their families, which is a genuine shared and real bond.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Cameron's team seize on the idea of their own pre-election visit, to publicise their man's credentials and stature ahead of the campaign. One of his senior aides is deputed to open up discussions, mentioning it first to Obama's team during the NATO summit in Wales in early September, which he follows up at the G20 in Australia in mid-November. Cameron's National Security Adviser Kim Darroch flies out to Washington to finalise the plan with Peter Westmacott, the British ambassador. The White House are wary of leaving it as late as February, as **"it will look too nakedly like a pre-election boost."** True, Cameron had gone to Washington in March 2012 and given Obama his whole-hearted support, which** "verged on endorsing him for a second term."** The White House sees the need for reciprocity: **"It is right for us to be doing our bit for him."** A plan for Cameron to address a joint session of Congress during the visit, which will provide strong images on television news, is dropped because Congress is not in session on the favoured date in mid-January: the Republicans are having a retreat in Hershey, Pennsylvania. The White House nevertheless are happy to offer two slots to Cameron rather than the usual one: a full-length bilateral meeting with the president, and a working dinner. When Miliband's team hear about it, they are incandescent, but powerless. They complain to the media, which is exactly what Cameron's team had hoped for, as they know it will backfire. Cameron's aides are cock-a-hoop at the messages flowing in from a particularly effusive White House, who bill the trip as an **"official visit", **and invite Cameron to stay overnight in Blair House, which carries more prestige than staying at the British Embassy. On 15 January 2015, the day that they fly over, a joint article by both leaders appears in The Times, committing them to work together to spur growth against a future economic downturn, against terrorist organisations...,and to stand up to Russia in Ukraine. ...The White House certainly are laying out the red carpet. Photographers capture the leaders walking amiably from the residence to the West Wing. After drinks, Obama leads both teams into the Blue Room for lunch, where he suggests removing jackets, before making remarks about how much he has enjoyed working with Cameron over the last four and a half years. **"We have done a lot of work together"** and built good relationships, he says, and **"he wants to place that appreciation on the record."** Cameron's team glow at the warmth of the mood music...**"We got the impression from the president's team that they hoped for a much stronger international presence from the UK after the general election"** recalls one official...Obama appreciates Cameron's intervention. It is clear to them he would prefer a Cameron victory in four months' time. As the party are leaving to return to the UK, one of Obama's senior team says, **"We are rooting for you guys."** Even those apt to find the president aloof are pleasantly surprised by how personable he is on the trip. Obama's relationship with Cameron is as close as he gets to overseas leaders, which the White House takes pains to highlight.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_ After the PM leaves for his dinner date we learn that it was one of his predecessors, none other than Winston Churchill, who convinced the occupants of the White House that they needed a guest house. During one of Churchill's visits to the White House, Franklin D. Roosevelt's wife Eleanor found him wandering towards the family's private quarters, cigar in hand, at three o'clock in the morning. The prime minister had to be persuaded that this was not time to rouse the sleeping president to resume their conversation._

_And if the nocturnal prowling of Britain's wartime leader wasn't bad enough, on another occasion FDR knocked on Churchill's bedroom door and was cheerily bidden to come in. The great man had just emerged from his bath and was striding around dictating letters. He was stark naked. Addressing his startled host, he said **"You see, Mr President, I have nothing to hide from you."**_

_History does not record what the first lady had to say about the episode but it was after this that official guests were moved from the White House to Blair House.-Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Clegg and his team were appalled by what they saw as Miliband's opportunism (over Syria). What might it be like to govern in coalition with this man after the 2015 general election? The Lib Dem leader said it was essential that the party rule nothing out: its future depended upon an open-minded capacity to govern with the larger parties, and to work alongside their leaders. But-months after the vote on Syria-some of Clegg's team were still wondering aloud if they would be able to work alongside Miliband or trust him._

_Similar thoughts crossed the mind of President Obama when he read a newspaper cutting explaining what Miliband had done. The Commander-in-Chief was furious, as President Bush had been with Michael Howard when he questioned aspects of the Iraq War. If Miliband became Prime Minister in May 2015, he would have to work with Obama for a year and a half until the latter completed his second term. This was not an auspicious omen for the Labour leader-a reminder that inaction, like action, has consequences. He might be able to secure the consulting services of David Axelrod, Obama's consulting guru in the 2008 and 2012 elections, as he did in April 2014. But winning the full confidence of the President himself would be a different matter entirely. When Jim Messina, one of Obama's most valued strategists, later told him that he had been hired by the Conservative Party and would be advising Cameron on how to beat Miliband, the Commander-in-Chief responded enthusiastically. "**Do whatever it takes"** he replied. **"I like that guy (Cameron.)"** Getting the PM re-elected had become a presidential objective.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D'Ancona_

_He (Ed) re-emerged in spectacular style in January 2009 for what a former government insider calls an "epic" row with Brown-the first of many-on the proposed third runway at Heathrow. Four months before Ed's appointment as Climate Change Secretary, in June 2008, David Cameron-trying to emphasise his **"vote blue, go green"** message-had ruled out a third runway under a Conservative government. Cameron's pledge only hardened Brown's own instinctive support for the runway-always keen on his **"dividing lines"**, the Prime Minister saw it as an opportunity to portray Labour and not the Tories as the party of business. Much has been written about Ed's stance on the Heathrow runway, including plenty of speculation that he almost resigned over the matter. David Muir and Douglas Alexander were alarmed to find themselves, on a trip to Washington, bombarded with calls from anxious Number 10 officials believing Ed would **"walk" i**n January 2009. **"It was interesting for us all to watch"** says one former Downing Street insider.** "Ed pushed Gordon fucking hard."** Advisers to both Ed and Brown say they never heard him use the word "resignation", but he did tell Gavin Kelly, the Brown aide who was handling the runway issue, **"I will not do this deal until I get much more",** that is, policy concessions. Ed's view throughout the negotiating process was that the expansion of Heathrow would make it near-impossible for the government to implement its pledge to reduce carbon emissions by 2050. Another Downing Street aide says Ed's strategy was **"to really dig in and make some big demands. At each stage, he would demand more. And each time you thought he would cave, he wouldn't."** Ed's obdurate approach came as a shock to Number 10's permanent secretary, Jeremy Heywood, who told Brown the matter needed to be resolved. **"Why is this new minister holding up the wheels of government like this?"** Heywood was overheard asking a colleague. Meanwhile on one occasion the Prime Minister was **"livid"**, according to an aide. He shouted of Ed, **"Get him on the phone. This is a total betrayal."**_

_Kelly says today: **"Ed and I had a very difficult, very acrimonious row over Heathrow when I was dealing with him at Number 10. We really took it to the limit on that; I didn't know how that was going to end up, to be honest, but he played hard, very aggressively...We were right up against the deadline and he didn't blink. It was probably the most difficult negotiation that I can remember having with a Cabinet minister. He got a lot more than anyone thought he was going to get."** The reality is that although the thought had crossed Ed's mind, he never came anywhere close to going through with resignation-or even threatening to do so. **"It would have been ludicrous to resign after just three months in the job"** he told friends later. Instead, while his special adviser Polly Billington briefed the press, especially The Guardian, that Ed was** "unhappy",** he took the only route he believed was open to him: Ed "**talked truth to power"** as his aides put it now, but in a private and not in a public setting. **"There were blazing rows"** says a former Cabinet minister. Ed's stubbornness in meetings-both one-to-one and Cabinet-shocked Brown. It also infuriated Ed Balls and Peter Mandelson, both of whom sided with the business community and argued that the move would create jobs-with the latter reportedly having banged his head on the Cabinet table in frustration (a claim he has since denied to friends.) Mandelson did, however, lend his considerable weight to support the position of Geoff Hoon, the Transport Secretary, who took it upon himself to push the case for the runway inside government and voice considerable frustration with Ed's blocking tactics on behalf of other pro-business Cabinet ministers. Anonymous quotes started appearing in the press accusing Ed of having **"gone native."..**The Climate Change Secretary's chief ally, however, was Hilary Benn, the Environment Secretary. Journalists and MPs spoke of a "**Milibenn"** tendency in Cabinet. At one meeting of ministers, Benn repeatedly and loudly interrupted Hoon's defence of the government's position. "**Stop heckling me"** Hoon barked back._

_A senior official describes another tense meeting with Hoon, Heywood and Ed. **"Jeremy clearly felt Geoff had given enough. But Ed refused to leave the room until he had a meeting with Gordon. He had gone red, almost like a child. He was clearly very emotional. Jeremy thought he was being unreasonable and puerile. But I don't think Ed gave a toss. He wanted concessions-and he won."** Supporters of Ed see the row over Heathrow as his coming of age in the Cabinet. He did not resign but in the end did win a series of concessions out of the row with Brown. Aviation's contribution to carbon emissions was to decline and airlines using the new runway would be required to use the newest, least-polluting aircraft...More crucially still for Ed, in return for agreeing to the compromise on Heathrow, he persuaded Brown to agree to commit to working extra hard for a positive outcome at the Copenhagen climate summit later that year. Ed had learned to negotiate with Brown while working with him at close quarters at the Treasury; he knew how to extract concessions from his old boss. -Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Downing Street. A strange row of a few tall, mismatched townhouses cowering in the shadow of the mighty Foreign Office._

_A little figure pops out of the shiny black door and sails down the road on a lilac-coloured scooter._

_**"Hello, Flo"** beams the first police officer she passes, his finger on the trigger of a machine gun. His colleague opens the iron pedestrian gate and the pink figure glides through, passing a photographer who is snapping away._

_As she weaves through the tourists on Whitehall, her knackered dad, clutching a baby doll and a little glittery bag, accompanied by a plain-clothes protection officer, tries to keep up with her, before they cross the road and disappear into a side entrance of the House of Commons. _

_This is Florence Cameron on her daily journey to nursery, and this is the only world she has ever known.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Nick Clegg shifted the receiver from his ear. David Cameron was properly angry this time. To be honest, since the coalition started he'd never heard him this angry. Which was odd, if you thought about it. Afghanistan, Libya. All those terror threats. And here he was, screaming down the phone about a £1.99 Waitrose bag._

_All right, it wasn't the bag itself that he was worried about. It was what had been in the bag that was the problem. His daughter had been in the bag._

_If you took a step back and looked at the whole thing, it was actually quite funny. But he wasn't stepping back. The opposite, in fact. At the moment he was talking about calling in the Metropolitan Police, and having Nick's chief political spokesman James McGrory arrested. Which wouldn't be funny for anyone._

_So this is what happened. The Camerons' nanny, a very nice lady called Gita Lama, likes to take the Cameron kids out to play in the Downing Street garden. Pretty garden it is, too, quite long and wide, with sculptures and trees and a little pond. Cameron's kids love it, and the Osbornes' kids love it as well. And one of the games they all like to play involves carrying Florence, who's one, around in this hessian Waitrose bag. She sits in the bag, and Gita or one of the older children picks her up, and Florence gets carted around, laughing and squealing and having a great old time._

_But then one morning the Downing Street press office gets a call from the Daily Mirror. They've been told the Prime Minister is in the habit of letting his daughter get carried around the Downing Street garden like a sack of old spuds, and would anyone care to comment?_

_Kabooom! _

_So who blabbed? Not Gita. No chance. Not any of the Downing Street staff. They know if they so much as whisper a word about any of the kids they're for the high-jump. So Special Operations are called in, and the records are pulled from Switch, and people start wandering around doing line-of-sight analysis, like it's Dealey Plaza. And this is what they discover. They discover that a few minutes before the Mirror phoned Downing Street, the paper got several calls from James McGrory. They also discover that there are several offices with a vantage point looking into the Downing Street garden. One of them is occupied by James McGrory. It's James who's been caught standing at the window of the book depository with gunpowder on his hands._

_Now, what Nick Clegg wanted to say is, **"Don't be silly. This is preposterous. He wouldn't do something like that."** The trouble is, it was precisely the sort of thing James would do....Nick Clegg slid the receiver back adjacent to his ear. **"OK, David...look...David, just...will you please listen a moment. I know James. He makes mistakes, like we all do. But honestly, this is preposterous. James simply wouldn't do something like that..."**-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_Then he turned to his brother. **"David, I love you so much as a brother and I have such extraordinary respect for the campaign that you ran and the strength and eloquence that you showed. "** Earlier, he had gone through this line with his team, querying any mention of "**love"** at all, adamant that he couldn't just say "**I love you"**-insisting that in his family, **"We don't say that!"-**Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_And one of the greatest advantages of the set-up was having my closest colleague living next door. The Osbornes started off staying at their home in Notting Hill, but in August 2011 they decided to move into the No.10 flat. Not only were George and I good friends, but Samantha and Frances were close, and our children became close too. Nancy (George's goddaughter) and Liberty Osborne (my goddaughter) would take it in turns to make unbelievable messes in either of our kitchens through their cooking experiments. And Elwen (George's godson) and Luke Osborne would play various sports in the garden. On Monday nights they would have art classes together, something we have continued with since we all left Downing Street._

_Did the dads ever argue? Often, but never with anger. Together, we found Downing Street a happy place to live and work.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_**Indeed, I think if you think about early Cameron, people were saying the same things about early Cameron-"You know, look at what he's saying, about hug a hoodie"-and I know people sort of now take the mickey out of him for hugging a hoodie, but actually he was trying to make a serious point about criminal justice and why people committed crime-his stuff on the environment..and I remember having arguments with people, including Gordon Brown, because, I must say, I thought Cameron was more serious about it...and it may be that the financial crisis was the thing that knocked him off, knocked him off that.** -[Ed Miliband, speaking about David Cameron in October 2016](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5bV0HFHYzg)_

_Ed: **I think one of the most important things about tackling climate change is that it remains cross-party...and I think sort of Claire's brief and the way she's gone about it is sort of really important, because, if I can put it slightly cheaply, you need to be a pain in the arse with all of your fellow colleagues in government!...And I think both with her determination and her willingness to be a pain in the arse with her colleagues, I think Claire is obviously serious about doing this...One of the reasons we've punched above our weight is partly leadership domestically, so we've got some moral authority..**_

_Claire: **And we actually enjoy a rather remarkable cross-party consensus-I mean, we do needle each other about different things...And I do have to pay tribute to Ed, I mean, one thing I will say is that I think it was one young Dave-D Cameron who really lit the fire underneath this-**_

_(Ed grins)_

_Claire:-**Ed got-Ed got on board-**_

_Ed(laughing): **D Miliband, I thought you were gonna say! I wasn't going to-but he (Cameron)-he started it, he started it, actually.**_

_Claire:** Which-whichever D it was**-_

_Ed (laughing):**....Yeah-**_

_Claire:-**it was actually this guy (Ed), this gentleman, who then persuaded his leader and Chancellor that this is really worth doing. It was a really tortured debate and it was a really remarkable (Climate Change) Act.**_

[ _ -Ed Miliband, speaking about David Cameron and his (David's) minister Claire Perry in June 2018 _ ](https://policyexchange.org.uk/pxevents/ten-years-on-from-the-climate-change-act-successes-and-shortfalls/)

* * *

_"I might appear confident and chatty, but I spend most of my time laughing at jokes I don't find funny, saying things I don't really mean-because at the end of the day, that's what we're all trying to do; fit in, one way or another, desperately trying to pretend we're all the same."-Forbidden, Tabitha Suzuma_

_""You're not going to....You won't try to keep me away from Dex, now that you know I'm totally fucked-up?"_

_""I think maybe it's good for Dex to be around some fucked-up people" he said._

_No-one had ever said I'd be good for someone. "You really think that?"_

_He sucked down the last drops of whiskey. "I have to, don't I?""-Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_ _

_I swear,_

_I most solemnly swear on all the bric-a-brac_

_of summer loves, I know_

_you not._

_-The Exorcists, Anne Sexton_

* * *

"Descending" Craig says with a dig in David's ribs.

David thinks that he says something, but a moment later, Craig taps him again. "David?"

David feels himself jump. "Oh. Sorry." He tries for a laugh. "Yeah. Sorry."

Craig gives him a long look, brow creasing. "You-ah-you all right, Prime Minister?"

David gives him the smile, the one he's been managing all day. "Yes, of course. Absolutely fine."

Craig gives him another look, but David turns and stares out of the window, feigning interest in the clouds.

It's the same smile he's been giving all day. All night, to himself in the mirror, every time he's woken up.

Sam hadn't been fooled by it, but then Sam's never fooled by it. She'd turned over, propping herself up in bed on one elbow to look at him.

"What is it?" she'd said simply, watching him.

David had managed a smile, unsure quite how it crawled to his mouth. "What's what?"

Sam had just watched him. It would have been easier if she'd said something-but then, that's why he always ends up telling her. Because she knows how _not_ to say anything.

Just how to look. It's one of the reasons David sometimes thinks she'd make a great politician, herself.

"Is it Ed Miliband?"

Another reason is that she's too good at asking the question no one wants to answer.

David had taken a long breath, suddenly too aware of the duvet over his chest, of his heart pounding. "Why would it be him?" he'd said, and only a second later had he realised that that might be a question he didn't want the answer to.

Sam's eyes had met his, then-gaze sharp, dark blue, and her hand had touched his, very gently. "Because you're closer to him, Dave. And today, you had to-"

David had only frozen for a second. He knew Sam would notice-Sam always notices.

"It was just PMQs" is all he'd managed, and it was then that Sam had said "There's nothing _just_ about PMQs though, Dave.""

David had frowned. It sometimes doesn't hit him-whatever he's said in PMQs, whatever Miliband's said to him-until afterwards. And sometimes not even then.

Sometimes, he feels himself pushing it down, telling himself he'll think about it later. That he'll wonder if it was harsh or too harsh, then.

He never does end up thinking about it. And it's only sometimes when he turns to Sam afterwards that he remembers that other people probably wouldn't be _able_ to not think about it.

"It's not Miliband" is all he'd managed, and he'd known Sam didn't believe him. He'd known that when Sam's hand had circled his back gently, one hand stroking his hair.

David had managed to drift off like that, with something tight and gnawing in his chest. Something like guilt.

He'd made sure to hug all the kids tight before he left that morning-especially Nancy.

"I'll be back on Saturday" he'd promised, holding her tight, tugging at her ponytail, reassuring himself of the sweet solid warmth of his daughter. "And then it's your party on Sunday." He'd looked at her carefully, taking in the big blue eyes, so like Sam's. "Are you sure it's all right that Mr. Key's going to be there? I could always go back to Downing Street and meet him in the morning and then come back-"

"No, it's fine-" Nancy was nodding, her ponytail bouncing. "Honest, Dad-"

David had examined her face carefully, and then pressed a quick, fierce kiss to the tip of her nose.

It's a lot easier to think about that than the fact that he hadn't answered Sam's question.

Or the one thing he's been trying not to think about.

_You must know you're gorgeous._

David's stomach contracts and swoops, as though the plane's just lurched out of the sky.

What the-what was he-

He can never finish the sentence in his head, which might be the very worst part.

Because he doesn't even know what he's asking himself.

Why did he say it?

Why did he _think_ it?

Does he think-

For God's sake.

For God's-

He'd just blurted it out. That's the worst bloody thing about it.

Miliband had said "Chance would be a fine thing" in that little voice, and David had glanced at him, feeling irritated, because typical bloody _Miliband, _with the martyr act, and he'd just looked-

Huffy and geeky and-

God, he'd just looked-

And David had blurted it out.

He hadn't even known he meant _gorgeous _until he said it.

And God, what does_ that_ mean?

Nothing, he's tried to tell himself over and over. Nothing.

It's just-crossed wires.

A mix-up.

His thoughts misunderstanding.

That's all it _can _be.

They hadn't said anything more about it-but other people had been coming up by then, and-but it's not as though they _needed_ to.

He's not going to see Miliband until next week, after all.

And something about that aches in David's chest.

He's caught himself reaching for his phone four times already, just to-

Talk to him?

Know he's there?

It's _Miliband_, for God's sake.

And then he'll end up thinking of that odd moment, standing at the top of the stairs, when Miliband had said_ Yeah_, a little faintly, and just stared, and something had swooped in David's chest and then he hadn't been able to not stare back and-

Well.

He's not sure.

David hates not being sure.

He stares at the window and groans silently. It's then that he looks down and realises that somehow his damn phone has ended up in his hand again, and he's staring at it with no idea if he wants to talk to Miliband or not.

The one upside, he reflects somewhat grimly, is that at least today he's seeing Barack.

* * *

"Look-" Barack spreads his hands, once the cameras have been cleared out. "You cannot say we're not laying on the full treatment here."

David lets himself grin a little, grateful for the ease of the conversation. It keeps his mind safely away from Miliband. And the House of Commons, altogether.

Which is ironic, since remaining in his current position in the House of Commons is part of the reason he's here.

"Must be easy when you've got 70% plus approval ratings" he says, leaning back to gaze out over the White House lawn, while Barack laughs next to him. "And when you're able to stand your Speaker-"

"See, approval ratings are the easy part of having two dominant parties-"

"I appreciate the boasting-" David finds himself suddenly relieved when Barack laughs.

He's not exactly awkward, but then Barack's not like most of the leaders he has to deal with.

"Anyway, bro-" David used to wonder if Barack was sending him-or all of them-up a little by calling him that. These days, he's a little more self-assured.

It reminds him of Miliband, for some reason.

But Barack's saying, "How's the family doing? Sam and the kids-"

David wrenches his mind back to the conversation. "They're good. It's Nancy's birthday on Monday, so we're having a get-together at Chequers over the weekend."

"Should have timed my trips better." Barack clicks his fingers. "Might have got myself an invitation, like Key."

"Well, you'd have been top of the list-"

Barack laughs, but this reminds David uncomfortably of the fact that he hasn't invited Miliband to Nancy's party yet.

"Well, we got her a few books-ones Malia and Sasha loved. She's a bookworm, isn't she?"

David laughs. "She made me read all the Harry Potters to her. Now, she's reading them to Flo-"

"These are pretty-not _similar-"_ Barack shakes his head. "Malia calls them dystopian or something. Like the Hunger Games. You can ask her later."

"Well, hopefully, it'll help out. I mean, Nancy's been struggling a bit lately-"

Barack's forehead creases. David sighs and relates a very condensed version of what Nancy had told him last week. Barack's one of the people who can understand what it's like to have a preteen daughter.

Barack winces when David's finished. "Poor kid. How did Sam take it?"

"Well, she wanted to bury someone-"

Barack snorts. "So would Michelle. In fact, I don't think whoever the guy was would still be breathing-"

"Well, Miliband nearly wasn't-"

"Miliband?" Barack's brow furrows. "That socialist guy who wants to be Prime Minister?"

David laughs a little too loudly. The fact that Barack hasn't forgotten his dislike of Miliband is somehow both more and less of a relief than it should be.

_I'm sorry. Honestly. I think I've really got us-_

_Bro, it's OK__

_I think I've got us in a pickle this time. All of us-I thought-Nick and I thought he'd listen-_

_David, I'm not angry. I know you did your best. It's that little backstabbing socialist rat I'm mad about._

Now, Barack's tilted his head. "How's Jim working out for you, by the way?"

"Godsend." David takes a gulp of his own wine. "Helping to push Miliband further away from Downing Street every bloody day."

"Well, that's what I told him. _Go over to Britain and make sure that socialist Ed Miliband doesn't get into Number 10._ Don't even _talk _to me about Axelrod." Barack shakes his head, his jaw tensing a little. "But Jim's the better. You got the better end of the deal on this, trust me."

"I believe you." David shakes his head. "But he knew."

"Knew what?"

"About Nancy. She'd told him, and-" David shakes his head. "I mean, he didn't mean to keep it quiet. We sorted things out-not until I'd had to scream at him, though.

Barack grimaces. "100%. If it had been Malia or Sasha-"

"I know." David decides not to mention Miliband's remarks about the NHS. Barack dislikes him enough as it is.

(David still remembers one of the first times they met after he became Prime Minister, exchanging stories about moving into residences, and then Barack's remark-_Must be hard with four kids, though._

Barack's eyes had widened only a second later, his face crumpling. _Oh God-sorry, bro, I didn't mean-_

David had already been shaking his head, hand on Barack's arm-_It's fine. We do have four-_something like relief settling into his stomach, chest, the question marks that always seem to hover around Ivan's name for so many people shattering.)

Now, he's glad of the decision not to mention Miliband's latest opinions, as Barack turns to squint at him. "Didn't I hear you two have got a bit friendlier?"

David freezes, but only for a second. "Who told you?" he says lightly. "Helle?"

Barack snorts. "No-one regrets any image taken more than Helle and that selfie." He winks. "Except for Miliband and that bacon sandwich."

David laughs, and tries not to feel cruel.

"Well" he says, keeping his eyes on the lawn and praying he won't blush.

Praying he won't-

Fantastic.

This is what Ed bloody Miliband has turned him into.

Someone who can't stop blushing at his name.

"It's always good to keep the lines of communication open" he remarks, hoping he sounds casual, off-hand. "Of course, this would be a problem you don't have to deal with" he points out, turning to flash Barack a wink.

Barack grins back. "Hey. You deal with it better than I could. If I'd had to be best friends with _Romney-"_ He's shaking his head, already laughing at the thought.

"Well-" David's about to say _We're not friends,_ but thinks better of it.

"But Miliband-" Barack grimaces. "It was bad enough spending 40 _minutes_ with him-"

David thinks of Ed's unabashed love for all things American and Obama and guilt twists viciously in his chest.

"Actually" he says, before he can stop himself. "He's not so bad to spend time with on occasion."

He takes another gulp of wine and tries not to imagine the expression on Craig's face if he'd heard that.

"Hey-" Barack's mouth twitches. "Remember whose bed you slept in."

David almost chokes.

Barack actually leans forward before David manages to regain his breath and thoughts all at once. "Ah-how is the plane?"

Barack winks. "Bed still broken."

"Hilarious-"

_Please don't mention broken beds._

_Not while I'm still thinking Miliband's name_.

"I mean, Michelle might have got suspicious-"

"I needed a _nap-"_

"Well, hey. Don't go thinking about offering _Miliband _a bed anytime soon-"

David manages not to freeze this time.

He's fairly sure he does blush, though, and curses himself.

Oh God, is this what it's like to be Miliband _all the time-_

But right now, he can't think about it, so he meets Barack's eyes with a grin. "Oh, don't worry" he says, trying not to picture Miliband's long lashes brushing his cheeks. "There's nothing happening on that score."

Not again, anyway.

* * *

The only thing worse than Alastair shouting is Alastair not shouting.

Ed had waited, on edge, as Alastair walked in, for the explosion.

The screaming.

Possibly a head slammed into the vending machine, as Balls swears to this day, with wide eyes and a pen shaken for emphasis, that he once witnessed.

But Alastair just greeted him politely with a smile. And they'd launched into debate prep.

And now, Ayesha's standing across from him, not quite donning a Scottish accent, but certainly matching Nicola Sturgeon for volume.

"If we offered you a coalition, how would you look the country in the eye if you turned it down, and allowed the Tories to walk back into power-"

"That is not what I'd be doing-"

"If you rejected a coalition with the SNP, you are taking David Cameron's hand and leading him back to the door of Downing Street-"

_Oh God, don't say anything about holding hands with David Cameron._

All he can think about now, right now, is Wednesday night.

His face buried in that pillow, ripples of pleasure aching sweetly through his body, thinking of Cameron's aftershave and soap. That brief sensation of his mouth, pressing itself into Cameron's warm, soft skin-

Ed shakes his head furiously, his fingers digging into the back of the chair.

Oh, God. Don't think about that.

He quickly glances back at Ayesha, but catching Alastair's face out of the corner of his eye, Ed knows he's noticed.

His stomach twists a little, but he fixes his eyes on Ayesha, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

It's later, as Ayesha pats his arm-"I mean, it's probably not going to be a huge element to the voters, but it's best to be on the safe side"-that Alastair says, with a small smile which is more terrifying than any other expression he wears, "Ed, can we have a quick word outside?"

Ed wonders if they've ever been the last words someone heard.

Alastair's still smiling as he leads Ed into the next, smaller office, which doesn't make Ed feel any more secure.

"Take a look at that" is all Alastair says with a grin, and gestures to a desk.

Ed looks, and gulps hard. On the desk lies six snapped pencils, and seven crumpled Coke cans.

Alastair leans in and his voice, almost a whisper, grazes Ed's neck. "That's what I did when I heard Cameron quoting you saying you wanted to weaponize the fucking NHS."

Ed gulps. Alastair's wearing a grim smile. Ed doesn't dare to ask if he's joking or not.

"Um-"

Alastair slaps him on the back, a little too hard. "Do not fuck up. Like that. Again."

He's smiling. This time, Ed knows he isn't joking.

Alastair claps his arm. "And just so you know, this has taken a fucking _monumental _amount of self-control. And I'm in possession of a fucking limited quantity of that. So don't make me chuck away any more of it. Get it?"

Ed manages a smile as Alastair claps his shoulder again. And thanks a God he doesn't believe in that Alastair isn't a mind-reader.

* * *

Sam doesn't want to kiss Mummy goodbye-Daniel doesn't, he just walks off into the corner of the room and the nursery lady's face gets all frowny.

But Mummy tries to cuddle him, but her arms feel all wrong, the way they always do.

"See you later, chaps-"

Sam runs when Mummy lets go of him, runs over to where Daniel's sitting, cross-legged, pulling at a toy Hoover in the corner. Sam taps his arm, tries to get his hands on the tube. Sam likes hoovering. Sometimes, when Mummy and Daddy are out, and he and Daniel are down in the basement, Zia lets them hoover with her. Sam likes it when she puts her hands on his back gently, and helps him move it back and forth. He likes watching all the dirt and dust and bad things disappear.

"Daddy will pick you up later, chaps" Mummy's saying from across the room. Daniel just puffs out his cheeks and heads over to the slide in the corner.

Mummy gives them a wave from the doorway. "Bye, gents." Sam doesn't know what a gent is.

And then Mummy's gone.

Sam looks at Daniel. There aren't any other children here. It's like at nursery when everyone else goes home for lunch, and it's just Sam and maybe one or two other ones-sometimes just Sam. He always has to stay until the end of the day when Daniel comes out, so Zia can get them together, even when it makes him tired.

Daniel slides all the way down so that his feet hit the bottom of the slide. Sam watches him get up. "When Daddy coming?"

Daniel bounces over to him and touches his shoulder. "It's OK, Sam" he says, and pulls Sam over to the hoover. "Look, we can hoover-"

He pushes the hoover back and forth and puts Sam's hands on it, like Zia does. "Here. This'll be our house." He pats the floor and then picks up one of the baby dolls from a cot and hands it to Sam. It fits nicely in Sam's hands.

He pats the baby's head, and kisses it. "No basement" he says to the baby, so it doesn't look sad, and then he looks up at Daniel. "No basement."

Daniel shakes his head and then squeezes Sam's shoulder. "No. No basement. You can be the daddy-"

"You be the mummy-"

"Yeah-yeah, I'll be the mum, and you be the dad-"

Sam pats the doll's head. The baby doll is safe here, away from basements. Now, the baby looks like it's smiling again.

* * *

Sam sighs and kneels down to look into Flo's big blue eyes. Her four-year-old daughter stares back at her innocently.

"Are you _sure_ you don't feel a bit better?"

Flo beams back at her brightly. "No."

Sam bites back a grin. "Are you sure?"

Flo beams. "Yes." She then promptly turns back to the TV screen and, without a beat, launches into a dance routine, punching her tiny fists in the air.

Sam can't bring herself to tell her off. Flo had had a slight temperature that morning, and she was erring on the side of caution by keeping her at home. Of course, halfway through the morning, Flo had brightened, though every so often, her conversation had been punctuated with "I miss Daddy."

So instead, she sighs, bends down, and gives Flo a kiss. "If you haven't been to school, we could go somewhere else."

Ten minutes later, Flo's squirming about, already wanting to run, as Sam carries her towards the nursery. Flo's at the age where she needs some interaction and Sam knows all too well that if her energy isn't worn off, she'll tear around the flat for hours.

"Here-" She smiles at the nursery attendant, lets Flo burrow her face in a little. Michael's doing the school run today, so Nancy and Elwen will be home a little later, especially if they have to pick up Luke and Libbie first.

"Hey." She gently lifts Flo's chin up, so Flo can look at her, the way she had on Flo's first day of school back in September, when Flo had burrowed into her legs suddenly, and Sam had bent down to pick her up and cuddled her, singing some First Aid Kit song into her ear, rocking her slowly. "We don't have to go in if you don't want to, little one."

Flo puffs out her cheeks and curls her fingers into her mum's jacket, clenching and unclenching them for a few moments, before she sets her jaw. "Want to go in" she announces, but she holds on to Sam's coat still.

Sam cuddles her gently. "Want me to come in with you?"

Flo nods, and Sam carries her in with a kiss on the head.

Once inside, Flo wriggles a little, her eyes darting around the room, lighting on the plastic slide. She points. "Mummy?"

"Yes?"

"Slide."

"Oh, you want to go on the slide?" Sam's carrying her across the room, Flo's ponytail brushing her cheeks as her daughter chatters. "Yes, slide-slide all the way _down-"_

There's a creaking, a little rustle of movement, and then two little boys' heads pop out, one on either side.

Flo is pressed up against Sam's ear when she decides to scream _"Sam!"_ at the top of her lungs, which leads Sam to very nearly prove all those headlines about working women multi-tasking correct by dropping her daughter and having a heart attack simultaneously.

The little boy with dark curls smiles, and Sam is struck by the difference it makes. A moment earlier, his face had been pale, drawn, dark eyes tense, watchful. Now, his cheeks crease in a grin, colour appearing. Even his eyes look brighter.

"Sam and Daniel-" Flo's wriggling, and Sam lowers her carefully, letting her run to the other Sam and his brother, who still watches warily.

The other Sam doesn't speak, but just touches Flo's hand. Sam herself crouches own, to look at Daniel. Up close, she can see that his eyes, unlike his brother's, are a striking grey-blue, and his hair an unusual soft brown, almost auburn. "Hi, Daniel."

Daniel stares up at her with his big eyes, but when she puts a hand on his shoulder, he reaches up and touches it. She's about to pull away, but when she goes to, Daniel's fingers curl around hers' and cling on. He stares up at her, eyes widening a little. Something aches in Sam's chest at the look.

She cradles Daniel's cheek and he just holds onto her hand tightly. The other Sam is holding Flo's hand, while Flo chatters far too brightly for someone who's supposed to be sick. "This is my mummy" she announces, dragging Sam's hand towards them. "And this is Sam and Daniel. Mr. Ed Miliband is their daddy."

Sam stills. Of course Mr. Ed Miliband is their daddy.

Dave had told her he'd talked things over with Ed Miliband, when he came back on Tuesday. "He didn't mean to. I mean, what he did was wrong-"

"Too bloody right it was wrong-"

"I just think-" Dave had stared straight ahead, for a few moments. "Some of the things he said-"

Sam had frowned, torn between holding the grudge and her curiosity being piqued. "What?"

Dave's shoulders had risen and fallen. "Just-some things about his kids. About his mum and-I don't know."

Dave's brow had creased, and then, voice lower and more deliberate than usual, "Sometimes, I think he's not quite....sure. About people."

Sam had frowned. Dave had gestured with his hands. "Almost as though-he doesn't know that's-how most people_ are-"_ He'd shaken his head. "Forget it. I'm rambling, but he_ is_ sorry-"

If Sam had been in the mood she was in on Thursday night, she might not have cared. But something about the look in Dave's eyes-distant, as though straining to remember something or catch something, some feeling he wasn't quite sure of-had jolted something in Sam's memory, and she'd found herself remembering standing in the Milibands' dining room, listening to Justine say _There's been a lot on at work-we weren't really sure who to invite-_

There'd been no photographs of their kids, Sam had noticed.

Now, she's cooled down a little. Dave wouldn't have forgiven Miliband if he wasn't sure he'd meant it, but something-

Something about Dave's words, and Justine's look at that party-

And now, the way Daniel's holding onto her hand.

"My daddy's not here" Flo's saying now, pulling herself happily onto the top of the slide. "My daddy's in America. Where's your daddy?"

"Not here" is all Sam says, stepping up to the slide, grabbing Flo's hand as she slides down so that he's almost pulled with her.

"Never know when Daddy's coming." Daniel says the words quietly. But his hand tightens around Sam's, presses it closer to his cheek.

Sam's heart aches, and this time, she puts an arm round Daniel's shoulders and cuddles him into her. She does it automatically, just _wanting _to cuddle him, cuddle the sad look in his eyes.

But Daniel huddles into her tight, trying to hold on, and Sam lets him. On impulse, she presses a kiss into his soft hair, and he cuddles into her, leaning his head on her shoulder. Sam watches Flo tug the other Sam back to the slide by the hand, Daniel's head on her shoulder, while she cuddles him tight.

* * *

Sam sits at the top of the slide. His hands curl and uncurl. He can feel Daniel and Flo standing behind him.

Flo's mummy is at the bottom of the slide. Sam's tummy feels tight and sad. He holds onto the slide at the top.

"Go on, Sam" Flo's saying, and her hand hits his shoulder too hard. It hurts, and Sam feels himself jump.

"Flo-" Flo's mummy's stepping up to the slide and Sam ducks his head down.

Last time he couldn't go down a slide, there were cameras and clicking sounds and Daddy's tissue had been rough and hurt his nose. Mummy's smile had been weird and too bright and she'd been saying _OK, Mr. Sam?_ and Sam hadn't been OK, but Mummy had kept saying _Sweetie, come on._

Now Flo's mummy is standing next to him and her hand moves to his shoulder.

Sam jumps away and curls up. He doesn't want her hand to come out and push him.

His cheeks are wet and he's crying. He curls up tight.

"All right, Sam-" Daniel's hand's on his shoulder. "All right, Sam-"

Flo's watching him. "Mummy-"

"All right-" Flo's mummy's moving closer. Sam crouches away against the plastic in case she pushes him like Mummy did.

"All right-Flo, you and Daniel just go back down the steps and give Sam a minute-" Flo's mummy isn't touching him but she's near him. Sam tries to look at her in case she pushes him before he can stop her.

"Hey." Flo's mummy's voice is nice and soft. She doesn't touch him. "Do you not want to go down the slide?"

Sam starts to shake his head, then shrugs. He doesn't know.

"I don't kno-don't know-" He stares up at Flo's mummy and wants her to know for him.

"All right-" Flo's mummy is crouched down and dabs his eyes-gently and nicely. It's soft, not like when Daddy does it. "It's all right, Sam-"

Sam sniffs when Flo's mummy wipes his nose with a tissue. She's touching him, but it doesn't feel bad or like a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces don't quite go right. It feels nice.

"Do you want me to lift you down?"

Sam shakes his head, staring down the slide.

"Do you want me to help you slide?"

Sam wriggles away. "No push-"

"It's all right." Flo's mummy's touching his shoulder, but it's not bad. "It's all right, Sam. No pushing."

Sam swallows hard.

"I meant I could slide you down."

"Nice when Mummy slides me down-" Flo's saying, but then Daniel says "She won't push."

Sam looks for Daniel because Daniel will know. Daniel's standing next to the slide, looking up. "She won't push, Sam-"

Sam's fingers curl a little. He looks back at Flo's mummy and nods.

Flo's mummy touches him then, one hand on his back and one on his tummy. "I won't let go, OK?"

Sam takes a deep breath and nods.

"OK, on three-_one-two-three-"_ Flo's mummy moves and then she's moving him down the slide gently. Sam puts his hand up and holds onto her sleeve tight, so that even if she does let go to be sneaky, he won't fall.

She doesn't, and then Sam's at the bottom. He blinks, looking around.

_"Yayyyy-"_ Flo's mummy claps him, and then Flo says, her voice high and loud, "Sam came down the _slide-"_

"Well done, Sam-" Daniel's head butts his shoulder gently. "Well done, well done, Sam-"

Flo's mummy's arms are still there. She bends down and cuddles him. "All right? You did that, brave boy-"

Sam can feel a big, big smile on his face. His heart is drum-drum-drumming. He puts his arms up, wanting to wriggle closer, and Flo's mummy picks him up, right up, and cuddles him.

It's a proper cuddle and Sam holds on tight for a bit, until Flo's mummy doesn't put him down. Sam loosens his fingers a bit then, and burrows his face into her shoulder, and she holds him nicely and doesn't let go.

* * *

This time last Thursday, if Sam had been trying to estimate when and how she'd next talk to Ed Miliband, she wouldn't have put any big money on it being now.

But a call to Bells and Jeremy later, here she is, waiting for him to pick up his mobile.

And then there's his voice, familiar, nasal and confused. "Hello?"

His voice.

Sam takes a deep breath, reminding herself to keep her own calm. "Hi, Ed. How are you?"

That wasn't too bad, she thinks. There wasn't a hint of the fact that she lay awake most of last Thursday night wanting to rip out his entrails. That has to count for something.

There's a pause. Sam bites her lip as she imagines him struggling to sound polite, while wondering who on earth she is and how she's got his number.

OK, maybe only a part of her has forgiven him.

"Um-I'm-I'm well. How-how are you?"

Sam gives him another moment of torture and then decides to put him out of his misery. "It's Sam. Samantha Cameron."

There's a small intake of breath. "Oh-oh, yes-I-I knew-" says Ed, who very obviously didn't know.

Sam doesn't have any time to dwell on that, however, because it's then that Ed blurts out "Is David OK?"

Sam blinks. "What?"

"D-David. D-D-Cameron. Is he-you know. Nothing's gone-"

Sam frowns. "As far as I know, Dave's fine. Unless the White House ran out of oatcakes or something. But no, no. He's fine. Why, have you heard-"

There's a sigh on the other end. Sam pictures his shoulders slumping in relief. "Oh. Good. No. No-I just-when you phoned, I-" Miliband's stumbling over his words. Sam feels a grin twitch at her mouth. "And I meant C-Cameron. Not David. Though obviously David. Obviously David-I-I mean-I mean that's his n-name-"

Ed's stuttering trails itself off into embarrassed silence but Sam goes still, suddenly _aware_ , the way she sometimes is, of something else there. Something other than embarrassment under the words. Something like fear.

Something a little _eager._

Sam shakes her head. "Anyway, I just wanted to ask you something." She turns to check the children, unable to simply leave it to the nursery staff.

"Oh-um-yeah, sure-"

"No, the thing is, I'm in the nursery at the moment, with Flo and your boys, and I was wondering-"

She doesn't get any further before she hears, a little louder now, "My-Daniel and Sam?"

"Yeah-" Sam turns to check them again. Daniel is holding the baby doll, rocking it gently. "Quiet down for Mummy-" he's telling it in a singsong voice.

"They're here" she says, turning back. "Daniel says Justine told him you were picking them up?"

"She didn't tell me." Ed's voice rises into a sharp point. "I mean-I didn't know beforehand, unless she's messaged me-"

Sam frowns, confusion wriggling into a question. How could Ed not know-

"God, I'm not going to be able to-" Ed's voice is smaller, taut. "How long does that nursery stay open-I-"

"Well, that's what I was going to-" Sam hurries into it, before Ed can babble his way into something else. "You see, it's just the boys and Flo here, and I was going to say, I could always take them back for a while. To ours'."

(It's easier to say _ours' _than the name of the street still, to Sam, at least.)

"What?" Ed's tone is slightly startled. "To Downing-"

"Yeah-" Sam cuts him off before he can say the word. "I mean, it's not going to be any trouble. Michael's bringing Nancy and Elwen home, so his kids will probably be here for a bit, too-" Sam checks her watch, but it's only four-they won't be back until around quarter to five, as is common when pick-up has to be done from three different schools, one of which still doesn't finish for fifteen minutes.

It had been as the kids were climbing about, handing dolls to each other, Flo scrambling halfway up the slide and sliding down again, that she'd said to the boys "When did Mummy drop you off, by the way?"

Daniel, who had been beaming as he cradled the baby doll, immediately stopped. The smile disappeared and he cradled the doll more tightly to his chest-almost protectively, as though it might be snatched away at any moment.

"Don't know" he'd said, hugging the doll tighter still now. "She went. She won't come back. Not for _ages."_

Sam had glanced at the other Sam, but he was babbling away to a doll, which both he and Flo seemed to be trying to push into Daniel's lap.

"Here-other bab-eeee-" Sam's dark curls had rubbed against his brother's arm.

"Daniel's Mummy" Flo had announced-Daniel had taken the other doll, turning it carefully into the crook of his arm. "And Sam's Daddy. I'm the nanny and these are our babies-"

"Why won't Mummy be back for ages?" Sam had asked them then, something in the crease of Daniel's brow itching uncomfortably in her chest.

At first, she'd thought neither of the boys were going to answer, but then, stroking the baby doll's head carefully, Daniel had said "Mummy's never back for ages."

Something about the look in his eyes-sad or distant, but fixed on the baby doll as he stroked under its' chin carefully-made something squeeze in Sam's chest. And she'd thought suddenly of that moment with Sam on the slide, when she'd leaned in to put her arm around him and Sam had flinched, curling up as far away as he could get.

Flo had interrupted her thoughts, patting the doll's head and declaring "But I don't have to sleep in the basement. Not like _your _nanny-"

Sam had watched them playing for a few moments and then broached the question slowly. "How would you feel about coming back with Flo?"

The bright look on Sam's face had been worth it.

Now, Ed stutters a little. "Well-that-but surely-wouldn't that be too much trouble-"

"Oh no-" Sam's grown up with a father and a stepfather, a stepmother and stepfather who are best friends, and so many siblings that on one memorable occasion one managed to slip off at a picnic and bring another child back, who was consequently lifted into the car with the rest of them, the error not being realised until they were ten minutes from home and the police had been summoned. "It'll be fine. Michael's kids will probably be there, maybe George's too-you can pick them up whenever you want. We'll let you in round the back way, like Bonfire Night-"

"Well-um-" She can hear Ed stuttering and knows suddenly that he's more nervous of talking to her than she is of speaking with him.

"Thank you." For some reason, Ed's voice seems almost to crack, which makes Sam frown. "Um-that'th-s very kind of you. Thank you-"

Sam frowns more.

"I'll th-see you later, then?"

"Any time-" A warm little body leans into her side suddenly and Sam glances down to see Daniel staring up at her. Sliding down to put an arm around his shoulders, she has to jostle the phone into position between her ear and shoulder.

"Bye" Ed had said quietly and Sam, feeling a stab of something like pity at the tone, says more gently than before "See you later, Ed."

He hangs up. Daniel almost immediately cuddles into Sam's side, burying his face in. Sam smoothes his hair, soothing him gently without knowing quite what he needs to be soothed from.

But she feels that same sharp, sad tug as she looks at his little face again, and realises suddenly that Ed never once asked to speak to either of his children.

She feels the tug again a few minutes later, when she's gathering them up to leave, and Daniel stands and carefully places the baby doll back in its' cot, tucking the blanket over it, before pressing a gentle kiss to its' head and then leaning his face against the doll's for a moment, stroking its' cheek with something sad and longing and lonely in his little face, as though hoping one of the baby dolls might hug him back.

* * *

Daniel's been to Flo's house before. Flo says it's the pretend house and that that's what her sister Nancy says, but it's hard to see because it's dark. Flo's mummy makes them all hold hands to walk inside so nobody falls in the dark though there's lots of big guards with black clothes on, and some who walk on either side of them.

When they're inside, Flo grabs Daniel's hand in hers'. "Look." She grabs Sam's hand in her other one and she's pulling them both down the same big yellow hall they went down last time. "Look, there's sweets in here-"

Daniel only gets a quick glimpse of a big room with a long table before Flo's mummy takes their hands and pulls them back out. "No-"

"But Mummy, that's where they have the _sweets-"_

"The sweets are there on Monday nights, Flo, and they're not _your_ sweets-"

"But they're for Daddy's friends and they_ let_ me-"

"No, Flo, there aren't any, and they're for Daddy and the Blue Team."

Flo's wriggling and then she points. She's got hold of Daniel's hand so it lifts up and points, too. "Can we-can we go in the camera room-"

"No, no-not at the moment, Florence, darling-how about-how about you wait for Nancy and Elwen to come home and then they can take you down to the camera room?"

"OK-" Flo's saying but Daniel says "What's the-what's the camera room?"

"The camera room-" Flo's mummy bends down and lifts Sam up, then. Daniel tries to see past her, in case there's a camera and she's going to make them have their picture taken without them knowing, but there aren't any cameras there, and they're just going up some stairs.

"It's a room where-" Daniel reaches up to take Flo's mummy's hand again, and Flo runs behind him so she can hold the bannister. "There's lots of cameras and security so that they can keep an eye on all the building." Flo's mummy smiles down at him and squeezes his hand. "Oh, watch yourself on the steps, sweetheart-because it's quite a big building, and they need to keep an eye on everything."

Daniel nods, now that he knows they're not the bad kind of cameras, but Sam's saying something, his hands clutching onto Flo's mummy's shoulders. "No camera take picture-"

"What's that, darling?" Flo's mummy is looking at Sam now, stroking his hair nice and tidy. "You don't want to see the cameras?"

"No-no-don't want-bad cameras-don't want to take pictures of me-"

"You don't want pictures taken of you?" Flo's mummy is pressing numbers into a keypad outside a door. "It's all right-no, no, no-one's going to take pictures of you, darling-"

Daniel tugs at her sleeve. "Mummy lets cameras take pictures of us" he explains, as she pushes open the door and Flo runs in ahead of them.

Flo's mummy frowns, but then Flo runs back, grabs Daniel's hand and tugs him in.

The flat's big inside-really big. The living room isn't one small room like at their house-it's big and there isn't just a TV and a couch, and bookshelves-there's a kitchen table and it goes straight into the kitchen, with no hallway or anything, everywhere stretched out and white. There aren't walls in between everything, the way there are at home.

Flo's mummy is putting Sam down now gently and Flo tugs Daniel's hand. "This is our bit, where we live, and we can go anywhere else, except when Daddy has meetings-"

"Right-" Flo's mummy is unzipping Sam's coat for him. "Here-arm out, good boy-does anyone want hot chocolate?"

Flo jumps up and down, and Sam's head spins round to look at Daniel. Mummy never makes hot chocolate, but then Mummy's never there to make things and she doesn't like sweet things.

"Yes" Daniel says quickly, before Flo's mummy can change her mind. "Yes, please."

Flo's mummy chucks him under the chin. Daniel wants to keep holding Flo's hand, but he likes Flo's mummy cuddling him, so he puts his arms up, pulling Flo's hand up too.

Flo's mummy just lifts him up and cuddles him in so that his head's burrowed into her shoulder. She feels nice and warm and Daniel wraps his legs and arms around. When Mummy lifts him up, it always feels like he has to hold himself up too, but Flo's mummy holds him properly.

She cuddles him for a few moments. Daniel closes his eyes and pretends this is his mummy for a moment, his arms winding tight around her neck.

After a moment, Flo's mummy puts him down and unzips his jacket for him. But she looks at him, just for a second, and she looks sad, as she slides his jacket off and then puts her hand against his cheek quickly, like a kiss.

She puts Daniel down, then rubs his cheek again. Flo grabs Sam's hand and tugs him over to the window. "Our climbing frame's outside, but we can't go on it now 'cos it's dark and cold-"

The door opens then, and Daniel turns round as voices suddenly fill the room. Sam steps back against the window. Daniel sees Flo squeeze his hand.

_"Mum."_ A girl with a brown ponytail storms in ahead of the others. Daniel stares at her for a moment, and then remembers that's Nancy, Flo's big sister. The boy behind her looks like Mr. Cameron. Elwen. Flo's big brother.

_"Mum-"_ Nancy storms towards her mother, holding out something small in her hand. _"Look."_

"Nancy, calm down-" Flo's mummy holds up her hand and then smiles over Nancy's shoulder at two other girls behind her. "Hi, girls-"

"Hey, Auntie Sam-"

Daniel peers at them from behind Flo's mummy and she touches his shoulder. "Kids-" Flo's mummy raises her voice a little.

"Mum, _look-"_

Elwen's talking to another boy. They've got the same uniform on. Daniel squints at it.

"Kids." Flo's mummy claps her hands together. "Could you all be quiet for a minute-"

Nancy swells angrily. Elwen falls silent and nudges the other boy. The other two girls are grinning at each other and one of them leans forward to whisper in Nancy's ear.

"Right." Flo's mummy claps her hands. "Daniel and Sam are-"

A man falls into the room-a man wearing glasses, tie dangling loose, gasping for breath. _"Never-ever again-"_

The boys burst out laughing. Nancy and one of the girls-the one with darker hair, almost the same colour as Sam's-do the same, while the other girl, who's in a dark red school jumper, rolls her eyes and pushes her face into her hands._ "Jesus_, Dad-"

"Hey." Flo's mummy looks at her and then says "Michael, are you actually breathing?"

The man struggles upright and nods. "Sorry. Go on, Sam. I'm fine. No trouble."

He then launches into a coughing fit. Flo's mummy looks like she might roll her eyes.

"OK-" She says it once and then says it again when the man stops coughing. Flo skitters across the room and throws her arms around the man's waist.

"Daniel and Sam are here" Flo's mummy says, and she puts a hand on Daniel's shoulder. "And this is Libbie, boys-" She points at the dark-haired girl, who Daniel remembers was at the Bonfire Night. "Who you've met before-and this is Beatrice and William-" She points to the girl in the red jumper and the other boy. "And their dad, Michael."

The man with the glasses, now hanging askew, is crouched down, one arm around Flo, as he waves at them. "Hello-"

"And you know Nancy and Elwen-"

Elwen grins at them. Nancy nods but shakes her hand, her eyes widening.

Flo's mummy sighs. "Nancy, what is it?"

Nancy draws in a breath. Elwen nudges her arm. "Show her."

_"Look"_ Nancy says, with a voice like thunder, and holds out her hand. Daniel, like everyone else in the room, leans forward to look.

In the middle of Nancy's hand, there lies a tiny chip.

_"Look!"_ Nancy almost screams.

Nancy's mummy peers very, very closely at it.

"Nancy-" She looks at Nancy. "This is a chip."

Daniel thinks this is very obvious.

_"Yes-"_ Nancy half-shrieks the word. "It is a _chip._ And it is _green."_

"Is it?" Nancy's mum peers at it a little closer and Beatrice says "It is _kind of_ green-"

"It is" Elwen says. "She came and showed me at lunch-the food at school is absolutely _disgusting-"_

"I don't like the food in our school" Daniel says, wanting Elwen to look at him.

Elwen does. "No, school food's _horrible._ We had beans that were black once-"

"I'm sure they weren't _black-"_ their mummy's saying.

"They were, and this is _green."_ Nancy's holding the chip out furiously. Daniel peers at it, feeling his head wrinkle. It does look green.

"Green" he says very carefully, and Nancy turns to her mother. _"See?"_

"It is green" William says, who's grabbed a piece of Lego that's lying scattered across the carpet. "Because I saw it at lunchtime-"

_"I_ didn't" says Florence, who's run back over to Sam and grabbed his hand, tugging him away from the window.

"Yeah, but that's because you were in the Infants'-"

"Infants lunchtime-" the boys are saying, and Flo scowls, tucking Sam's hand under her arm.

"This could have _poisoned_ me" Nancy declares, throwing the chip down on the table. "We should sue the school dinner ladies."

"No, Nancy, darling, we're not going to sue the dinner ladies-"

Nancy snatches the chip away as her mummy reaches for it. "No, I'm keeping it, I'm showing Dad-I _tried_ showing Uncle Michael-"

The man called Michael lifts his head suddenly. "Yes, while I was _driving-"_

Daniel reaches out for the chip as Beatrice trots up to look over Nancy's shoulder. Nancy lets him hold it, and Daniel turns it over and over in his hand.

"Don't damage it" Nancy warns him. "I want to photograph it for Watchdog."

* * *

"Where's your uniforms?" Florence asks Daniel, as they're going down the stairs. Daniel's staring up at the pictures on the wall. There are lots of different men and a lady. Some of them feel like Daniel knows them, like maybe he's seen them on TV.

Sam's holding Florence's hand. "Nursery-" he says quietly. Nancy steps in between Florence and Daniel and takes her sister's hand in one of hers'.

Her other hand comes up and takes Daniel's as they come round the corner of the stairs. Her hand is warm and tucks his in tightly. Daniel likes it and squeezes back tightly.

"We don't have uniforms" Daniel leans round Nancy to tell Florence. He stares at Nancy's school jumper, and then turns to look at Elwen and William, who've both just jumped hand in hand from the third step to the bottom. They're all wearing school jumpers that look black, or maybe dark blue, though Libbie's in more normal clothes and Beatrice has a dark red jumper.

"Lucky" William says, without looking round, and then Florence says "My uniform's upstairs." She tries to swing Sam's hand round and point back upstairs, and Libbie takes Sam's other hand, so that he looks round startled, with big, dark eyes.

"Upstairs-" Florence's voice rises louder and louder. "Mine, mine, _mine-"_

"Flo-"

"Flo, don't be noisy" Beatrice says, getting to the bottom first and then turning to hold out her arms, nearly bumping into a man in a suit who ruffles her hair as he dodges between Elwen and William. "Hey, kids-"

"Hi, Chris-"

Chris chucks Florence under the chin. Nancy spins round. "Chris, have you seen this chip-"

"Can't stop now, Nance, but I'd love to look at it later-" Chris ruffles his hair and gives Daniel a smile, as he and Sam watch him disappear further up the stairs. "Careful if you're going into the camera room by the way, you know what happened the first time.

"That's one of Dad's friends" Elwen explains from the bottom of the stairs. "He never stops going on about the first time when we went in and the alarm went off."

"Yes, and that was _your fault-"_ Beatrice holds out her arms again, as Elwen and William turn towards the room with the cameras-their mummy had told them "Why don't you take the little ones down and have a look while I get the hot chocolate ready?"

Florence lets go of Nancy and Sam's hands and launches herself happily into Beatrice's arms. Nancy steps down and holds out her arms. Daniel waits, biting his lip, while Libbie does the same, turning to Sam.

Daniel chews his lip. Nancy steps right up close, with her arms out. Daniel's still making up his mind when Sam jumps off the step, almost catapulting into Libbie's chest. Libbie hugs him tight for a moment.

It's when he sees that that Daniel takes a deep breath and turns to Nancy, who's patting her skirt pocket, where she's tucked the green chip.

"It's OK" is what she says quietly.

Daniel takes a deep breath and jumps.

Nancy catches him, her hands squeezing tight under his arms. She's warm and her ponytail brushes his cheek as she stumbles under his weight. She laughs and hugs Daniel tight against her, and he holds on, even when she lets him slide down, gripping his hand into hers' as tightly as he can.

In the camera room, Elwen puts his hands together. "Here, stand on my hands-"

"Yeah, I'll-" William grabs Sam under the arms and lifts him up to look at the cameras. Libbie's scrambling up onto one of the chairs, and Nancy helps Sam put one foot on Elwen's palm so he can look up. Florence is climbing all over Beatrice, who's trying to hold her and peer at the screens.

Now that Elwen's saying something about cameras, Daniel looks at Sam, whose forehead is going all creased. "Cameras-"

"Yeah" Libbie's saying, running her hands through his hair. "Yeah, cameras."

Sam's biting his lip, so Daniel holds onto the table as Nancy lifts him onto a chair to say "Not _bad _cameras, Sam-"

Sam looks forward to look just at him.

"They can't steal pictures" Daniel explains. "Pictures of us-"

William's pulling himself up on a chair, but the girls have gone quiet apart from Florence who's trying to stand on a chair. Nancy grabs her and sits her down again.

"No bad cam-ra-" Sam says and Daniel shakes his head so that Sam knows it's all right.

Sam nods quietly to himself and leans forward to peer at one of the screens. Daniel squints up and sees lots of empty rooms.

"They film other places in the building" Nancy says quietly, her hair brushing his cheek. "They don't film us."

Daniel feels his shoulders go looser. That feels safer, better. He reaches for a button, only for Elwen to grab his hand. "We can't push buttons-"

"Not since when all the alarms went off" Libbie says, holding Sam's hand carefully and Nancy takes Florence's hand quickly.

Daniel isn't going to touch any of the buttons. Instead, he just peers up at the cameras, the cameras which are not-bad cameras. The cameras that can let him watch everyone else, and not let anyone watch him at all.

* * *

Ed's feeling cranky and tired and when Justine calls to tell him things have overrun and she's staying overnight in a hotel, it doesn't even occur to him to be annoyed about it.

He doesn't want to have to talk about things or explain to her and after watching Cameron's press conference with Obama-

Even now in the back of the car, Ed feels himself blush.

Because that press conference would have been bad enough, but then he hadn't been able to stop thinking about that-

Ed squirms and tugs at his collar nervously.

Because that dream-

Meant nothing, Ed reminds himself fiercely. It was just-

_Just-_

It can't matter. It really-

All it was was a _dream._

Cameron was only in it because-

_Because-_

Well, because Ed had been_ talking_ to him.

That's_ all._

It's just a _coincidence-_

Ed had been too busy trying to remind himself of that to focus as much as he could on the press conference, no matter how hard he tries to keep his eyes on the screen.

_Let me hand over to my good friend David Cameron_, Obama had been saying and Bob had groaned. "Christ, he's practically hugging him."

That hadn't made it any easier to forget about that dream.

Though something had prickled sadly in Ed's chest then, as the thought had crept in that Obama wasn't likely to call _him _a good friend.

(He still remembers sitting across from him at that table last summer, hoping to meet his eyes without flinching.)

"Don't worry about it" Stewart had muttered. "We knew Obama would support him."

_With the old Tories, he wouldn't have_, he'd known they were all thinking.

And now, Ed's being driven once again towards Downing Street and he's about to have to look at Samantha, knowing that he-

That he-

And that should be fine. That should be fine, because it doesn't matter, because it doesn't mean _anything._

At all.

Ed only keeps repeating it to remind himself and tries not to think about how Cameron's hair looked darker than usual and how he shouldn't be noticing that, even as his cheeks burn in the winter air.

It's when the guards have let him through and he reaches the back door of the building, that he's greeted by a young woman with a ponytail, glasses and a firm set of folded arms.

"Um-" Ed stops awkwardly, unsure if he's her expected visitor.

The woman resolves his confusion, by saying without much of a question in her voice, "You're Ed Miliband."

Ed swallows. "Um-yeah. My kids are-"

"Yeah, they're upstairs. With the others." The woman holds the door open for him, gesturing Ed inside.

"Um-thanks."

It's inside that the woman says "I'm Gita. Gita Lama. The children's nanny."

"Oh. Um-" Ed tries to extend his hand, only to remember that he's still walking when he nearly walks into the bannisters. From the curl of Gita's lip, it hasn't gone unnoticed.

Ed feels himself blush. "I-um-usually our nanny would pick them up" he finds himself chattering nervously. "But-ah-my wife called me-she's away tonight-but usually their nanny-"

He trails off as Gita's face darkens. Ed swallows, frantically running over his words to see what he's said wrong, but all Gita says is "We know. They said."

Something about the tone makes Ed frown, but he says nothing more until they reach the door to the flat where Gita keys in a code. The door opens and Ed walks into an unexpected, friendly kind of chaos.

Music's playing-something loud and vaguely gothic-and Michael Gove is sitting at the table. Ed blinks. Then, Florence runs past, accompanied by a pretty, dark-haired little girl who Ed doesn't know, but who's holding Florence's hand.

"Hi, Mr. Ed Miliband. Bye, Mr. Ed Miliband-" Florence tosses this over her shoulder as she scampers after the older girl out of the room. Ed blinks and has barely managed to open his mouth to reply when Gita yells "Sam-" and Michael grins up from the table. "Oh, hello, Ed-"

It's then that he spots Samantha, turning from the oven with a grin, hips swaying slightly to the music, and says "Oh, hi, Ed-"

It's the first time Ed's seen her since that argument with David. He feels something swell in his throat, colour rushing to his cheeks.

Samantha smiles at him and right then is when it occurs to Ed that of course, it's also the first time he'll have seen-

"Mr. Ed Miliband." He hears the words just as the door crashes open and a familiar, bright, determined-and currently scowling-little face appears, dark ponytail bouncing behind her.

Nancy storms across the kitchen towards him, all four feet-something of her, school jumper pulled straight, jaw set, one hand outstretched accusingly. _"Look_ at this."

Ed, once again, blinks. Gita heads calmly to the kitchen to check the food with Samantha. Ed peers warily at Nancy's outstretched hand. Lying on her palm is something that looks remarkably like a chip.

"Ah-" he manages faintly.

"Green" comes another, familiar voice, and this time, it's his son who comes running out of the door, arms outstretched.

Ed beams, ready to drop down, when Daniel barely glances at him and throws his arms around Nancy's waist instead. Nancy's arm squeezes his shoulders, and he cuddles into her. Ed drops his arms quickly back to his sides, disappointment stabbing sharply in his chest.

_"Yes"_ Nancy says, one hand in Daniel's hair. "It's _green."_ She holds it out sternly, glaring at the offending food item as though it's bitten her.

She certainly doesn't look as though she's in a state of high dudgeon over him neglecting to tell her father about their conversation on Bonfire Night.

Ed feels his shoulders sink a little. Maybe it's that, and maybe it's the fact Daniel is still burrowing into Nancy's school jumper rather than look at him, but Ed's voice feels oddly wobbly.

_"See?"_ Nancy says, turning to aim a glare at her mother, who merely rolls her eyes and turns back to the oven.

"I did say it was green" Gita remarks, also from the oven.

"So did I" says Michael, taking a sip from his mug. "Unfortunately, I did nearly suffer an ocular impairment in the process."

Nancy rolls her own eyes, managing an expression that looks astonishingly like her father's. Something fond squeezes pleasantly in Ed's chest at the sight.

"I didn't take your _eye _out, Uncle Michael-I didn't know your glasses were fragile-"

"Should have gone to SpecSavers" chorus two girls' voices from the hallway, before dissolving into an outburst of giggling.

Michael glares at the table. "It's all very well, but none of you are the ones paying for a new lens-"

"Well, you wouldn't look at my chip" Nancy declares, clearly returning to a well-worn theme. "And it was a health emergency. Even Mr. Ed Miliband said it was green-"

"I said it _looked _green" Ed points out hastily, wondering quite how he's got himself into this situation.

"It _is_ green" bellows the pretty little girl, poking her head round the door. "Nance, Libbie says can we borrow your mum's lipstick-"

"Mum-" Nancy's turning back to the kitchen. "Can we use your lipstick?"

"One of the cheap ones. What for?"

Nancy's head whips round again, ponytail almost slapping herself in the face. "She says one of the cheap ones and what for?"

"We're colouring in Flo-"

Ed blinks. Nancy turns back. "We're just colouring in Flo?"

"Again?" Samantha seems to be occupied with a pan of what looks like pasta. "Flo was coloured in last week, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, but that was just her nails." Nancy takes Daniel's hand, tucking the chip safely back into her pocket. "Come on Daniel, lets' finish yours'-"

Ed looks down. Three of Daniel's nails look suspiciously sparkly.

Daniel beams up at Nancy, who tucks his hand into the crook of her arm. "Come on. Let's finish Sam's, too-"

Ed looks up to find Samantha standing, regarding him somewhat sympathetically from beside the oven. "Ed? Would you like a cup of tea?"

All Ed can do is nod numbly, slowly take a seat next to Michael, and wonder quite how he's ended up here.

* * *

Ed glances at Samantha, as he sips his tea, then away awkwardly.

He clears his throat, wondering if he should say something about Nancy, about being sorry. He wishes Cameron was here to break the ice.

(Why's _Cameron _always so good at breaking the ice?)

Instead, he says again "Thank you. For picking up the boys, I mean."

Samantha shrugs, fluffing up her dark hair with both hands. "It was no problem. They were on their own in there, poor little mites."

Something about the words makes Ed wince. "I-"

He gulps, takes a sip of tea. "I-um-"

Samantha doesn't rush him into saying anything. When Michael opens his mouth, there's a thudding sound under the table and Michael winces a little.

"Would you like to stay for dinner, Ed?"

Ed jumps. "What?"

Samantha's mouth twitches at the same moment that behind them, in the kitchen, Gita appears to drop a plate very loudly.

"I mean-" Ed tries to remember his manners, even as Michael smirks at the table and earns himself another thud for his troubles. "That's-um-that's very kind, but-I-you know-we shouldn't intrude-"

"Oh, you won't be." Samantha dismisses this with a quick jerk of the head. "Michael's going to stay-Sarah's got to work late, but she sends her love-and George will probably pop in, too-"

Ed swallows. "Well-um-"

The truth is, he likes the sound of it. The thought of going home, just him and the boys, with nothing but whatever's left over for them, to a cold, empty house-

Here is warm. And light. And he can hear children laughing.

Ed suddenly wonders when the last time was he heard the boys laugh.

Something about that thought catches in his throat. Suddenly, he finds it too hard to meet anyone's eyes.

He swallows, trying to get past the lump that's suddenly swelling in his throat. He stares down at the table, tries to draw in a breath. "I-"

A hand covers his own, warm and soft and strong-Samantha's hand.

Ed stares down at it, dumbfounded. Samantha's hand squeezes a little and it sends a comforting jolt through Ed. It feels almost motherly.

The kitchen when he was younger was colder than this. Sometimes, his mother would hold his hand, but more often, it was a nanny, someone whose name he sometimes wouldn't even get to learn.

Samantha's comforting squeeze of the hand makes something prickle at Ed's eyes. He feels a surge of something, something safe and guilty and longing, all tugging at his ribs at once.

He can feel Michael's eyes on him too, and he squeezes his own shut and tries to smile.

He tries.

He has no idea why a simple dinner invitation should make him feel like this.

But he manages to get out a "Yes. Thank-thank you-" and Samantha's hand doesn't let go of his. Ed can feel Michael watching him, even with his eyes closed, and when he opens them and stares down at his and Samantha's hands interlinked, he realises that not only has Samantha's hand not loosened around his own, but that he's holding onto her, too.

Something about that gives him another jolt of strange but welcome comfort. He doesn't let go, either.

* * *

Sam stares at his nails. They glitter back at him, one purple, one blue, one pink.

"Here. Hold still-" Libbie carefully takes his hand in hers' and presses a big wet blob on his fourth nail. Sam blinks at it. It's a bright, glittery purple.

Beatrice is looking at something on her phone. "Have you seen this?"

"What?" Libbie is dabbing at Sam's fingers.

"Zoella-"

"What, the beach walk one-"

"No, the beauty haul one, she put it up on-Sunday, I think-"

Florence, sitting next to Sam on the floor cross-legged, scrambles upright. "Zoella-" She's about to scurry across the floor, when Libbie catches her shoulder. "Flo, hold still-"

"Libbie, later-" There's music playing through the bedroom door and Sam can hear the grown-ups chatting in the kitchen. At home, he can't, down in the basement and this feels nicer.

"Later, can we put Sam in the bag-"

"What bag?" Sam spins to look at her, because kids don't go in_ bags._

"The bag-" Flo's doodling on her arm with a felt tip. "Nancy and Libbie and Luke and Beatrice put us in the bag and spin us round in the garden-"

"Yeah, but we do that in the garden, Flo-" Beatrice is saying. "And it's dark. And it's winter. We can do that with Sam in the spring if he wants-"

"When's the spring?" Flo turns to the door as Nancy appears and Daniel comes running over.

"Look-" Sam tries to show Daniel his hand. Daniel holds it and squints at it. "That's nice, Sam-" he says, like their nanny does.

"Nancy, when's spring?" Nancy stops in the doorway as a ball comes bouncing towards her and kicks it back. "Careful, El-spring is-I don't know. March?"

Nancy comes up and crouches down, squinting at Sam's nails. "Cool." Outside, the ball hits the door frame.

"How-when's _March?"_ Flo says, while Nancy unscrews another tube of lipstick and takes hold of Flo's chin gently.

"Two months."

"Two _months?"_ Flo's head jerks back, outraged, as she wriggles away. "That's _ages."_

"That's a lot of days" says Daniel, who's counting on his fingers, the way he learnt to do in the big school. "Lot of days." Outside, the music makes Sam want to nod his head along. Beatrice is, her dark brown hair bouncing in time with the sound. On Beatrice's phone, a girl's voice is saying "I don't know what I'm chatting on about-I'm just going to get on with the haul-"

"Which one's this?"

Nancy sticks her head out of the door and listens for a moment. "Don't know. Something by _The Cure-"_

Sam likes the music and the videos. No one really plays music at home. They just have to watch TV even when Sam's bored with it or go and watch Daddy speak somewhere, and then there's lots of people and nasty cameras. Here, everything seems nicer and now Flo's drawing a smiley face on his arm.

The football flies in and hits Beatrice's shoulder. "Ow! _William-"_

"What-" William charges in for the ball.

"You nearly _broke _Zoella-"

"Is that her 2014 haul one-" Nancy asks.

"Yeah, have you seen that one-" Libbie crouches down next to them to reach for the lipstick.

"Yeah, on Sunday-"

Florence is still shouting. _"Two months?_ We-we might have-_lots of things_ might have happened-" Her eyes go all wide. "I might be dead."

"I really-that's actually pretty unlikely." Libbie takes the lipstick from Flo and takes Sam's arm. "'Cos you look quite well." She starts colouring in carefully.

Nancy's singing along to something. _"We slip through the streets while everyone sleeps, getting bigger and sleeker and louder-_isn't Alfie in that one?" She takes Daniel's hand, smearing a bright blue blob on another nail.

"Yeah, at the start-"

Beatrice and William are still yelling at each other. "How can I have _killed _Zoella? She is a _person_ on a _computer screen-"_

"You nearly smashed my phone, you _idiot-""_ Beatrice chases him to the door, smacking her phone against his shoulder.

"Oh, yeah, careful-" Nancy peers after them, as Elwen appears in the doorway. "I thought that was Mum's iPad-"

Beatrice falls down onto Florence's carpet while Florence leans over and takes Sam's face between her hands. Sam turns to look at her and watches as her tongue pokes out of her mouth, her big blue eyes narrowing. The wet nib touches Sam's cheek. Flo has felt tip colours spiralling up and down her arms.

"Do you remember when he nearly wrecked the Rainbow Loom stall?" Beatrice is saying, flopping back onto the bed with a scowl.

Nancy's nodding her head to the music. _"So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty-_yeah, your mum nearly threw that ice cream she was making at him-"

"Yeah, but that was around the time she threw my phone away-" Beatrice flops back on the bed.

Libbie glances at her. "Yeah, but then, she did just _take_ your phone-"

"Yeah, but with Mum, that can mean anything" Beatrice says, playing with a phone case with a girl's face on it. "Like the time she tried to cancel Nickelodeon, because she thought we were watching too much of iCarly, and she managed to shut down the Sky box for three days."

Nancy's still singing, while Flo's finishing Sam's nails with felt tips. Sam doesn't mind.

Nancy lifts up his hand and blows on the nails gently. _"We miss you, hiss the love cats-"_ She almost whispers it, her ponytail bouncing behind her. Sam can smell soap and shampoo-something sweet like Lucozade.

Then Elwen's ball hits Nancy in the head, and bounces into a bottle of nail varnish, sending sparkly blue dots all over the carpet.

Nancy draws in a deep breath and fixes Elwen with a glare, brows drawing together, face whitening. "You _idiot."_

Florence's lips draw together and she bites them in a little grin, her shoulders shaking with laughter. Beatrice rolls her eyes while Libbie grins, glancing between the brother and sister. Sam waits, breathless.

"How was I to know you weren't going to catch it?"

"Because you threw it at my head, you _fool-"_

"Whatever the fight is about-" and Flo's mummy is in the doorway, and then she closes her eyes. "Why, how, and who did that?"

Sam glances at Daniel nervously. Nancy springs up and points at Elwen. "Him, that, now here, and _that"_ she says shortly, pointing at the dots.

Libbie widens her eyes. "We were just here."

Florence nods, little dents appearing in her cheeks from her smile. Sam copies her quickly, nodding so hard he thinks his head might fall off.

"Whatever it is" Flo's mummy says, swaying slightly with the music. "It's interrupting Robert Smith, which isn't really a good thing, kids-"

Sam doesn't have time to ask who Robert Smith is, because that's when Flo's mummy smiles at him and Daniel and says "And dinner's ready for all of you."

* * *

It's when they're walking across one of the White House lawns, the press conference behind them, that Barack remarks, as if it's only just occurred to him, "Miliband-"

David frowns. "What about him?" After last night's discussion in the Oval Office, Barack hasn't brought up Miliband all day.

There'd been a moment last night, eating dinner with the Obamas, when Barack had remarked "You see, David's rather more skilled at cross-party co-operation-"

Michelle had nodded. "Yeah, and that's an example-" She'd smacked Barack's arm. "You should follow it-"

Barack had laughed. "I do the-I'll make you a deal, you do the inter-party co-operation, I'll do the international co-operation, deal?"

In amongst the laughing, David had caught Barack's quick glance towards Malia and Sasha, who had both joined in, but a little uncertainly. David had felt a pang of familiarity at the sight of the look he occasionally catches reflected in a mirror or a picture, towards his own children in the middle of a Downing Street function or party, to check they're still there, not swept behind in whatever discussion is filling the night.

"Anyway" Barack had said, tucking into his food with renewed gusto. "If you need to give me some tips-" He'd given a quick wink. "Though then again, inter-party co-operation can be distracting. Like with those books of yours' that we got Nancy. What are they called, Malia?"

Malia had launched shyly into an explanation but David had noticed Barack's eyes roaming to him a couple of times and now, walking across the lawn, he notices it again.

"He-ah-David Miliband's brother, isn't he?"

David nods. "Yes." He pauses for a moment, gauging the conversation, and then, carefully, says "He's planning to help Hillary Clinton, isn't he?"

"Yeah. Could do a pretty great job from what I hear-"

David laughs carefully. "No, I wouldn't be surprised. They've not exactly recovered from that contest, though-"

Barack shakes his head. "Your Miliband's the younger one, right?"

"Um-yes." Something like a jolt goes through David at the words _your Miliband._

(Is that how some people think of them? As if they're permanently linked, or jostling around each other?)

Barack winces. "Oooh. Man, that'd make family dinners awkward. Then again, I deal with Malik by pretending he's a talking Mitt Romney. Doesn't work, because he's more annoying."

"Well, I think David dealt with Ed by moving to New York, I believe."

David almost winces, but it's too late.

Barack's laughing, patting his arm. "Wow. Must be hell at reunions."

David laughs, the sound carrying the words a little stronger. "I don't believe they see each other often. David makes sure of that."

Barack winces. "Man. Still-knifing your brother? Can't really come back from that, can you?"

"No" David says slowly. "No, I don't suppose you can."

A part of him's wondering, yet again, how Miliband had ever thought that he_ would_ come back from it. It had baffled him at the time.

_Surely he can see how it looks_, he'd said to George, cradling newborn Florence in his arms. _I mean, knifing your brother-bit Cain and Abel, really-_

_Well, he is a Brownite_, George had said with a wink. _It's not as though he hasn't got form._ _Still, could be good for us, this-Brits aren't too forgiving of disloyalty-_

They'd both laughed, still dizzy with the fact that they'd done it, it had really happened, they had finally got Labour out of power-

"No, no, the thing-" he says suddenly, because he's been starting to wonder if this Brownite tendency explains a lot about Miliband. "The thing is-with Ed-he's almost-"

His hands twist around thin air, struggling to explain it.

"It's as though-he's such an idealogue. He thinks that-I don't know. That ideas are everything. And that there's this-_ideal _of this perfect world he's-dying to get his hands on and he'll just do anything to get to it, justify anything to-he thinks anything is justified to get to it-" David trails off, frustrated with himself. "Sorry, I'm not explaining him very well."

When he looks up, Barack's watching him a little oddly, his head on one side. A small smile twitches at his mouth and he says "No, no. You're describing him pretty well."

For some reason, the words make David's cheeks feel warm.

"I suppose-" and for a moment, Barack trails off. When David looks up at him again, Barack's eyes meet his own, and this time there's something more in them, something almost knowing.

"You really know him, don't you?" is all Barack says, and something about the words catch in David's chest.

_You really know him._

_Does he?_

_Should he?_

_As well as he does-?_

Barack's watching him. David tries for a laugh. "Well-" It wavers a little. "He_ is_ my-"

_My-_

"Opponent" he finishes, because he can't, doesn't want to think of another word.

Barack just looks at him hard for a moment, and for some reason, David tenses. But then all Barack says is "Yes. I suppose so."

David nods. And they resume walking, a little more quickly this time.

* * *

Lying in his room at Blair House, enjoying some of the rare spare time he gets on a foreign trip, David lets his mind wander. He'll give the kids a ring after dinner but now, he's preoccupied.

There's probably a lot he could think about but every time he tries, his mind wanders back to when he stared at Miliband in that hallway, which he hasn't been able to stop thinking about ever since that conversation with Barack.

David sighs and rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow, the way he learnt to at school, when a pillow fight was going on and he needed to think (after yelling at the others to shut up once he'd been given a prefect badge.)

Unfortunately, he has no idea what he can think about to stop his mind going back to that moment over and over again. It's incredibly irritating to have his mind occupied over and over by that puzzled, almost hopeful look Miliband was giving him.

(Hopeful? Fearful?)

(Hopeful and fearful look much the same on Miliband.)

But that and his attempt at explaining Miliband to Barack (as if _he_, of all people, is suddenly the best person to explain Miliband) has left him preoccupied with trying to explain Miliband to himself.

He's just so-

Naive. Maybe.

Or....

_Wilfully _naive.

Sometimes, it's as though Miliband simply doesn't want to see the way things actually _are._

Or in fact, anything which doesn't fit his perfect little _vision-_

Miliband's dark eyes, staring at him. _That's why I'm going to win._

David snorts.

But Miliband's just so-

Believing.

Almost rock-solidly convicted.

_God_, Miliband needs to be thrown to the wolves.

But would Miliband be Miliband if he was thrown to the wolves?

And should David even _want_ him to still be Miliband?

David punches the pillow.

He's occupied and restless and the more he thinks about the way Miliband's eyes widened as he looked up at him-

David's hand wanders slowly over his chest to his stomach.

The way Miliband just looked so furiously indignant, stepping right up to him and _hissing-_

David bites his lip, an irritated, aching annoyance wriggling in his body at the memory. His hand moves slowly, massaging his stomach in a circle.

The way Miliband just looks so-so-self-righteously _convinced-_

David shifts restlessly. His hand creeps. Down to his waistband.

_That's why I'm going to win._

God, he's so bloody-

David's hand crawls just a little lower.

There's a knock at the door. David almost leaps upright, his hand flying away from his jeans.

"Yes?" David scrambles off the bed and checks himself frantically in the mirror. His cheeks look a little flushed and he tidies his hair, tugging his shirt down. He takes a deep breath and opens the door, trying to keep his breath steady.

It's Craig and he's holding out a phone with a frown. "It's Miliband."

David jumps. His hands immediately fly to his sides. "Really?" Typical bloody Miliband.

Craig shakes his head. _"David _Miliband."

David's shoulders sink in relief. And then he wonders if this is actually even worse.

"Hello?" he manages, once the door's closed behind him and he's sitting on the bed, trying not to look at where he was just lying. And what he was thinking about.

Not that it matters. It's not as though he was thinking about-

"Hello, Prime Minister."

"Hi-David-this is a-well, how are you?"

Bloody Miliband. Leaving him this flustered and he's not even here.

"I'm fine. How are you, Prime Minister?"

"Oh, I'm well."

Well. _Well-_

"Anyway, I heard you were in the US-" David Miliband's voice manages to be more drawling than his younger brother's. Ed manages to sound more earnest-and anxious, simultaneously.

(And irritating. Maybe the three go hand-in-hand.)

"That's right-visiting who could be replaced by your boss, technically-"

"My boss?" The first hint of surprise creeps into Miliband's voice before "Oh-if Hillary runs-"

"Yep-well, technically, her boss now, I suppose-"

"Oh. Of course-"

There's a pause. David waits. He hasn't heard from this Miliband since New Year and he knows him well enough to know that Miliband doesn't ring for no reason.

Not this Miliband, anyway.

David feels the heat rise to his cheeks at that thought.

"Anyway-" Miliband's voice is careful. David knows immediately that he wants something.

"I heard that you met up with the Leader of the Opposition in Paris."

Even David winces at that phrasing.

"Yes" he manages, keeping his voice very casual. "We had dinner and a couple of discussions."

"Dinner?"

"Yes." David decides to brazen it out. "With your brother."

He blinks. Where did_ that_ come from?

There's only the slightest pause on the other end of the phone. Then Miliband says slowly "I see."

Another pause, then "I'd just heard something about it. I was curious."

_And you didn't ask your brother_, David thinks.

He clutches the phone tighter, picturing that moment when George had grinned, giving him a dig in the ribs as they stared at the headlines about Miliband's wedding. _Knew he was lying about everything being fine between them. Imagine your own brother not even turning up to your wedding party._

"Ah-well-yes. He's-um-fine-" It just seems the sort of thing one says when discussing someone with their estranged relative, even when said estranged relative is one who vastly prefers the "estranged" part of the equation.

"Oh, really?" Miliband could be asking about a stranger. Something lurches in David's stomach.

"But yes." He says it a little louder than he means to. "I had dinner with him."

_Don't you want to know how he was?_ The words fight in David's head.

"Ah. Just wanted to check."

_But then, would I?_

"Since the two of you are friendly, these days."

_I wouldn't say that_, David thinks, mind wandering back to that PMQs.

Of course, then there's what happened _after_ that PMQs.

David wrenches his thoughts away. "I don't think he'd always agree with that description" is all he manages, lightly.

There's a laugh from the other end. "Yes, well. I wouldn't know, these days."

There's the tiniest stress on the last two words.

David swallows. Suddenly, he can see Miliband all too clearly, standing across the chamber, hear his own voice, tearing itself out, already shaking with humour.

_There's only one person around here I can remember knifing a foreign secretary-_

God, how long ago was that? Three years ago? Four?

_And I think I'm looking at him!_

Miliband's dark eyes locked with his own across the chamber, widening as if he'd been hit.

"Right-" is all he says.

There's a moment of silence and then Miliband's voice. "Anyway, I just wanted to check-"

"Yes-"

"He doesn't usually spend so much time with someone" Miliband says, almost casually.

David swallows. His heart's suddenly rapid. Something seems to be fluttering in his chest.

"Doesn't he?" His voice sounds taut. He bites his lip hard.

"No" Miliband says, in a voice David could again almost mistake as casual. "It's quite rare. Anyway, I'm sure you're very busy-"

"Oh-yes-"

"Well-" Miliband sounds a little brighter. "I'll let you go. Ready for the election?"

"Hopefully-"

"Anticipating a repeat of 1997?"

David snorts before he can help himself. "Your brother's hardly Blair."

He winces almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth. But all he hears on the other end is a laugh.

"No" Miliband says, and now he sounds the most amused he has in the whole conversation. "No, he isn't."

The words hover in David's mind and even after he's hung up the phone, and so do the others. _He doesn't usually spend so much time with someone._

David's heart flutters again a little too pleasantly, and he can't stop his own smile.

He's not sure which words he's smiling at, and he's not sure if he should be smiling at all.

* * *

Sam eats his food carefully in nice, small bites, so that he can keep looking round at everybody. There's so many people, more than there ever are at home, and it's fun to look at them all.

Daniel is sitting just across from him, but their legs can touch across the table, which has had another table pushed against it. Nancy and Elwen are on Daniel's other side and Flo's sitting next to Sam. On Sam's other side is Flo's mummy, who seems to be talking with everybody, and Daddy is on the other side of the table, next to Elwen. Next to him is a man everyone calls Uncle George, who looks like Sam's seen him before and next to him is a pretty lady they call Auntie Frances. The Uncle Michael person is on Flo's mummy's other side and there's a new big boy called Luke, who's Libbie's big brother, sitting next to Flo. Even Gita is sitting there, between the Uncle Michael person and the Auntie Frances person.

Sam had been very surprised when all the grown-ups started sitting down with them. He'd looked around for Daniel, starting to feel bad inside his tummy, because at home, it's just him and Daniel and Zia, and here, everyone eats together-

Flo's hand had wrapped around his. "Oh, now, now, Sam-" she'd said. "Now, now, you tell Flo what's wrong-"

The big girls, who were sitting all three together were laughing but not badly. Sam didn't have words, so he'd tried to curl his fists around them, to push them out of his mouth. "Everyone together?"

Flo's head went all creased. "Yeah!"

Sam had tried to tell her. "At home, we eat in the basement."

"We don't have a basement-"

"It's-" Daddy calls it downstairs. It's Daniel who calls it the basement.

"Are you OK?" The man called Uncle George had been there suddenly, with his hand warm and strong on Sam's shoulder.

Sam had looked up at him. The man had dark hair and dark eyes like Sam does. Sam had reached up to pat his cheek gently.

The Uncle George man had laughed and Flo had said "This is my Uncle George."

Sam had tried to look at him a little more and then Uncle George had put his arm around his shoulders, which had felt nice and warm and safe. "Are you OK?"

Sam had looked up at him. "Lot of people" he'd said, trying to make the words nice and clear.

"Yes, there are a lot of people-" Uncle George had been spooning pasta out onto Sam's plate. It had smelt so nice Sam had nearly pushed his face into it, but he'd been too busy looking about again until Uncle George put his hand on his shoulder. It's all right-"

Sam had nodded his head because it was all right, it was just-

Not like home.

"I like your nail varnish" Uncle George had said to him, and Sam had smiled. Flo had shot out her own hand, nearly hitting Sam in the face. "Look at my varnish-"

Uncle George had held each of their hands and glanced across the table at the big girls. "Was this your doing?"

Libbie had been nodding with her mouth full, but it had been Nancy who'd bounced up. "Uncle George" she'd said, reaching into her pocket. "Have you seen my chip?"

Now, Luke is helping Flo to cut a piece of pasta and Flo's mummy is telling the big girls to put the iPad away-"Not at the table, girls, come on-", "But Mum, Beatrice wants to put the chip on her Instagram for evidence-" and Elwen's talking about something called Chelsea which Sam thinks is like Arsenal, which they watch sometimes. Elwen's poking Daniel's cheek, but Daniel's smiling.

Sam can see Daddy, listening to the Auntie Frances lady, but then Flo's mummy puts her arm round his shoulders and lifts the fork back into his hand. "Do you want to open?"

Sam opens carefully and Flo's mummy puts the pasta in nice and gently, not too quickly like Mummy sometimes does.

Flo's mummy's arm is nice and warm around his shoulders, and even when Gita says something to Elwen and Elwen asks his mummy something, Flo's mummy doesn't stop cuddling Sam. She just rubs his cheek. Sam leans against her and looks at Daniel across the table and strokes Flo's arm and feels safe.

Sam likes eating all together better.

* * *

Ed feels oddly drowsy and warm, nestling into the corner of the couch. The children are all circled round a television in another, smaller room with a film playing. Ed never usually feels this contentedly tired after eating a meal. He feels tired, but happy listening to the quiet talking around him.

Ed isn't used to so many people being around a table-not for any meal that isn't centred around work, anyway-and he'd noticed his own son's eyes widen a little at the sight of all the people. He'd been about to say something, but George had already been moving, heading for Sam before Ed was even out of his seat.

Ed had wondered suddenly if he should have noticed sooner and what it means that George noticed before him.

Ed wouldn't admit it, but he'd been slightly nervous. Eating at home with Justine or even with his colleagues, the usual topic of conversation is politics or the law. He'd been fairly certain that that might not be the main topic of conversation here-certainly more certain than he would have been a few months ago-and he'd found himself biting his lip and curling his fingers. It had been George who unwittingly saved him.

"So-" he'd said in an undertone, as he'd helped himself to some pasta. "Missing him, then?"

Ed had almost jumped out of his skin. "Who-um-what-who-who would that be?" he'd said stupidly, trying not to blush under George's gaze.

George had grinned. "You know very well who."

Ed had known he was failing as regarded the idea of not blushing.

He'd focused on helping himself to the pasta, clearing his throat a little too loudly, struggling to ignore George's gaze.

"I _don't"_ he'd managed, keeping his eyes firmly on the pasta dish. "And I doubt he mith-misses me."

George had snorted loudly, prompting Frances to inquire whether or not he'd turned into a pig. George had ignored her, staring at Ed with an expression that, if Ed was being hopeful, he might describe as disbelieving.

"You must be joking" had been George's frank, loud declaration. "As if he wouldn't."

Ed had felt all the heat in his body rush to his cheeks. Hands shaking, he'd concentrated on lowering the bowl back to the table and felt himself blush and blush, a strange warmth spreading through his chest, even as a sudden worry nagged as to quite how he was supposed to make conversation now.

George, again, had saved him-this time, with a little help.

"Sam" he'd said idly across the table. "You nearly voted Green once, didn't you?"

"Oh, shut up." Samantha had aimed a friendly kick at George under the table. "It was a _rumour."_

"Well, Ed'd probably agree with them on the climate change thing" George had remarked, almost casually, and it was then that Samantha had glanced at Ed and said "Oh yeah-you were the one who brought in the Act, weren't you, Ed?"

Ed had blushed. "Um-yeah, I mean-yes-"

"Sam's the one who got Dave into all the green stuff" George had said, as if that was a small thing, and Ed had nearly choked on his pasta.

"D-did you?" he'd managed to get out, after a gulp of water. Samantha had been laughing, but in a fond way that made Ed feel warm and something like safe.

He'd remembered something suddenly, then. One of the first times he'd seen Cameron speak, his voice polished and careful, younger than Ed had expected-

Ed had sat quite still then, listening. Even as Balls had prodded him in the arm, none too gently, when it was over Ed had still sat there for several nonplussed moments, staring at the screen. There was a _Tory_ who was interested in climate change.

There was a Tory who wanted-

_Maybe I could talk to him,_ Ed had thought hopefully, but nearly dismissed the idea out of hand.

Now, Samantha had been asking "Is it true Gordon created the position for you or did I get that wrong?", and Ed had taken a deep, relieved breath because these were things he knew, these were-

"Well, you see-"

He'd launched into an explanation and somewhere, as more questions were asked that were easy to answer, and the words he knows so well had climbed out of his mouth, stringing themselves into sentences, Ed had forgotten to feel awkward.

Now, he's nestled in the couch. George, next to him, is actually lying down, head on a cushion, dark eyes blinking drowsily. Frances is nestled in, head on her husband's shoulder. Michael is curled in an armchair, occasionally murmuring, while Samantha seems to be combing Gita's hair with her fingers, making suggestions. The music's still on, but playing lower now, quieter, lulling Ed's thoughts even more.

"Oh, Ed" Samantha says suddenly, a little sleepily. "How are you getting to Chequers on Sunday?"

Ed blinks, momentarily roused. "Chequers?"

"Yeah, for Nancy's birthday." Samantha props herself up on one elbow, dark hair falling in a curtain over her face. "You're invited, you and Justine and the boys-"

Ed's head jerks up. "We-we are?" Something blooms in his chest at the thought. Something about them thinking about him, including him-

His heart lurches a little, this time in disappointment. "Oh-I don't think Justine will be able to make it-and I've got-I've got a speech, and-"

Samantha's face falls. "Oh. I suppose it is quite short notice, if you didn't know-"

Ed's heart squeezes. "Well-but-I mean, the boys can come" he manages, and-

_You've got to work. That's more important._

Nancy won't even notice-

He looks again at Samantha's disappointed face.

"I could probably drop in for a bit" he tries. "I mean-it's in Sheffield, the speech, so I could drop them off, and then drop in on my way back-" Something lightens in his chest at the sight of Samantha's smile, relief evident in her face.

"Oh, great-Nancy will be thrilled-"

"And David" George mutters, as he and Michael exchange a quick grin. Frances stretches and gives her husband something like a warning look.

Ed frowns, but then Samantha says "Oh, and John Key will be there."

Ed blinks. "The New Zealand Prime Minister?"

Samantha grins. "Yeah. You know, he's visiting, but we couldn't cancel Nancy's birthday. So we invited him along."

Ed, for some reason, can't speak.

Samantha's forehead creases. "Ed? What's wrong?"

Ed can't open his mouth. He's not even sure why. Just that-

At home, he'd have to be doing something right now. Work or rehearsing or-

Doing something, something that matters.

(Something to make _him _matter.)

But here-

Politics is an-

Not an _afterthought_, but-

Is this what everyone else is like?

(Is this what they _can_ be like?)

Ed thought that-

"Nothing" he manages.

Samantha sits up and comes to position herself on the arm of the couch next to Ed. Her arm goes around his shoulders comfortingly.

Ed's not used to this. To someone holding him like this. Justine doesn't. Even his mother never held much with kissing and cuddling.

Which wasn't her fault, Ed reminds himself. She had more important things on her mind. After all she's been through-

But the way Samantha just hugs him-quickly and gently-makes the tension seep out of Ed's shoulders. There's an awkward pat on his arm and he looks round to see George, eyes darting as if seeking confirmation this was the correct course of action, to an approving nod from Frances.

Ed sits up, suddenly intensely aware of how he must look right now, and thanks a God he doesn't believe in that David isn't here to see this.

_(Cameron_, he reminds himself.)

"Thank you" he manages, a little stiffly, but Samantha just touches his arm again. Ed fixes his eyes on the floor, searching for a topic of conversation.

"Yeah" he eventually manages, as though there's been no interruption. "I'll be able to bring the boys on Sunday."

Samantha nods. "Oh-make sure they have something to swim in. There's a pool."

Ed had forgotten that, only really having visited Chequers for meetings with Gordon and the others. Still, the boys like swimming-he thinks, anyway.

"That's good" he says, only half-noticing that he's speaking aloud. "I mean-I don't think Justine could have taken them-she's been working a lot lately-"

It might be his imagination, but he thinks Samantha tenses for a moment.

It's Frances though, who says "Justine's always worked a lot." She says the words carefully, as if wondering if they fit in her mouth.

Something about them makes Ed look up, to find Frances staring back, watching quietly. George glances between them, confusion dawning on his face.

Frances speaks slowly, even more carefully than before. "Sometimes, I think, maybe-"

A phone rings throughout the room.

Ed jumps and so does Samantha. Michael slaps a hand over his chest. "God almighty-"

Frances' eyes, however, don't move from Ed's face.

Ed's so busy staring back at her, he almost doesn't notice Samantha scrambling up. Only when she announces "It's Dave", excitement cracking into her voice, does Ed jerk out of his reverie.

"Dave_-Cameron?" _He half-scrambles further back into the couch. "Dave-Cameron-_David _Cameron-"

George seems to be smirking. Gita raises an eyebrow.

Samantha's already talking to the screen. Oh God. No. No. It's a FaceTime call, Ed didn't know-

"Everyone's here-" Samantha spins the iPad around, taking in the room at large. There's no time for Ed to dive behind the couch and pretend he doesn't exist, so he just stares, managing to mouth something that resembles a greeting, before springing up the moment Samantha turns the screen away. "Oh-erm-I should-I should probably-"

Oh God, he hasn't seen Cameron since then, since he had that-

Had that-

It was just a stupid _dream!_

"Hey-" George follows from the couch, grabbing his arm, as Samantha carries the iPad towards the sound of childrens' voices. "What's the rush?"

Ed spins round, only just realising that everyone is looking at him with varying expressions of concern. "N-nothing-I-I just-"

Even he himself isn't sure. All he knows is that the thought of just-

Just-

Cameron probably won't even want to speak to him.

These are his family. And his friends. Ed would just be intruding.

"He won't-um-"

George's hand is on Ed's arm. Ed isn't sure when or how it ended up there.

"He won't-he won't want to-" Ed isn't sure why he suddenly feels panicked, why his chest is tight, or why it suddenly feels almost impossible to swallow. His cheeks are too warm, but his palms feel damp. It feels a little like he did in the library at Haverstock, whenever he spotted his classmates coming in and scrambled out of his chair, gathering up his books and diving away from the table before they could tell him to leave. Though it was rarely that polite.

"Yes" George says simply. "He will."

Ed bites his lip. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

George just raises an eyebrow. "He wants to speak to you. You know he does."

Yes and that might be just the problem, Ed thinks.

Because he-they haven't spoken since he-

_He called me gorgeous, _says that stupidly happy voice in Ed's head.

_He thinks I'm-_

No. _No_.

It's _Cameron!_

"And you want to speak to him." It's not a question.

Ed swallows. "No?"

George grins. Ed tries not to grin back.

It seems to be too much or too little time until Samantha appears with the iPad stretched out towards him, while George nudges him and oh God, Ed can't not speak to him, Cameron can hear-

And a part of him wants to.

Why does he-

But then Samantha's passing him the iPad and Ed gulps, because-

"You can use our room if you want" Samantha says, and Ed freezes with his hands clenched tight around the iPad because-

Their room-

_Their-_

But their-

Ed doesn't know he's got up. Samantha just grins at him and beckons with a tilt of the head. Ed doesn't dare look at George.

He's glimpsed David and Samantha's bedroom before through the doorway, but now-

He's inside.

God-Ed can't help the slightly childish thought as he looks around the room, with a huge, comfortable bed and a TV in the corner-this is where Cameron _sleeps._

Heat rushes to his cheeks.

"There-" Samantha lowers the iPad, leaving it on the bed.

"Th-thank you-" Ed's blushing, and knows it, which makes it worse.

Samantha just touches his shoulder as she leaves, which really doesn't help.

Ed's so busy trying to tell himself frantically there's nothing to feel guilty about that he almost forgets the iPad.

Slowly, he reaches out and picks it up.

"You nearly _dropped_ me there, Miliband."

Ed rolls his eyes, but his heart is pounding. Cameron's staring back at him, hair shining as though it's been freshly washed, but a little rumpled. Ed reaches over to switch on the lamp, blinking in the sudden brightness.

Cameron blinks. "There-I can see you now-"

Ed snorts. "Fantath-stic for you, I'm sure-" He resists the urge to check himself in the small corner at the top of the screen, but Cameron would see, and oh God, he should have checked, but he didn't know Cameron was going to call-he's so stupid-

"Yes, lucky me." Cameron flashes him a grin. Ed freezes, one hand treacherously halfway to his hair.

Cameron just grins. Ed blushes, jumps, and nearly drops the iPad. "I wath-I wasn't-"

Typical bloody Cameron.

"How are you?" he manages, sounding a little more brusque than he means. "I mean-"

"I'm fine-" Cameron laughs, propping himself up on a pillow.

(Cameron's on a bed too.)

(This shouldn't make Ed blush even more.)

"Oh, I don't have to-" Ed's determined to get this in as quickly as possible. "I mean-if you're too busy-"

"Don't be stupid, Miliband." Ed wouldn't have thought the words _Don't be stupid_ could make him fight not to grin. "We want you here."

The heat rises in Ed's cheeks. He clears his throat. "What does-Nancy-what does Nancy like-for her birthday-"

"Oh, don't worry." Cameron dismisses this with a jerk of the head. "You don't need to get her-"

"I want to. Especially after-"

Ed fidgets. "You know."

Cameron sighs. Ed can picture his expression without looking. "You know that doesn't matter anymore, don't you?"

Ed swallows. "Yeah, but-I still want to get her th-something."

Cameron laughs, more quietly than before. "Well, she's very bright. Anything bookish, I suppose-I'll send you an email of what we've got her, so there's no mix-ups-but really, you don't have to-"

An awkward silence falls between them.

That word wriggles into Ed's head again. _Gorgeous._

He peers up at Cameron under his eyelashes, wondering how Cameron _said_ it.

Did he think about it? Did he want to say it? Did-

"Are you in Blair House?" he blurts out.

Cameron laughs. "Yeah. Robinson regaled me with that story about Churchill and Roosevelt-"

"That one about Churchill-" Ed coughs. "Wandering about-"

"Yes. Stark naked." David's brows arch, a grin twitching at his mouth. "I'm surprised you take an interest in that story, Miliband."

Ed blushes. "I didn't th-say-!"

He catches sight of David's smirk. "You're not funny."

_"I think I am."_ David makes his voice singsong. He's such a child.

"Don't worry." Cameron's eye flickers in the quickest of winks. "I'm not planning to walk around stark naked, Miliband."

Ed almost chokes, because the thought-

Don't think about it.

It's _Cameron._ Just focus on how annoying his smile is and how smooth his voice is and how blue his eyes are-

"Your brother called."

Ed jumps. "What?"

Cameron's face is careful, blue eyes narrowed just a little. "Your brother. He just called earlier. Wanted to ask about Paris."

For a moment, Ed thinks his heart is going to stop. _"What?"_

Cameron pulls his own screen a little closer, so his voice is a little louder. "Don't worry. Not about-"

Cameron's cheeks look a little pinker.

"Well, he'd just heard we had dinner" he continues, a second later. "I'm not actually entirely sure why he called, because he just seemed to want to-well-_confirm _it, I suppose."

Something wriggles uncomfortably in Ed's chest. "No" he says, almost thinking aloud, and then "David wouldn't call unless-"

He still knows his brother even if they don't speak.

He thinks.

"Unless?" Cameron prompts gently.

Ed hears himself _hmm._ "I don't know" he says slowly. "But-he doesn't usually call just to confirm things."

"I remember" and Ed looks up to see Cameron grinning a little.

"Oh-yeah-" Ed leans back against the pillow. "I forgot you two were friendly."

"Well. I suppose so." Cameron winks. "We never fell asleep on the same bed together."

Ed feels all the heat in his body rush to his cheeks at once.

_"Cameron!" It_ comes out as an indignant squeal.

Cameron's laughing. Ed can feel himself blushing and, like a child, ends up hitting the duvet. "Stop _laughing-"_

"Come on. You're quite easy to amuse-"

Ed rolls his eyes. "Is that a compliment?"

"Maybe to me."

Ed rolls them harder. "Characterith-stic humility, Cameron."

Cameron winks. "I like amusing you."

Typical bloody Cameron, because that makes Ed blush again.

"Anyway, yeah, I got on with your brother." Cameron pauses, and then says slowly "I remember I used to get on with you."

There's a very pointed silence. Ed feels himself blush much more deeply.

"I found you agreeable" he mutters, mostly to his knees.

"What? For a Tory?"

Ed shrugs, feeling like a child again. "Th-something like that." He picks at his sleeve absently.

Cameron's voice is a little softer now. "I remember when I met you, actually."

Ed snorts. "I don't remember quite" he mutters, trying not to remember the way Cameron had stuck his hand out, that grin dimpling his cheeks, those eyes bluer than he'd expected, his voice smooth. _Ed. Nice to meet you._

Now, Cameron's voice is softer, fonder. "I do."

Ed's stomach squirms pleasantly.

"I seem to remember someone saying you stuck up for me, rather."

Ed freezes. "Well-" His voice suddenly sounds a little higher-pitched than usual. "I thought you were different. Then."

Cameron's brow creases. "And then you decided I wasn't worth the time?"

Ed's head flies up. "Not exactly" he says tightly. "More that-you seemed to lose interest in some of the things that had attrac-"

He stops dead.

_What?_

_Attracted-_

"Had-" Cameron's voice trails off.

Ed swallows. "That we had in common" he manages, a little too quickly, before realising to his embarrassment that that makes it sound as though Cameron's _jilted_ him.

"Ah-" Cameron's voice is annoyingly inscrutable. Ed waits for an excuse, but all Cameron says is "You know things change, don't you, Miliband?"

Ed hates feeling sulky. "What's that got to do with it?" he manages, thinking of the way Gordon had looked at him when Ed had bitten his lip and said _Cameron might not be as th-superficial as we think, you know._

"It meant that different things became priorities-"

"I know how government works, Cameron-" Ed regrets the tone immediately.

There's another pause. Then, "You're very idealistic."

Ed's head shoots up. "Don't_ patronize_ me, Cameron."

Cameron just looks back. "I didn't say it was an insult, Miliband."

Ed eyes him suspiciously.

"Just maybe not-" Cameron laughs suddenly, a little sadly. "Ironically, maybe not ideal for _this."_

Ed snorts. Typical Cameron. "Like that bothers you if it's true."

"You think idealism is a good foundation for government?"

Ed stares back. "I think you have to believe in something to form a government."

"And you don't think I believe in anything." It's not a question.

"I never said that-" Ed meets Cameron's gaze. "I don't think you believe in _enough."_

Cameron just stares back. "And maybe_ you_ believe in too much."

Irritation claws at Ed's chest, sharp and raking. "Believe in too-how can you believe in _too much-"_ He shakes his head, knuckles whitening momentarily.

"Forget it." He almost spits it out. "I juth-st wanted to speak to you."

He's not even sure why he's so annoyed. It's not like he didn't know what Cameron believes.

"And I want to speak to you."

It takes Ed a few moments to realise what Cameron's just said.

He looks up. "You want to th-speak to me?"

Cameron stares at him. "Well. Yes. If you can go five minutes without acting as if I'm a monster, that is-"

Ed winces.

"I'm not-" He clears his throat, tries again. "I don't-_think _you're a monster?" It comes out as more of a question than he meant it to.

Cameron stares, then bursts out laughing. Ed watches him uncertainly.

"You're priceless" is all Cameron says. Ed frowns in confusion. "Thank you?"

Cameron snorts again. Ed makes a mental note to add uncertain compliments to an ever-growing list of things he doesn't understand about David Cameron.

"Anyway, of course I wanted to speak to you" David grins at him.

Ed shrugs. "I thought maybe th-Samantha-"

"Sam what?"

"Samantha had told you to-"

Cameron cackles again. "She would. But no." Another wink. "Contrary to what you believe, I do actually like you, Miliband."

A flood of something warm and happy and squealing fills Ed's chest, leaving him grinning helplessly. He ducks his head, so Cameron can't see his smile.

"You're-" Cameron's voice sounds almost singsong, but then cuts off.

Ed looks up through his eyelashes. "What?"

Cameron's watching him, head on one side, before he jerks, as though pulling himself out of a reverie. "Nothing."

Ed looks back, confused, but then Cameron says "Just....forgotten how you are. It's affecting my supply and demand."

Ed snorts. "That's not even accurate. What do you have an increased demand for? My company?"

Cameron grins. "Precisely. The only supplier of that particular product is reluctant to provide it to those who abide by the rational choice theory."

Ed snorts. Cameron grins. "I studied Economics too, you know, Miliband."

"I wouldn't have gueth-ssed-"

"The supply decreasing even more-"

Ed takes a deep breath, feeling as if he's about to step off a cliff. "Not neth-essarily."

Something brightens in Cameron's eyes. "So I may not have to pay a higher equilibrium price?"

Ed swallows, heart suddenly racing. He feels as though he's balanced on the edge of something, something that leaves him soaring in his chest. He can't step away from it. Something's prickling his skin, tingling in his blood.

He tries to make his voice a little lower. "I wasn't aware you complied with the law of demand, Prime Minister." Ed's heartbeat is increasing slowly and steadily.

"I'd hate to create a lack of economic equilibrium, Miliband" Cameron says, his own voice a little lower and smoother. "But I thought I was working harder for it. In accordance with the labour theory of value-"

Hearing the words _labour theory of value_ in Cameron's voice makes Ed's heart skip. God, Cameron's voice is so smooth.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for someone who preferred Marxist theories, Prime Minister."

Cameron's eyes widen. His breathing suddenly seems a little deeper.

"Well-" His voice is far too smooth, but somehow a little huskier. "I wouldn't have expected you to be so intrigued by capitalism, Miliband."

"It_ is_ a free-market economy, Cameron." Ed's own voice is lower, a little breathier. He feels warm, something unfurling in his stomach, seeping into his blood.

That word _sexy_ whispers in his head again. This time, it doesn't fade. It stays there, caught in his thoughts, and tingles seem to be creeping down his body, his breathing slowly deepening.

"Well." Cameron's voice is low and Ed knows without knowing how that Cameron's feeling the same thing he is. "I wouldn't want you to damage your marginal cost, Miliband-"

Cameron's hand is creeping closer to the screen. Ed notices vaguely that his is doing the same, his thoughts slower, charged.

"M-maybe I should reconth-sider my demand schedule" he manages, and hears Cameron's breath catch. Something about that-that _he_ did that-his words did that-sends a thrill through Ed's chest, a thrill that becomes a little tingle that moves slowly down through his body. Ed's legs move, spreading a little. There's an edge of something to this, something that's making him tremble.

"M-maybe." Cameron's voice wavers a little. Any other time, that would make Ed punch the air. Now he's-

His own hand is creeping closer. Cameron's breathing is louder.

If they were opposite each other, they could be touching.

There's a small sound-a laugh or a shriek from one of the kids-but it's enough for Cameron to ask, a little more slowly than usual, "What was that?"

Ed swallows. "Just the kids" he whispers, but his hand creeps back slowly, and on the screen, Cameron's does the same.

"How are they?" Cameron asks, his voice a little less steady, and even though Ed answers, his heartbeat is still rapid, an ache of disappointment settling in his body, as his hand inches further away from Cameron's.

* * *

Sam really hadn't known she was going to end up inviting Ed Miliband to stay for dinner.

She definitely hadn't known she was going to end up letting him talk to her husband.

But a part of her-

She'd believed David when he talked to her. He knew Miliband better than she did.

Better than most people do, Sam thinks, really.

But while she'd believed it, she hadn't really-_seen _it.

Until now.

Just watching him as he talked with the others, his eyes darting a little too fast and staring a little too long, his hands seeming to fall over themselves in their gestures, as though struggling to keep up with his thoughts. She'd found herself noticing.

Maybe it was hard to understand without spending time with Ed. Without watching the way his speech seems to flounder, searching for the solid ground everyone else's feet are firmly planted on.

He is different, Sam had known suddenly, watching him. He is.

And so she'd asked him to stay.

"You were right" she'd told Dave later, lying propped on the bed with her chin in her hands, iPad leaning against the pillow. "He is different."

Dave's brow had creased. "Who?"

"Ed Miliband." Sam had glanced back towards the door. "He's here."

Dave had jumped a little. What?"

But his eyes had brightened.

That's what Sam had noticed almost immediately, that his eyes had brightened.

Now, when she hears an uncertain, slightly nasal "Samantha?" and bites back a grin as she heads to the bedroom door, she finds the iPad being passed out to her. It's only once she's delivered it back to the children-who are all gathered around the screen watching Coraline battle the Other Mother-that she realises Ed hasn't yet emerged.

Sam approaches the door slowly, carefully. She pauses, hand against the wood. She listens for a moment, her breathing suddenly seeming much louder than usual, before she gently pushes the door open.

Ed, when she looks in, isn't actually doing anything-he's just sitting on the bed, or so it seems.

But when Sam steps into the room, she notices that Ed is sitting quite still, gazing towards the window. It's the look on his face that makes Sam's breath catch.

He just looks utterly dreamy. His eyes are faraway, seeing some private vision, his fingers drumming idly against his jaw.

Something about the sheer dreaminess of his expression makes Sam grin, and on impulse, she sits down next to him.

"Hey." She says it gently, reaching for his hand. "Ed."

It takes him a moment to look, and when he does, he does so slowly, as though coming out of a daze.

When their gazes meet, he jumps. "Oh-th-Samantha-I-" He looks round as though only just noticing where he is. "Oh-I'm th-sorry, I didn't-"

"It's fine." Sam's more amused than anything else, but then she spots the panicked way Ed's gaze roams around the room, as though not daring to focus anywhere for too long.

"Hey." Her hand settles on his arm. "It's all right. I just wanted to check on you-"

Ed swallows, seeming to stiffen under her hand for a moment. "Y-yeah-yeah-th-sorry, I didn't mean to cause trouble-"

"You didn't. I just wanted to check you were all right-"

A goofy sort of smile spreads over Ed's face. Sam watches him duck his head hastily, cheeks dimpling with the grin that's spreading over his face.

"Y-yeah. Yeah. I'm f-fine." He shakes his head a little. "Juth-just-"

He shrugs, stares out of the window, that goofy grin tugging at his mouth.

"Just thinking" he manages, that dreamy tone still in his voice. Something about it makes him look sweetly bemused at himself.

Sam decides to hazard a guess. "You two seemed to have a lot to talk about."

Ed blushes. Even in the dim light, it's noticeable. ""Oh. Well. We-yeth, I suppose we-" He clears his throat. "I suppose I didn't realise how long it had been."

_Two days_, Sam thinks wryly.

But she looks at that dreamy expression. Thinks about Dave's face when she asked _Is it Ed Miliband?_

"You must miss him" she says suddenly, on a whim.

Ed jumps under her hand. "Um-"

His eyes dart. His lip crawls into his mouth and is chewed nervously.

That answers that question.

But then Ed says suddenly "Th-Samantha-Th-Samantha, I'm really th-sorry-"

Sam freezes just for a moment.

"About Nancy-I didn't mean to-I juth-st didn't think-"

The words alone might not have been enough to mollify her. But the way Ed turns to look at her-

His eyes widen. There's an awful sort of confusion in his gaze. As if he doesn't quite grasp things and wants to but isn't sure why-

Ed begins to babble in the face of her silence. "I-I really didn't m-mean to-to-upth-set anyone-I juth-st didn't think-" He stares, the confusion making him look much younger. "I'm th-sorry-"

Sam suddenly notices that the music's changed. She isn't sure how or when, but over the sound of childrens' chatter, she can hear a Joy Division song playing. The sound's eerie, almost a little otherworldly, and with Ed sitting next to her, lamplight just touching his face, it seems oddly appropriate.

"I know" she says quietly and as she says it, she has the odd feeling that this isn't the only apology she's answering.

"I know you are." And her hand wraps around his and squeezes once, and for the first time since she entered the room, some, not all, of the tension, seeps from Ed's shoulders.

* * *

When Michael has set off home with Beatrice and William in tow and George has taken Luke and Libbie back next door (with the three girls hugging at the doorway), Samantha, sitting on the couch, coaxing a wriggling Florence into pyjamas, says "Do you want to read them a story?"

Ed jumps. Sam, who's curled up against Samantha's side, looks up and fixes him with a disbelieving look out of his big, dark eyes.

"Um-if they'll-" Ed tries to look at Florence questioningly, but Flo's engrossed in wriggling.

Ed does read the boys stories at home. (Bob always wants him to talk about it.) But he always feels a little odd, as if he might be putting the emphasis on the wrong words, or not announcing the ending with enough flair-the same way he felt trying to cuddle them as babies, wondering if he should reflect their baby babble back to them.

But he can hardly say no, especially as Samantha cooked dinner and let him stay.

He nods awkwardly, and Florence smiles up at him, beginning to wriggle harder.

The truth is, even as he perches awkwardly on Nancy's bed and Florence scrambles trustingly up under his arm, he glances at the boys nervously. Even watching Nancy cuddle them earlier-

It always just looks so _natural._

As if none of them ever have to search for the words that come next or wonder if they're holding the children the right way or just not know why whatever they're doing isn't _working._

And Ed doesn't know _why._

But he doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Nancy and Elwen, freshly changed into pyjamas, both appear in the doorway, with Daniel between them. Daniel's eyes widen at the sight of Ed perched on the bed-he and Sam are used to being turned away if they try climbing into bed with their parents at home.

Nancy, perhaps unwittingly, saves the situation. "Is Mr. Ed Miliband reading to us?" she asks without preamble, and quite calmly hands Ed a book she seems to have selected, vaulting herself onto the bed next to him.

Elwen scrambles up at the other end, propping himself on one elbow, while Daniel, after a moment of consideration, does the same-though not before he's fixed Ed with a disbelieving look and asked, in a tone more sceptical than any five-year-old should have, _"You're _going to read?"

It's Samantha's hand Daniel reaches for. Ed tries his best not to notice.

"Right." Nancy, having handed Ed the book, promptly seizes it back. "My go to read."

Samantha grins, propping herself at the end of the bed between Elwen and Daniel. Ed, who's found himself wedged between Nancy and Sam, with Florence on his knee, blinks. "Oh. Um-" He glances at Samantha, and off her encouraging nod, manages "Um. OK."

He wonders if this is the usual protocol with reading to children. He usually only reads to them on trains, going to conferences or events. Tom usually thinks the pictures look good-_Reading to your kids-it's universal, makes you look like a family man-people can relate to it_. Usually, once the cameras have got the shots they want, Ed can go back to working, and the books are forgotten, which is easier. He can't remember the last time he-or Justine-was there at bedtime.

But Nancy launches in, leaning over to touch Flo's hair absently, her head resting against Ed's shoulder. _"If our Anthony was telling this story, he'd start with the money-"_

Nancy reads for a bit. Ed listens, mind drifting idly. Nancy's head feels unfamiliar, the warmth of her hair against his shoulder, the soft scent of childish shampoo. Florence's solid warm weight in his lap is unusual, too, like the warmth of them all being curled together. Ed doesn't often curl up with the boys. In fact, he can't remember the last time he did, and they certainly don't cuddle up in bed together-not even when they were babies.

Once, when Sam was about a year old, he'd been crying and Ed had sat up for three hours, bouncing him on his knee, making the shushing sounds he knew he was meant to make, staring at his son's red, cross little face, his mouth rounded around wails.

Irritation had spiked in his chest. _Well, what else do you want me to do? You don't have an instruction manual._

_You don't work,_ had reared suddenly, sharply in his mind, and to push the thought away, he'd bounced Sam harder. When Sam had eventually cried himself to sleep, Ed had felt a vindictive jab of _Thank God for that._

(Bob had wanted him to tell a journalist about it-they were doing a soft-focus family article a few days later, for the Mirror, which could always be relied on to be sympathetic. They'd dressed the anecdote up a bit, made him sound prouder.)

(The journalist had looked a little surprised that Ed was so keen to talk about it, and Ed had wondered if that was a normal thing to have to do with babies. Often, Zia, who, after all, had been used to Daniel and lived there Monday to Friday anyway, had taken care of Sam if he really wouldn't stop crying. Other times, he seemed to cry himself to sleep in the end.)

But now-Ed muses. It's warm and Nancy's head is digging a little into his shoulder and Elwen's feet are draped over his legs, but it's nice. Comfortable. Ed tries to assess the situation, even as Nancy reads, her little voice right in his ear. _"I still didn't say a word, but then the phone rang and I accidentally answered it-"_

Do most people do this, then?

Is this what-is it always like this for some people-

Ed's thoughts drift as he listens, taking an almost childlike pleasure in the words. He was never read many stories. Dad used to encourage intellectual pursuits. It was why Ed had liked to hear about Booboo and Heehee so much.

Everything else Dad liked to do-chess, debating, leafleting-was about learning. Doing.

He didn't have to try with Booboo and Heehee.

(He wonders if that's why David liked it, too. They've never talked about it, really.)

This-this is nice. His eyes are heavy. He can smell Nancy's shampoo. Florence is warm, her head resting on his chest, hair tickling his chin. He can see Sam's fingers, curled around hers'.

"You read now" Nancy says abruptly, tiredness apparently overwhelming her, and she nestles against Ed's shoulder.

"Oh-" Ed props himself up, taking the book as Nancy's eyes flicker shut. "Um-OK, let's see-"

Nancy, even with her eyes closed, manages to let her hand crawl out and gently tap the sentence she's paused at.

Ed clears his throat. "OK. Um-_Anthony said goodbye to the old pound nearly every day-"_

He reads on. At some point, he notices Florence has stopped wriggling. She's curled up, peacefully asleep against his chest. Daniel too, seems to have nodded off, his head against Elwen's forehead.

_"Actually, my enthusiasm was because of a misunderstanding. I thought he was suggesting we live in the field, with the string-"_

Ed loses track of time. At some point, his thoughts drift to how the story sounded in Nancy's voice and then to wondering whether he ever read aloud to his parents.

He can't remember. He can't remember them reading stories to him, either. He remembers being read facts and stories about parties forming, but not fairytales. They weren't useful.

He remembers listening outside the door, while his father talked with his friends, ear pressed against the wood, trying to grasp any sound that might sneak through.

He wonders when the last time was that either of his children fell asleep near him.

A hand squeezes his shin gently and Samantha whispers something about getting ready. Ed's head is quieter, thoughts starting to run into one another, as he feels himself nod.

When he glances at Nancy, her eyes are closed, and her breathing has steadied, head still lying on his chest. Elwen and Daniel too, are still. Florence and Sam's breathing is even, slow.

Ed lets his head fall back, the book lying open on his chest. He lets himself bask in the unfamiliar sensation of being cuddled under the weight of sleeping children.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

Ed, lulled a little, reaches for it more lazily than usual, and doesn't look at the number.

"Hello?"

"Miliband?"

For once, the voice doesn't make him jump.

Instead, he smiles. It's like sinking into a warm bath.

"Cameron." Ed keeps his eyes closed, luxuriating in David's voice. "Hi."

"Hi."

Something squirms fondly in Ed's chest. "How are you?"

"Fine." Cameron's voice has an edge of amusement. "We did speak less than an hour ago."

"You phoned me." There isn't much venom in the reply.

"Well. Yes. Where are you?"

"Still at yours', actually." Tiredness makes it easier to admit.

"Really?"

Ed swallows. "I-I can go if you want-" It comes out as a mumble.

"No!" David's voice is louder, cutting Ed off. He freezes, glancing at the children, but none of them have stirred.

"No, it's-it's fine. I was-just surprised, that's all."

"Well-th-Samantha asked me to read to them-"

"Oh. Are the kids there?"

"Yeah. But they're asleep. I'm sitting with them. Your kids are in bed, but Daniel and Sam-they're still dressed, obviously, but they're-"

"Asleep-"

"Asleep, yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah. We're in Nanth-Nancy's room-"

There's another silence, before Cameron's voice comes again-a little smaller. "Can you do something for me?"

Ed frowns. "Yeah-"

"Can you tell me what they look like?"

Ed blinks. "What they-"

"Look like. Just-how they're lying." Cameron's voice sounds taut, wrapped tight around something. "Just-you know. On the bed."

If Ed was a little more awake, he might ask more questions. But he's tired and it's warm and Cameron's voice-

Ed just _likes_ it.

"OK-" Ed props himself against the pillow. "Um-Elwen's at the end of the bed. He's lying-well, just on his side. Curled up. And asleep. His feet are kind of-right down at the end. He's-his head is kind of by Nancy's feet-" Ed's voice is a whisper. "Nancy's up by the headboard, that end-"

"Yeah-"

"And he's just-on his side. His hand's kind of up by his cheek. Daniel's next to him-sorry, you meant your kids-"

"No, it's all right-" Something catches in David's voice. "Tell me."

Ed leans forward, peering at his son. "Daniel's-lying next to Elwen. Same kind of thing-on his side, but he's facing the other way-so they're facing each other, lying there, facing each other-quite close, their arms kind of touching. Nancy's up by this end-she's got her head on my shoulder-"

David's breath catches again. Ed stops. "Is that-"

"No, just-nothing. Go on-"

"Well-she's kind of stretched out with her head on my shoulder-her hair's kind of on the pillow, everywhere-"

David laughs a little. Ed feels himself smile.

"And-" He turns his head gently. "Sam's on my other side-just got his head on my shoulder-"

Daniel looks peaceful, lashes brushing his cheeks. Something aches in Ed's chest. He can't remember the last time he watched Daniel sleep.

Sam's dark curls are nestling on Ed's shoulder, lashes long and fluttering as he sleeps. Ed watches him, that ache there again.

"And Florence is-" Ed looks down, nose burying itself in Florence's hair. "She's here-sitting on my knee-" He bites his lip, worry gnawing in his chest. "I-um-th-sorry-"

"Why?"

Florence huddles closer into his chest. "Why what?"

His voice is a whisper. Florence's baby shampoo is sweet and warm.

"Why are you saying sorry?"

Ed shrugs. "Don't know. Just-"

"Thank you."

It's Ed's turn to be startled. "What for?"

David's voice is a little tighter this time. "Doing that for me."

Ed feels colour flood his face. But it isn't unpleasant. Something seems to dissolve in his chest, leaving behind a warm, tender feeling.

"It's fine-" His own voice is a little faint.

There's a pause, then, "Just something I used to do at boarding school."

"What?"

Cameron laughs, the sound a little strained. "Well. We didn't have phones, but-" He clears his throat. "I used to-I had this trick where I asked my sisters to tell me certain things they were doing or tell them to think about us-me and Alex-at certain times. Then when I was in my dormitory, I could think about them and know they were thinking about us." He laughs again, shorter this time. "I suppose this must sound rather strange to you, Miliband."

Ed swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. "No" he says slowly. "It sounds-"

The word finds its' way out of its' own accord. "Sweet."

Ed cringes. The only thing stopping him from slapping a hand over his mouth is the fact he's got one arm awkwardly positioned around Florence.

There's a startled silence. Then, Cameron laughs a little. "Well. That's-ah-" There's something else there that makes Ed's heart race a little faster. "You don't usually describe me in those terms."

Ed's smiling somehow. Florence's head is nestling over his heart.

"How do you know?" He blurts it out without thinking. "You don't know how I refer to you when you're not listening."

He could kick himself.

"Oh? And are you more complimentary when I'm not around, Miliband?"

Ed freezes, heart thudding. But there's something pleasant in the swooping sensation in his stomach, the heat in his cheeks-like when Cameron's voice curled around the words _rational choice theory,_ as though savouring the taste.

"M-maybe" is all that comes out. He bites his lip, suddenly intensely aware of his own heartbeat.

Florence wriggles suddenly, but doesn't open her eyes. She just arches her back, and then wriggles closer into his chest. Ed rubs her back awkwardly, something aching pleasantly in his chest at the sensation of her sleeping in his arms.

"What was that?"

"Oh. Nothing. Florence just moved a little, that's all."

"Did she wake up?"

"No. Juth-st moved-"

"She was always quite a good sleeper" Cameron says, almost to himself. "Both the girls were. It was the boys who were more difficult. Elwen used to come into our bed every night." He pauses, then "And of course, we never got a full night with Ivan."

Ed swallows. The lump in his throat is back.

"One of the reasons I couldn't send them to boarding school" Cameron says, a little abruptly. "I mean-" He laughs again, tightly. "There, you wake up and cry-no-one comes-"

The lump in Ed's throat swells. He blinks, hard. His eyes flicker closed and like on the train, he sees Cameron, a younger Cameron-a little Cameron, no more than seven, lying alone in a bed in a freezing room, tears trickling down his cheeks, alone amongst the other boys in the dark.

"David-" It comes out as a breath.

"Anyway-" Cameron clears his throat. His voice steadies. "What about your boys?"

_Don't do that_, rears suddenly in Ed's mind. _Don't have to do that around me._

"Um-Daniel was a good sleeper" he says instead, hating himself a little for not saying it. "And Sam-Sam used to be, but then he started-waking up, I suppose-"

They were supposed to just leave him, Justine said. So he learnt to cry himself back to sleep.

"I'm not sure when he grew out of that, to be honeth-st-"

Maybe he just hadn't seen Sam grow out of it.

Maybe Sam had grown out of it when he wasn't there to watch.

"But-yeah. He was-more difficult-"

_It worked on me_, Justine had told him, when he'd questioned the ignore strategy.

A thought seizes hold irresistibly in Ed's mind. _Did it?_

"Well." David laughs-still that same forced laugh. "Boarding school'd be rather off the cards. Not exactly bedtime stories, you know-"

Something twists in Ed's chest. "Well" he says, feeling an odd sense of deja-vu, as he thinks back to Paris and that room and that bed-

(Not the bed, don't think about the bed.)

"I didn't exactly-well, you know. There wath-wasn't always time for-"

He can feel those bannisters digging into his cheeks again. His mother's fingers, trying to chuck him under the chin. _You know Daddy has to be away._

For three months, twelve months, sixteen months.

It's for the greater good. To make a difference.

"Stories" he says, and then bites his lip, stifling a yawn.

Cameron isn't fooled. "You sound sleepy yourself, Miliband."

Ed issues a denial, which is difficult when one is still yawning.

"Of course you're not" says Cameron, sounding more amused than he should. "I'd bet you'll fall asleep right there. Florence is a fantastic sleep aide. She's very comfortable."

"I will not." Ed knows he sounds like a petulant toddler and hates it.

Cameron laughs knowingly. But his voice is soft. "Goodnight, Miliband."

Ed swallows, his throat suddenly thick with something he can't quite say.

"Night, David." It comes out as a whisper.

It's only when Cameron's hung up that Ed realises he never actually said why he called.

Regardless, he lets his head sink forward, nose pressing into Florence's hair.

He won't fall asleep, he tells himself as his eyes fall closed. He won't.

He's not sure how much later it is when he feels his shoulder being shaken. He lifts his head, from where his nose has ended up pressed into Florence's hair, astonished, stretching his eyes as wide as he can. "I wasn't sleeping!"

Samantha, in a dressing gown, tilts her head to one side, smile dimpling her cheeks. "You look exhausted" she says, as Ed tries to look as awake as possible.

A shadow falls over her face, so Ed can't quite make out her expression. "Do you want to stay here?"

Ed blinks. "W-"

What?

Samantha shrugs. "Well, you'd have to get a car back through London-and the kids are settled. Maybe it makes more sense for you to just stay here tonight."

Ed opens his mouth and closes it again, trying in vain to think of an objection.

It's ridiculous.

The thought of-

But-

The kids are asleep.

And-

Ed glances at her anxiously. "But-wouldn't-"

Samantha doesn't have to do any of this and yet-

(And he's been dreaming about-)

"Wouldn't it be an impoth-imposition-"

"No!" Samantha laughs, somehow managing to do so in a whisper. "Craig and the others sometimes do when they're working late-Dave won't mind. You could have Flo's room, she's dead to the world here-" She reaches out, lifting Florence from Ed's lap, turning her daughter's face into her shoulder. Florence murmurs in her sleep, as Ed carefully disentangles himself and climbs out.

"There-" Samantha settles Florence back on Nancy's other side, so that Nancy's lying in the centre, Florence and Sam on either side. "We can put the boys in a couple of Elwen's old shirts-they'll be a bit big, but it doesn't matter-"

A quick trip to Elwen's room later, and Ed watches, bemused, as Samantha crouches down and guides a sleeping Sam out of his jumper and jeans with a practiced ease. Ed watches, a little awed by how natural it seems to be.

He can't remember the last time he put either Daniel or Sam in their pyjamas.

But Samantha manages effortlessly, manoeuvreing Daniel the same way, throwing their little clothes onto a chair. Ed blinks at how she shushes as his son stirs a little, smoothes his hair after guiding it through, brushes his cheek gently as he curls back onto the duvet. It's like a dance that Samantha's practiced all her life and that Ed can't manage without falling out of step.

"Here-" Samantha lifts Elwen gently, laying his head on her shoulder. She's scrubbed her face clean of make-up and she looks younger, more vulnerable. With a jolt of recognition, Ed notices she looks a little like Nancy.

He stands there for a minute before realising he's supposed to follow suit. He bends and moves Daniel awkwardly into his arms, following Samantha.

Daniel's head is a weight on his shoulder. Ed adjusts him a little. He can feel the panic knotting in his chest, wondering what he should do, if he's holding him tightly enough. His own dad, on the rare occasions he held him, used to fold his hands over his shoulders or around his waist carefully, as though going through a process. Sometimes, he held Ed out in front of him, hands placed carefully over his back.

In Elwen's room, Samantha lifts Elwen down with a kiss on the head and tucks him in, before patting the pillow next to him.

"Oh-"

Ed lowers Daniel down. He swallows, trying to imitate what Samantha did, tucking the duvet over Daniel and then remembers the kiss. He leans down and touches Daniel's hair cautiously, hoping he's doing the right thing.

He stares down at Daniel, watching the way his eyelashes flutter. Something aches in his throat. He presses his mouth to Daniel's forehead quickly, getting a confused impression of warm childish skin, and then stands up quickly, feeling oddly choked.

Samantha eyes him steadily, and then she too kisses Daniel's forehead, stroking his hair back. The panic rises again in Ed's chest, tightening his lungs, before he manages to bend down and kiss Elwen's forehead carefully. And he wonders why it's easier to kiss their son than his own.

Outside, Samantha beckons him. "Come here, I'll lend you one of Dave's shirts-"

_That _gets Ed's attention.

Because-

Oh God.

Cameron's shirt.

The thought of-

Oh God.

Cameron's shirt. That's against Cameron's skin.

He's blushing furiously.

But he doesn't have anything else, and the thought of sleeping _without _a shirt makes Ed blush even more.

He should probably be less embarrassed than he is in their room, given he's already been in there, but he still can't bring himself to glance at the bed. He stands there, trying desperately to avert his eyes, and wondering quite what the protocol is for what to discuss in this situation.

"Th-thank you for this-" he manages nervously, watching a curtain of Samantha's hair fall over her face. "I-I-um-I'm th-sorry about intruding-"

Samantha just shakes her head. "You're not. Don't be silly-"

She trails off as she notices where Ed's gaze has lighted.

He hasn't meant to, but in trying not to look at the bed, he's been glancing around and he's spotted a small row of photographs on the chest of drawers-one in particular.

Samantha grins, chucking him the shirt as she glances at the photo. "That's us. Year we were married."

Ed's breath is caught in his throat and his cheeks are warm. Samantha in the picture is young and pretty, hair a pale blonde with brown streaks spilling through, unlike its' rich, natural darkness. She's holding Cameron's elbow, his arm around her, both of them smiling straight at the camera.

Well.

Cameron's beaming, really.

It's quite obviously him. His hair's darker, and there's a lot more of it. His cheeks are even pinker, but the blush looks natural, healthy. His eyes are bright, glinting mischievously, above dimples that dent his cheeks.

It's obviously Cameron. And yet, Ed stares at it. He wonders when the photo was taken. He wonders what the younger Cameron was thinking. He wonders what was making him smile like that.

It's Samantha's voice at his side that jolts Ed back to awareness. "Handsome, isn't he?" Her grin makes her eyes dance in the lamplight, and standing there, she's more clearly than ever the girl in the picture, looking just as young.

And Cameron-

Cameron's clearly the guy in the picture. The cocky smile. The twinkle of the eyes. The-_look._

It's so-

Ed stares at the picture, Samantha's words echoing vaguely.

"Yeah, he is." His voice is breathy, quiet. Even though he's aware of Samantha's gaze, he just stares at the photograph, Cameron's smile making him feel goofy and dazed and making it far, far too difficult not to grin back.

* * *

Outside in the hall, he says suddenly "Th-Samantha-"

"Yeah?"

Ed can't meet her eyes.

(It occurs to him that the whole reason Cameron was smiling like that in the picture was Samantha-of course it was, who else would it be?)

(It gives him a strange, out-of-sorts, jabbing feeling, which is ridiculous.)

"Thank you." He says it to his feet and steels himself to meet her eyes. "For-"

He wants to thank her for a lot and some of it he can't quite know or say. Underneath it all, there's an awful sinking feeling in his chest-a sinking dragging down at the words _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _and Ed doesn't even know what he's sorry for.

Samantha looks at him, head tilted. "Ed."

It's not a question. It has the hint of a question, but there's something less wondering, more knowing about the word. Ed stares back, a strange urge to justify, to explain, rising up in his throat-

"I-" There's nothing else to say, because how has he even ended up here-

And then Samantha's saying "Ed" and reaching out to touch his arm. Something catches in Ed's throat.

"It's all right, OK?"

Samantha's eyes meet his in the dim light and for a moment, as they watch one another, Ed has the oddest sensation they're both thinking the same thing.

"Thank you." It seems to be all he can say.

Samantha looks at him quietly and then reaches up and presses her mouth gently to his cheek in a soft kiss.

"Night, Ed." Her voice is soft and something almost like sad. Her arms slide around his shoulders and she hugs him once, quickly.

It's quick and warm and confuses Ed, so it's almost too late when he manages to lift his arms to give her an awkward squeeze back.

She gives him another smile then, and says, voice almost a whisper, "Goodnight, Ed."

His own voice is a whisper. "Night, Samantha."

* * *

He must be more tired than he realised, because it's only once he's got Cameron's shirt over his head that he realises _he's got Cameron's shirt over his head._

He's only blearily taken in Florence's room, and now, even as he pulls the shirt down, he notices that it seems to be mostly unchanged from the last time he was in here. It's still a little girl's bedroom, which is somehow reassuring, in the way that childrens' rooms sometimes are-as though nothing bad could happen here. He'd stripped off his clothing and been pulling the shirt on when it occurred to him just whose shirt it was.

Now, he takes a deep breath, then sinks down onto Florence's bed, staring down at the shirt nervously, as if it might bite him.

It's an ordinary shirt. Too big for Ed, but the material's soft and he pinches it gently between his fingers. It sends an odd shiver through him as he pictures Cameron doing the same thing-and another one when he realises that that's more than likely true.

Ed takes a breath and tucks himself under the duvet before his thoughts can become any more ridiculous. He feels his elbow digging into something, and props himself up to retrieve what turns out to be an Elsa doll.

A few minutes later, cheek pressed into the pillow, Ed realises he can smell Cameron's aftershave. It's an accident, at first-just a sleepy observation that drifts through his brain. Cameron's shirt smells faintly of the scent Ed knows so well, that usually makes him grin somehow. It's so-Cameron-ish.

But lying here, Ed becomes more and more aware of it. It's pleasant-almost like the voice of a friend he'd forgotten since he was very small. Reassuring.

It's the fact he's half-asleep that makes him do it. Slowly, almost without noticing, he tilts his head down so just for a moment, he can burrow his nose into the shirt. The scent is warm and sweet and Cameron-ish. Ed thinks suddenly of that photograph and that beam on Cameron's face and feels oddly uncomfortable.

_Not exactly bedtime stories._

Ed frowns, suddenly thinking about that dormitory again. A young boy, with Cameron's face, huddled under the covers, silent tears streaking his cheeks. It twists, sharp and vicious, in his chest.

_How old were you_, he thinks, and then on the heels of that, _How old was I?_

It's ridiculous, of course-they didn't even know each other back then, why on earth would he-but some strange thought jolts over and over, never quite finishing-_How did I not-when they hurt him-how did I-_

It's ridiculous. He'd have been at home himself at the time. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, listening to people talk. Bannisters digging into his cheeks.

_When you cry-no-one comes._

Something shifts a little. Ed's suddenly seized by the thought that there's something similar about those memories.

Something.

It's only when Ed's eyes close, cuddled up in the warmth of the shirt, that his mind wanders, and for a dreamlike moment, the soft material over his back and shoulders seem to become a pair of arms, warm and gentle, pulling him into someone's chest.

Ed slips into sleep, and if something that sounds like "Cameron" comes out of his mouth in a mumble, that doesn't mean anything at all.

* * *

_It's Dark It's Cold It's Winter-Sleepmakeswaves_

_Simple As This-Jake Bugg-"Mining for treasure deep in my bones/That I never found...Tried institutions of the mind and soul/It only taught me what I should not know/Oh the answer, well/Who would have guessed/Could be something as simple as this/Something as simple as this?"_

_Love Cats-The Cure-this is the song Nancy's singing to, that Samantha's playing. _

_Landfill-Daughter-"Throw me in a landfill/Don't think about the consequences/ Throw me in the dirt pit/Don't think about the choices that you make...Push me out to sea/On a little boat that you made/Out of the evergreen you helped your father cut away/Leave me on the tracks/To wait until the morning train arrives/Don't you dare look back....Well this is torturous electricity/Between both of us and this is/Dangerous 'cause I want you so much/But I hate your guts, I want you so much/But I hate your guts/I want you so much, but I hate your guts"_

_Atmosphere-Joy Division-"Walk in silence/Don't turn away, in silence/Your confusion/My illusion/Worn like a mask of self-hate/Confronts and then dies/Don't walk away"-this is the Joy Division song that's playing when Samantha finds Ed sitting in Dave's bedroom._

_Whispers-Dave Baxter-"This one comes and this one goes/So here we are across the road/In whispers, in whispers....Our stories and pictures/Oh, we let them go, let them go home/Oh, I have seen your beauty grow/Where others fade, you shine and glow/Our love will be legend/If we let it go, let it go home"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's memory of being pushed down the slide:https://bit.ly/2TY4BWR  
Nancy's story about the chip is true, as are her and Elwen's opinions on school food:https://bit.ly/2wbxwxp  
Obama and Cameron's press conference:https://bit.ly/3d9LtNd  
The "knifing a foreign secretary" exchange:https://bit.ly/2WiwjiA  
The Cameron and Osborne children did love stealing sweets from the Cabinet Room table and playing with the cameras in the security room:https://bit.ly/2wewEIh  
https://bit.ly/2WkWAg2  
The kids swinging Florence in a bag is true:http://dailym.ai/33mmem8  
The Camerons did use the back entrance of Downing Street, which you can see here:https://bit.ly/2Uhx0Gm  
https://bit.ly/3b49pzF  
David, George and Michael did take turns doing the school run, sharing childcare, being godparents to each other's children:https://bit.ly/3d0p3xP  
https://bit.ly/2WgAsTY  
https://bit.ly/39V0L6p  
http://dailym.ai/39XgKAJ  
Bea was a fan of Zoella:http://dailym.ai/39Z0A9W  
The stories about iCarly, Bea's phone, and the Rainbow Loom stall:http://dailym.ai/2TTXE8X  
http://dailym.ai/2wdmWWz  
http://dailym.ai/3aWf8ao  
David M and Louise didn't attend Ed's wedding party:https://bit.ly/3cYnkZP  
Samantha did used to vote Green:https://bit.ly/2WhsD0l  
Obama did dislike Ed, partly as a result of Ed's actions over the Syria vote.http://dailym.ai/2QkAlTz  
He gave Ed infamously short meetings:https://bit.ly/2QmuOvR  
Axelrod was an adviser to Ed, who had been Obama's campaign chief:https://bit.ly/2x39Z1C  
Messina, Cameron's adviser, had also worked for Obama:https://bit.ly/2IRHIxQ  
https://on.ft.com/2UeikaD  
Barack calls David "bro":https://bit.ly/2QmXN2y  
Barack famously let David have a nap in his bed on Air Force One:https://bit.ly/38WYiqw  
The books mentioned are the Delirium series, which Obama's kids read:https://bit.ly/3b0huVP  
The selfie of David, Obama and Thorning-Schmidt:https://bit.ly/2vrAX2L  
https://bit.ly/2U9PIj4  
David and Ed both studied PPE at Oxford-David was there at the same time as David M and Ed B. Ed M was there at the same time as George.  
The photos of David and Sam Ed ends up staring at:http://dailym.ai/2TTapk8  
Daniel and Sam do like hoovering:https://bit.ly/2Qi4rqL  
The nursery they're in is the House Of Commons nursery:https://bit.ly/3d4QuXa  
David and Sam referred to the Tories as the blue team to the kids, Ed and Justine to Labour as the red team:https://bit.ly/3d85HH8  
https://bit.ly/38Sl03i  
https://bit.ly/2Ub1HN5  
https://bit.ly/38WYN41  
Elwen supports Chelsea, while Daniel and Sam support Arsenal:https://bit.ly/39VNKcJ  
https://bzfd.it/2ISwSYs  
The Cameron and Gove children attending the same primary school, and Bea and Nancy attending the same secondary:https://bit.ly/2QmxGsD  
https://bit.ly/3d2ghzb  
Ed's arguing with Gordon, through sticking up for David:https://bit.ly/2TXeyDY  
First Aid Kit are one of David and Sam's favourite bands:http://dailym.ai/2QkKGPz  
Ed did say he didn't like his kids climbing into bed with him:https://on.ft.com/2IPF0bY  
The anecdote about getting Sam to sleep is true (he would have been too old to be teething at the time):https://bit.ly/2UcokAY  
Ed's father was away for up to nine months a year working:https://bit.ly/3b42mHg  
David talking about his kids sleeping:https://bit.ly/2ITmjEl  
https://bit.ly/2Qhk2qI  
https://bit.ly/2Wh0vuf  
https://bit.ly/33uErhy  
https://bit.ly/33movha  
https://bit.ly/2Ug59WK  
https://bit.ly/2TVJdBC  
https://bit.ly/2WmDqGD  
https://bit.ly/3d5Y4ko  
https://bit.ly/2Qjc14y  
https://bit.ly/2TXfNTE  
https://bit.ly/2xJcarH  
https://bit.ly/2QkqCN0  
https://bit.ly/2WeAR9H


	9. Aquatic Assumptions, Innocent Interrogations And A Confounding Of Countenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which no one can fail to be cheered up by a baby, Tony has everyone's phone number, and Samantha's family have too many names to count."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr ](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.  
In this case, I have included some references in these notes at the start just because of how ridiculously huge and extensive Sam's family is. You can see all of them properly in the notes at the bottom, this just gives you a brief idea because honestly, the list of names requires three deep breaths. The reference quotes here refer to the first glimpses of the EdStone, Sam's family, David's nanny, the Cameron, Gove and Osborne kids at Chequers, more of the Tony/Gordon rows, Ed's ability to do the Rubix Cube one-handed, and the time Dave took Jade Jagger punting.  
Sam's family:http://dailym.ai/2WnyRMs  
https://bit.ly/38Veys9  
Samantha's parents:https://bit.ly/2TXJhk3  
https://tinyurl.com/ulrf4r2  
Tom is Emily's husband, Perry & Rex their sons:https://bit.ly/2UjbZuE  
https://bit.ly/2wg16ls  
https://bit.ly/3d745gH  
https://bit.ly/2vvixy7  
Flora, Will and Jake are Samantha's maternal half-siblings. Theo is Flora's husband, Nelson & Pandora their kids (they've since had another, Lydia). They then lived between Switzerland & France:https://bit.ly/2WlH0Rn  
https://bit.ly/38TJSri  
Lohralee is Will's wife-Wolf (Waldorf) & Allegra are their kids (they've since had two more, Conrad and India):http://dailym.ai/3a0nP3A  
https://bit.ly/2QqwMLJ  
https://bit.ly/33BYCKB  
Jake and Victoria live in Hong Kong (they later had a daughter, Sibyl, and then another, Atalanta)  
Alice, Lucy and Rob are Sam's paternal half-siblings. Etienne is Alice's husband:http://dailym.ai/2Qr3htf  
https://bit.ly/2Uk58B8  
They've since had a daughter, Pia:https://bit.ly/33vt099  
Thomas is Lucy's husband: https://bit.ly/2IUcrKz  
Rob drag queen:http://dailym.ai/39Xv8Je  
Samantha's sisters:https://tinyurl.com/wsntc2x  
John's kids Stephie and Max:https://bit.ly/2WH5WCZ  
http://dailym.ai/3dqarrL

* * *

_At twenty-one, Annabel married Reggie Sheffield Junior, giving birth to Samantha in 1971. Samantha's sister Emily came along two years later. The couple split up in the 1970s, after he had an affair with Annabel's friend Victoria, but the break-up was amicable. In a confusing twist, Annabel went on to marry William Astor, her stepfather's nephew, who inherited his title in 1972. They set up home in Oxfordshire and have now been together for thirty-nine years._

_Today, the Astor and Sheffield families are thoroughly intertwined and on excellent terms. Bruce Anderson says: **"Reggie and Annabel have a very happy divorce. Most divorces leave scars, but Reggie and William are really good friends. They often have Christmases together with all the extended family. The wives get on. David says Victoria's main recreations are fishing, her dogs and Virginia tobacco. She's a very good fisherwoman."**_

_So close is the bond between Reggie and William, that according to Anderson, they sometimes jest that they don't know whose children are whose. **"William and Reggie regularly have lunch and joke, "Is Emily one of yours or mine? If she's one of yours, then why is she asking me for a bigger allowance?" All the children get on as if they were the same (family). It's unusual, because everybody is happy. The kids are very loud, like teenagers. If you want to make a point, you need to get it in in the first half of the sentence."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_In fact, Miliband senior would encourage his sons to contribute to the highbrow intellectual and political discussions and question the views and positions of their high-profile guests, often having to jump in to defend young David or Ed's right to speak and participate in the conversations. Ed would later recall: **"Ralph's respect for our views was unflinching."** Some of Ralph's friends remember David being more voluble than Ed, with the youngest Miliband often listening intently to the contributions of his elder brother with his eyes wide open. One says: **"Ed was shyer, less sure of himself, more introspective."** During the Labour leadership campaign, Ed himself encouraged the idea that he was slightly less engaged in the debates and discussions at Edis Street, telling a reporter how he had often alarmed his father by quietly sneaking off to watch Dallas **"my secret vice....I think (Ralph) believed I was planning a future in Big Oil."** But Leo Panitch, one of Ralph's closest friends and another former student of his, who now teaches political science at York University in Toronto, disagrees: **"I just don't think that's true. I remember both David and Edward, at a remarkably young age, with a good deal of confidence, engaging in discussions." "(They were) very, very fresh, lively, intelligent...and I must admit Ed amazed me by being able to do the Rubik's Cube....in one minute twenty seconds and, as I recall, with just one hand too" **the socialist historian Robin Blackburn, an ally of Ralph's has said.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Outside the rally, I ran into Tom Baldwin who told me that tomorrow would see the unveiling of what had become dubbed the "Torstone"-an eight-foot-and-six-inches high limestone plinth which would have Labour's election pledges inscribed on it. It had gained its nickname from its creator, Torsten Bell, Labour's policy and rebuttal director. The beast had already been filmed that morning in Hastings, but the pictures were under strict embargo until tomorrow...**"All good decisions are collective decisions."** That was the familiar refrain from Bob Roberts whenever he was asked who was behind a particular initiative. Today I asked a follow-up on the Torstone.** "Was this a collective decision?" "Eh no."**...What was now being called the **"EdStone"** on social media was a disaster and every Labour official present tried to distance themselves from it...**"I should have stopped it." "It should have been stopped." "You would have to have been an idiot to say it wasn't a mistake."** Three Labour strategists. A rare consensus. Yet the limestone was chiselled nonetheless. The concept had come from Scotland where Torsten Bell had been drafted in towards the end of a panicky referendum campaign the previous year. His allies despise how he is apparently now being scapegoated for the EdStone when often his advice and strategic thinking had got the party out of scrapes, not landed them in trouble...I have spoken to people at the heart of the decision-making process and still can't precisely establish when the stone went from an idea in to action. I'm told it was first discussed in December 2014, that it had been through about ten planning meetings, that initially it might have been-like the Vow-more of a newspaper advert, or poster, mocked up like a stone rather than the real thing. One adviser admitted: **"It was a lack of focus. An over familiarity with an idea."** It had indeed been dubbed the Torstone internally and some staff had a mocked-up version as a screen saver-channelling the opening credits of 2001: A Space Odyssey. No one was stopping to think of the wider reaction....There seemed to be incredulity that it would ever happen-then, **"Torsten knew this stone mason..."**-who turned out to be a Conservative supporter.....While those close to the leader had overlapping roles, there were also senior officials in Labour's Brewers Green headquarters who felt they were being left outside the tent entirely. In fact, they regarded it as more of bivouac because Ed Miliband tended to consult and communicate with only a small group. As one of them said to me: **"Do you think that bloody stone would have happened if he had talked to us? There were lots of people with experience of several elections, but they didn't talk to us. And I don't think even most of the Shadow Cabinet knew about the stone."** Indeed a senior Shadow Cabinet source confirmed this: **"Senior members of the Shadow Cabinet never really believed he could win so they were distant, but also for the same reason kept at a distance by him. There was no wise old owl to say stop."** Ed Miliband was said to have a mistrust for many of the long-standing party officials whom he knew, or believed, would have preferred to have had his brother lead the party...As one adviser said more generally about decision-making under Ed Miliband: **"He wasn't weak. He was stubborn. But stubborn is his indecision. His answer to disagreements was to bring even more people into the room."**....But one strategist defended the stone because, going into the last week of the campaign, the media were for once-if not always with a straight face-talking about Labour's pledges and not the Conservatives' core message._

_The party's interim leader Harriet Harman did remind me that history is written by the winners. Had Labour achieved a broader political appeal and been on course to win a majority, or the largest number of seats, a risible **"EdStone"** wouldn't have formed part of Ed Miliband's political obituary. **"It depends on the prism through which it's viewed"** she said.** "It could have been seen retrospectively as a masterstroke that helped restore trust in politics had there been a Miliband premiership."**_

_But there wasn't. And it wasn't.-"2nd May 2015-3rd May 2015", Five Million Conversations: How Labour Lost An Election And Rediscovered Its' Roots, Iain Watson_

_Samantha has her own ambitions, of course, but they are not in politics. Halfway through her time in No. 10, she starts preparing for her lifetime dream, to launch her own clothes label. She busily tries out her new designs in the upstairs flat. **"You can be my standard size-8 model"** she says cheerily, pinning me into her latest dress.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Sam was very busy with the fashion business she was about to launch. She had been working hard for the past year, learning to sew and to cut patterns, and filling our dining room with dressmakers' dummies and fabrics. I would come up to the flat to find one friend or another standing on the kitchen table in Sam's latest creation as she fiddled with the hem. Life was moving on. There would be a new business, a new prime minister, a new path for the country.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Gwen Hoare is a key figure in the life of both Ian and Mary Cameron. Born just west of Swindon, the daughter of a market gardener, she had been "in service" with the Mount family all her life, had never married, and had looked after Mary-thirteen years her junior-as she was growing up. For nearly twenty years after the war, she lived in a variety of houses at Wasing. Then, in her early forties, she moved to join the family in Phillimore Place, Kensington, to help look after Alexander. When, in 1969, the family moved to Peasemore, a village in Berkshire, Gwen Hoare moved with them. The move required Ian Cameron to make the daily train trek from Didcot Parkway to the City of London....It meant leaving the house before seven in the morning, and not returning until seven in the evening. Mary Cameron meanwhile was often out, sitting as JP in Newbury or doing other good works locally. It was, therefore, David Cameron's nanny who oversaw much of his early upbringing.**"Gwen pretty much brought them up"** says a family friend. **"She was always a hugely important figure in that house"** says another. **"She was much more than an old-fashioned nanny. She was a real rock in that family, as if they didn't have enough already."** Five years after the birth of David, Mary was delivered of her fourth child, Clare, and Gwen Hoare had another charge.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

_His childhood home was in Peasemore, a village near Newbury in the Berkshire Downs. His father Ian and mother Mary moved there when he was a baby, after deciding they wanted to bring up their family in the countryside. With his arrival, they now had three children (a fourth would arrive in 1971) and exchanged their grand house in Kensington (worth £5 million in 2015) for a lovely rectory. In a sign of the strength of the family unit, several Camerons still live in the village today: Cameron's older brother Alex, now a successful QC, who lives at the Old Rectory with his wife Sarah and is a chairman of Peasemore Parish Council; Mary, who lives in a smaller adjoining property; and, remarkably, Cameron's old nanny, Gwen Hoare, who looked after Mary when she was little. Now in her mid-nineties, Gwen is a stalwart of the community and only recently gave up delivering the parish newsletter. On her 90th birthday, her most successful young charge invited her to Chequers....The four siblings-Alex, Tania (two years older than Cameron) and Clare, who was born in 1971-got on well. As very young children, they went to a private "pre-prep" school called Greenwood in Newbury, to which they were driven every day by a rota of local mothers. When they came home, they were given supper by Gwen. Gwen's brother Bert, who at ninety-two is two years her junior, confirms what an important figure she has been for several generations of the family. **"She brought up the Camerons" **he says simply.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_There was another key adult in our upbringing, the woman I spoke to on my way to Buckingham Palace that day in May 2010: Gwen Hoare. Yes, just to complete the privilege of the old-fashioned, privileged set-up, I had a nanny. She was with our family for over seven decades. Indeed, she was still living in a small cottage in the grounds of the Old Rectory, Peasemore, when sadly she passed away in June 2019, aged ninety-eight. To say we loved Gwen as if she was part of the family would miss the point: she **was**_ _ part of the family. As well as the love and devotion she had always shown us-as children we would often bump into each other as we crawled into her bed at night-Gwen was a woman of strong values. In later years I used to wind her up by saying she could write Daily Mail editorials in her sleep, and that she made Queen Victoria look like a hippy.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_The Cameron parents invited six couples of their own generation, and the children were also allowed to ask two or three friends each. Alex Cameron was unable to make the trip, but Tania invited Pete Czernin, David Cameron's friend from Eton, and Carl Brookes, a cardiologist whom she later married. Clare invited Samantha and two male friends. Cameron himself asked Dom Loehnis, Serena Eweles and Anastasia Cooke, on whom he was quite keen. Anastasia, though, was seeing James Baker, son of the former BBC news reader Richard Baker, who came to Tuscany to pick her up and drive her home at the end of the holiday. But it was not long into the holiday before Cameron set his sights on Samantha Sheffield.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_He also made the occasional (restful) sortie onto the river. One Saturday towards the end of his second year at Oxford, Cameron invited his sister Clare, then aged fifteen, to visit. She was preparing for exams and David thought it would be a good opportunity to show her his new surroundings. She brought along a friend, Jade Jagger, daughter of Rolling Stone Mick Jagger, whose budding beauty did not pass unnoticed among David's friends. Dave decided to take his little sister and her friend out in a punt in time-honoured fashion. He asked James Fergusson to join them, and he helped contribute to an idyllically innocent afternoon on the river by taking turns with the punt pole and chatting idly. At tea later in the Christ Church room of James Delingpole, now a journalist, Fergusson played an imperfect version of "Satisfaction" on his guitar, whereupon Jade piped up proudly, **"My dad wrote that!" **The following Monday, Cameron's mother Mary received a call at home. It was Mick Jagger, not pleased. **"What's all this my daughter's been getting up to with your son?" **he demanded. **"You know I don't approve of bloodsports."** Mary, dipping lightly into her reserves of breeding and politesse, explained gently that **punting** is what one does in a punt, and that his daughter had enjoyed an entirely peaceful afternoon **punting** on the river. Cameron, who adores retelling the story, later muttered a little impatiently that **"it shows how much these people have to learn."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

_David will work in the den (at Chequers) off and on throughout the weekends-near enough to his family so they don't notice how often he pops out to take a call or read a newly sent memo. Chequers works because it allows a prime minister to work and relax in an atmosphere of privacy. David already looks very much at home here. But he is clear with his family right from the start; this is not our home; home is in Dean. The Camerons start to run the house in an informal, family style. I suspect that shepherd's pie for Saturday lunch is not what the cook has in mind. Unused fireplaces are opened and swept; fires are lit. David sets up a sound system in the great hall. Over time, the place begins to feel less like a government guest house and more like a family home..._ _David has a ferocious work ethic, but part of what keeps him balanced, and able to make good decisions, is his ability to switch off. He will go for a run or spend time with the children. At Chequers, he often plays tennis-with a friend, if one is around (they are supposed to lose graciously) or if not, with his ball machine, nicknamed (by the press, originally) **"the Clegger." T**here is the possibility of a swim in the indoor pool-a gift from President Nixon. I don't love swimming, I say on one occasion, when Nancy is trying to persuade me into the water. **"Mum got over that stage a while ago"** she says critically. I say I don't have my swimsuit and she points to a rather tired-looking one-piece hanging in the changing rooms. "You can use that one-it was left here."...We all laugh to hear that one weekend at Chequers, one of the Gove children, followed by a confused Cameron child, runs into breakfast saying, isn't it true this house will be ours when Dad's prime minister?-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_Visitors say Cameron is far from blase about Chequers. He would encourage visiting children to pose for pictures with him, explaining that his tenure there may not be long-lived and they might not get another opportunity. It's an assertion endorsed by daughter Nancy, who has a tendency to tell guests disarmingly: **"Daddy says we're to enjoy it here, as we won't be here for long." C**ertainly he shows no signs of suppressing his appetite for life while in residence, listening unaffectedly to pop music and firing up the karaoke machine, a Christmas present from friends the first Christmas after he moved into Downing Street. (One member of staff, hearing the Prime Minister unleash himself on a well-known ballad, was heard to whisper **"Let's hope he doesn't give up the day job.")**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

_Chequers is a sixteenth-century manor house near Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire that was gifted to the office of prime minister in the 1920s. Its owners, Tory MP Arthur Lee and his American wife Ruth, had been worried that future prime ministers would neither have the money, the time nor the inclination to appreciate country life. So they gave them the ideal country house in which to work and relax. There are ten guest bedrooms. More than a thousand acres of land. An indoor pool. Tennis court. Two chefs. Plentiful staff. How can that possibly be justified? All I can say is that it makes the job more do-able, and frees the PM from the day-to-day fray so he or she can think and plan. The family and I would spend one weekend out of four here, and the rest at Dean...At Chequers Florence's cot was in the room next to where Lady Mary Grey, sister to **"the Nine Days Queen",** was imprisoned on the floor above our bedrooms. Nancy would give guided tours and proclaim, **"We won't be living here for long-it's only while Dad's prime minister."** She'd go into the house's history, talking about some of the figures who had a connection with it, like "**Oliver Crumble."****-**For The Record, David Cameron_

_From the beginning, the real issue at stake between Tony and Gordon...was Gordon's demand that Tony set a date for his departure. Following the 2001 election, Gordon repeatedly tried to lever Tony into resigning. At one meeting, he said he would only agree to the euro if Tony stood down as leader, and at another he said he would only put money into public services if Tony went. Tony tried to appease him by saying that he was not sure about standing for a third term if Gordon would only start cooperating. Gordon refused. At their first meeting after the summer break in September 2001, Gordon clearly thought Tony was going to name a date. He arrived in our office looking pleased, but left an hour later looking sour. He demanded that Tony agree to go, but Tony refused. Gordon began to shout that it was **"a moral question"**: Tony owed it to him. In the aftershock of the meeting, Tony told me that he had felt physically threatened when Gordon got up and leaned over his desk....The rows were out of all proportion to surrounding events. In the aftermath of 9/11, Tony rang Gordon to ask for his advice. Instead of responding, Gordon used the call to demand to know when Tony was going to resign. Tony slammed the phone down in a rage. The only time I saw him appear to cheer up during that period was when the War Cabinet was told there was a specific terrorist threat to Tony's life.-The New Machiavelli: How To Wield Power In The Modern World, Jonathan Powell_

_Tony told me in 2001 that he believed that Gordon's strategy was to wear him down and to make his life so unbearable that he would finally quit. But he was not going to be worn down...He (Gordon) demanded a seat on the party's NEC and took on Tony over Europe. When he came to see Tony in November, he demanded to know, **"Why did you start this all off?"** Tony threatened to walk out of the meeting, saying the argument was not about policies, but all about personalities, saying, **"You are not the only person in this government."** In March 2004, Gordon threatened to bring down the government unless Tony agreed to leave immediately after the next election. Tony defied him to do so....The war resumed in 2004 as a new election loomed. In December Gordon lost his temper and called Tony a liar, a cheat, and a fraud. He said, **"You can't talk about yourself as a Christian if you don't honour your word."** Tony threw him out of the office.-The New Machiavelli: How To Wield Power In The Modern World, Jonathan Powell_

_The public manifestations of the rows were beginning to unsettle the Cabinet. Jack Straw told both sides to stop it in January 2005. The problem for was that the Labour Party were tempted to believe that both Tony and Gordon were behaving as badly as each other. I was scarcely an impartial observer, but it seemed to me that the war was pretty one-sided. Alastair Campbell and Philip Gould were worried that the divisions would cause us to lose the 2005 election, and pressure from the Cabinet forced Gordon back from the brink. He emerged from the den after a meeting in March blinking back tears, having called a truce. He went out and briefed the papers that he had come back for the election and that his Budget had saved the day. Peter Mandelson subsequently accused Tony of having sold his birthright as a result of a temporary panic by Alastair and Philip, but it was hard to see what else he could do. The rapprochement in March and April was pretty gruesome, and we dubbed Anthony Minghella's election film about Tony and Gordon working together _Love Story II._ In preparing for the press conference to launch the manifesto in April, Gordon tried to get Tony to say publicly he would hand over to him after the election and offered to say something in response about not challenging Tony. Tony declined the offer.-The New Machiavelli: How To Wield Power In The Modern World, Jonathan Powell_

_As I noted in my diary, the honeymoon lasted just twelve hours after polling day. Gordon was back pressing Tony to set a date for his departure the very next day. A week later, he said to Tony, **"So you are going to stand for a fourth term after all."** Tony laughed. Gordon kept coming back and at the end of June he said to Tony, **"You completely shafted me last year by ratting on our deal. You have to set a date."** In October, he told Tony once again that he had **"a moral duty to go"** and demanded that Tony set a date, but added that even if he did, he would not believe him. A few weeks later, Gordon again came in and demanded a date. Tony took him aback by saying he thought he would go at the end of 2007. Gordon went wild and threatened to **"spill the beans."** Tony asked what beans, but Gordon didn't reply. Tony suggested they have dinner together to discuss how to deal with the new Tory leader, David Cameron. Gordon blurted out **"But you are behind Cameron"** and declined the invitation.-The New Machiavelli: How To Wield Power In The Modern World, Jonathan Powell_

_Normally in these conversations TB would always throw in that GB was brilliant, if flawed, but any reference to brilliance had gone. He described him as a wild animal who had to be managed. He said in some ways he wished he had dealt with him a long time ago but heaven knows what damage he could have done working openly against him. He said that GB had actually told his staff TB had given him a date, and of course that percolated out and it was bollocks. Every time he cranked it up, it actually made it harder for TB to say anything other than he was going to stay. GB should have loved him to death, I said. TB agreed and said he had played it all wrong, constantly given him reasons to stay not go, above all the fear his behaviour aroused that he just wasn't up to it. He said GB complained about the way the press attacked him.**"What on earth does he think I get compared to the pinpricks he gets? Do you imagine he could remotely cope with the pressure from the media we have had to deal with?"** And so it went on. I sensed a man who really had finally given up on a former friend, who was managing him a little while longer but then intended to see him off.-"Thursday 15th July 2004", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Five: Outside, Inside: 2003-2005, Alastair Campbell_

_I said to TB at least you can be sure it will be your last leader's speech to the TUC. That ought to make you feel a bit_ _happier about the future. **"Definitely a bit of a relief."** He said he actually at one point almost got a fit of the giggles when he looked out, was listing all the things that we had done for working people, and all he could see was a load of big blokes waving **"Blair Out"** placards, **"Time to go"** with the "o" in "go" just a great big spattering of blood. **"They don't like me much, do they?"**-"Tuesday 12th September 2006", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_**"Well"**, said Cherie (Blair), **"I think you should sack him." **She had many times before urged her husband to fire Gordon Brown. She would do so many times again. Tony Blair was careful to whom he confided the full torture of being umbilically bound to the Chancellor. He feared that it might destroy the Government if the ugly truth came out. So he usually tried to conceal, even from his senior staff, just how toxic the relationship was turning. He would bottle up all his frustration and fury about the other man's impossible behaviour and then pour it out to Cherie when he went up to the flat in the evening. That helps to explain why her hostility to the next-door neighbour was so intense. Barry Cox, a close and non-political friend of the Blairs, explains:** "She bore the brunt of the consequences for Tony of the confrontations with Brown. She reacted personally to what she regarded as Gordon's very bad behaviour and she took deep moral offence at it. She was not as calm and measured as Tony. She got very angry. She felt very betrayed."**...Blair often described his relationship with Brown as **"like a marriage."** That, in many ways, it was. There has been no more creative, destructive, talented and turbulent pairing in high British politics. Despite all the difficulties between them, no Prime Minister and Chancellor were twinned together for so long since the Napoleonic Wars. The longevity of the partnership was the more extraordinary because it was so tempestuous. They were the rock on which New Labour was built and the rock on which it so often threatened to break apart. When they were working together, their complementary skills created a synergy which made the Government pretty much unstoppable. When they were at war with each other, it terrified and divided the Cabinet, horrified and bewildered their party, astounded civil servants, transfixed the media and poisoned the Government into paralysis....There was a code in Whitehall for outbreaks between the neighbours of Downing Street. They became known as **"the TB-GBs."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Brown was the preacher: most impressive when rousing a crowd of believers. Brown liked to preach to the choir; Blair to reach out to the unconverted. Blair could understand why people were Tories. His father had been one. Brown could not. Conservatives aroused in him a Caledonian red mist. Blair's lack of tribalism, his fluid and protean qualities, allowed him to reach parts of the electorate that Brown struggled to understand or impress....The real Leader of the Opposition to Blair was his next-door neighbour. Brown was equally fixated with his place in history...To Brown and the Brownites, it was **"an article of faith that there was a promise by Brown to hand over."** When a date did not materialise, it became Brown's repeated and angry complaint to Blair that **"he was welshing on the deal."** The Chancellor was driven more demented after 9/11, when Blair's evident relish for his role on the world stage indicated him and his intimates that **"Tony wasn't going anywhere."** On the account of one of his circle, Brown was in **"a state of perpetual rage."** There were regular episodes of throwing things at walls, the floor and occasionally other people...Blair's attitude to Brown was also conditioned by mournfulness about the withering of the relationship. **"Gordon is the only friend I have ever lost"** he once lamented.** "Even when it was really bad, Tony was never black and white about Gordon"** says Alastair Campbell....There were still occasional moments of warmth. According to one person on the Brown side who often witnessed meetings or listened in to phone calls **"there were times when it was strangely intimate-like a husband and wife on the phone."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Brown exploited the Treasury's control...to dominate the rest of the Cabinet and outmanoeuvre his titular senior in Number 10. One tactic was simply to refuse to tell Blair what would be in Budgets. Stephen Wall had been an official under Margaret Thatcher and John Major, both of whom had difficult relationships with Chancellors. Yet he **"could not recall a time when there was such a relationship of non-communication between a Prime Minister and a Chancellor. Number 10 had the greatest difficulties until quite soon before the Budget statement getting the Treasury to cough up the details of what the Chancellor had in mind. It was a constant battle."** When Brown was refusing to divulge his plans, Blair was reduced, and in front of witnesses, to pleading: **"Give us a hint, Gordon."** A senior aide to the Prime Minister once confided: **"We are lucky if he tells us what will be in the Budget forty-eight hours beforehand."** Sometimes he did not even give that much notice. On one occasion, notorious in Whitehall, Brown would not let Blair see the Budget until six o'clock in the evening the day before, by which time it was already at the printers. When Brown was proving particularly obstructive before another Budget, Blair asked John Prescott to join them for a meeting. The Deputy Prime Minister told the Chancellor that he was being utterly unreasonable.** "For Christ's sake, Gordon, he's the fucking Prime Minister-you've got to tell him what's in the Budget"** said Prescott. It did no good.-The End Of The Party:The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_**"This is going to be interesting" **mused Tony Blair as he sat in the den preparing for his first encounter with a new opponent at Prime Minister's Questions...Since they could not beat Blair, the Tories finally decided to copy him. At thirty-nine, David Cameron was two years younger than Blair when he became Labour leader. Cameron won the Conservative leadership on the basis that he would be their Blair: a fresh and youthful moderniser to take them back to power after many years in the wilderness of Opposition. The Prime Minister left Number 10 for the Commons accompanied by the voluminous, burgundy folder of briefing notes on any subject that might conceivably come up at PMQs. Placed inside the folder was a piece of paper with a patronising welcome, a pre-prepared put-down to squelch his new opponent. Yet when they faced off at noon, Blair did not use the stinger. It was Cameron who pierced Blair. In an accomplished debut, the neophyte Tory leader made an audacious slash at the long-serving Prime Minister. He was** "stuck in the past, and I want to talk about the future", **said Cameron. **"He was the future once."** The Tory benches cheered the jibe while some Labour MPs winced in sympathy with their leader. Blair reacted with a slight lift of his eyebrows and a mild smile, the practised professional of the art of parliamentary jousting appreciating the artistry of a younger thruster, even if the sally was at his expense. Talking to his staff afterwards, he wryly shrugged off the barb: **"As I'd expected, Cameron is going to be a contender."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Blair was intrigued by this new opponent. On the way to the Tory leadership, Cameron survived a media maelstrom of questions about his youthful drug habits. I was the first to pose this question during an interview with Cameron at that year's Tory conference in Blackpool. The grandly named Baronial Hall-in reality, a function room in the Winter Gardens-was packed to overflowing with Tory activists waiting to see their party's coming man. **"Did you use drugs at Oxford?"** I asked. Amidst nervous laughter from the audience, he answered by not answering: **"I had a normal university life."** I pressed: **"So that's a yes, then?"**** "There were things I did as a student that I don't think I should talk about now that I'm a politician."** I suggested: **"I can take that as a "yes.""** He did not argue. There was a media furore over the following days as other journalists took up the question. Blair was privately impressed that Cameron successfully held to his line that he wouldn't talk about his life before politics. The Prime Minister could not help but see some of his younger self in Cameron, another presentationally adept, rhetorically fluent, only part-formed public school charmer, a pragmatic moderniser who had risen rapidly and without much trace to seize the leadership of his party from under the noses of older colleagues who thought they were much better qualified to do the job. Blair's private claim had been: **"I could sort out the Tory Party in five minutes."** What he meant was that he would make the Conservatives sound moderate, look modern and move them to the centre ground, where British elections are won and lost. Cameron followed the Blair-approved prescription. In an interview with me shortly after he became leader, Cameron said: **"What I want to do with the Conservative Party is get it into the mainstream of British politics, broadly appeal as a party."** That was precisely the approach described in almost identical language that Blair took when he refashioned the Labour Party as New Labour. In his early years as leader, Blair enjoyed a eulogising media because he could do a few headers on the football pitch. Cameron got rave reviews for being capable of riding a bike and smiling at the same time. The media was enjoying the novelty of reporting a Tory leader with a whiff of hope and a dusting of charisma. In further echoes of Blair circa 1994-7, Cameron said: **"I'm not a deeply ideological person. I'm a practical person and****pragmatic."** His blueprint for renewing the Tories was a Blairprint. He adopted the New Labour mantra of **"social justice and economic efficiency" **as his own. At a dinner with journalists from the Daily Telegraph during that year's Tory conference, Cameron even declared: **"I am the heir to Blair."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The Cameron generation of Tories were mesmerised by Blair. He had dominated the formative years of their political lives and subjected their party to a hat-trick of defeats. They regarded the Prime Minister with much more respect and awe than did many in the Labour Party. Cameron's claim to be the son of Blair might be arguable, but it paid homage to the Prime Minister. To Gordon Brown, Cameron was not a compliment; he was a threat. Refusing to accept that the Conservatives were changing, the Chancellor wanted to define him as a **"new gloss on the same old Tories."** To visitors to Number 11, he would pour contempt on Cameron as a fake, a lightweight, **"a namby pamby"** and **"a libertarian."** One who witnessed the private debates between Blair and Brown says: **"Gordon's view was that you've got to crush this little Lord Fauntleroy from day one and Tony wouldn't do it."** A close friend of Brown says: **"Gordon could only be more contemptuous of Cameron if he were a lawyer."** The lawyer Blair disagreed. **"We would just leave ourselves open to ridicule if we launched an over-the-top attack"** he argued. **"Some massive personal attack"** on Cameron wouldn't work. There was **"no point denying" ** that he represented some sort of change. Blair could not anyway attack Cameron for being an Old Etonian when he was a product of Fettes, the Eton of Scotland. **"Who cares if Cameron is an Old Etonian?"** he remarked to one Cabinet colleague. **"It doesn't matter if he comes over as classless."** Blair recognised that the advent of Cameron was an important development in their opponents. **"You've got to accept that they are trying to make changes."...**Brown's proposed line of attack reminded Blair of how the Tories had tried and failed to demonise him when he was Leader of the Opposition.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Bust-ups in the den were now routine. Brown would thunder round to Number 10, the door on Blair's study would close and yelling at dispatch box levels began almost immediately. **"The noise was so loud you could hear the screaming and shouting from the other side of the door"** says one member of the Cabinet. Shortly after breakfast, officials and advisers held an 8.30 a.m. planning meeting in the Cabinet Room. It was not unusual for these meetings to take place to the background noise of high-decibel swearing coming from the nearby den. Blair and Brown were rowing so violently that sometimes the words were audible to staff in the Cabinet Room. **"The shouting was so loud you could hear it. Everyone would be pretending to focus on what we were discussing and the entire room would be earwigging the conversation next door."**...An especially venomous confrontation over pensions took place in the den...On Blair's account to his friends, this fight climaxed with Brown making a direct threat. On a mild version of what took place, Brown left the den issuing the parting shot: **"You haven't heard the last about these peerages."** Cabinet ministers and other politicians and advisers very close to Blair say that Brown was more directly menacing than that. Brown said: **"I'll get you over the peerages."** Afterwards Sally Morgan was told by Blair: **"For the first time, I'm scared. He's going to bring me down."** Blair was so stunned and disturbed by Brown's behaviour that he called in the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Gus O'Donnell, to make an official note of Brown's threat. Blair told O'Donnell that he was afraid that **"Gordon is going to do something very unconstitutional."..**Blair remained utterly convinced that Brown had stabbed him in the back. To one close friend in the Cabinet, Blair called it **"the single most treacherous act ever committed by Gordon."** According to another member of the Cabinet: **"Tony absolutely believes that Gordon did that. This was one of a whole variety of threats that Gordon issued."** Blair told his non-political friend Barry Cox that Brown was behind it...**"That was the time that he began to believe that Brown was behaving truly badly. Cherie would say the scales took a long time to fall from his eyes"** recounts Cox.** "He did begin to believe the worst of Gordon Brown."....**_

_The two men were forced into each other's company in the first week of April (2006) when they shared a car journey to the launch of Labour's campaign for the local elections. As they sat in the back of the limo, Blair attempted to engage Brown in conversation. Brown responded by taking out some papers and burying himself in them. He refused to reply to every overture until Blair eventually gave up trying to make conversation. The journey passed in bitter silence.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

* * *

_"Underneath this veneer of slightly crazy and mildly socially retarded, I'm a complete disaster."-Fangirl, Rainbow Rowell_

_"She is frozen to the sidewalk. "You can't keep pushing people to do things they don't want to do. You just barge in and help yourself and say we're doing this, we're doing that, but you don't listen. You don't think about anyone else other than yourself."_

_"Actually, I'm thinking about you holed up in that room of yours' on that stupid orange bike. Must go here. Must go there. Here. There. Back and forth, but nowhere new or outside those three or four miles.""-All The Bright Places, Jennifer Niven_

_""Okay. Dare you to speak something true. Really true."_

_"I always speak the truth."_

_"Lie!" I giggled. "Dirty, filthy lie."_

_Nikki sat up. "We can't all be like you, Hannah, just saying whatever the hell we feel like. No act. No costume. It's hard to be naked all the time.""-Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

* * *

David's almost asleep when Craig rings from his room.

"Someone had better have died" are the first words out of his mouth when he picks up the phone.

He then winces, considering the implications of his words and the current age of Her Majesty.

"David." Craig's voice is trembling with something-something badly suppressed that sounds rather like _hysteria._ "David, open your emails."

Frowning-and with a series of grumbles about what interrupts his sleep these days in which he has to admit the word _Boris _might be audible-David does so.

"Now-" Craig sounds as though he might weep or shriek or dissolve into laughter that never stops. "The email from me that you are about to open contains the article that the _Daily Mail _are going to run tomorrow. And yes, that is the headline."

David, wondering whether a sense of foreboding is appropriate or not, clicks on the email.

A moment later, he knows the answer.

"Oh my God."

"I know."

"Labour MPs have _confirmed _this?"

"Yep."

"He-he-what-he-he _set fire to himself-"_

"It would seem so."

"And he bought them a-a bloody prayer rug-"

"Yep."

"Miliband-Miliband bought them a-"

"Yep." Craig sounds far too merry for this time of the morning. "So am I forgiven for waking you up, then?"

David, still slightly disbelieving, stares at the screen.

"It's a possibility" is all he manages, barely noticing Craig's self-satisfied chuckle as he stares once again at the headline.

* * *

_"My 9-And-A-Half Days Of Calamity Ed-" _George dissolves into sniggers again and pulls out his phone. "Come on, _please_ let's just read the prayer mat bit again-"

David almost yanks the phone out of his hand. "Sam'll confiscate it. Plus, he might be here-"

Michael grimaces. George grins. "Bruises cleared up yet, Michael?"

Michael rolls his eyes. "But _honestly_. It really_ did_ take rather a lot out of me to be polite all Friday evening, after-"

He glances at David.

"He didn't _mean_ it, I explained-"

Michael rolls his eyes. David feels a pang of exasperation, but at the same time, can't help being a little touched by the loyalty.

"Come on" he says, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the dining room table, empty apart from caterers and staff. "Just one look at this bit-"

It takes a matter of moments for George to dissolve into laughter again. "For goodness' sake, how could he not _know-"_

David shakes his head. "Well, it's-it's-" His voice is softer than he would have expected. "It's Miliband, isn't it?"

George gives him a sharp look. David keeps his eyes on the screen, his heart suddenly a little rapid, eyes skimming over the words without reading them at all.

* * *

Nancy is, on the whole, quite satisfied with her presents so far. She has to wait to open Mum and Dad's until tomorrow, along with Elwen and Flo's, but everything else is fair game.

Now that most people are here, Nancy is engaging in her time-honoured and well-practised birthday ritual; card first, then a shake and a squeeze of the package before diving into the wrapping paper. Today, she is performing this ritual in one of the living rooms at Chequers-perched on the edge of an armchair, with Elwen on the arm, Flo nestled in at her side, and everyone else crowded around.

"That's Mr. Obama's present, I think-" Dad says, leaning over the back of the chair.

Nancy inspects it carefully before peeling the paper off to reveal three books, which prompt a series of appreciative sounds from around them.

"Cool-" It isn't too much of a surprise-Mr. Obama always sends her books. She turns them over, examining the blurbs.

Libbie scrambles over one arm of the chair to peer at it. "Oh, yeah-I've read that-"

"Five quid to me" Uncle George mutters.

Nancy examines the books carefully, as best she can with Flo scrambling down to tug at Pandora's hand. "Now, now, Pan-ora, you come up here-"

Pandora sucks at her thumb and lets Flo tug her along by the hand, while Nelson and Perry occupy themselves with clambering next to Elwen. Bea picks a book up, scanning the blurb, while Will glances down to find Wolf, who's at the toddling stage, has wrapped himself around his knees, gazing up out of his big blue eyes.

"Ahh, look at him-" Auntie Sarah picks him up while Uncle Tom grabs Perry and pulls him onto his knee. "Shh, shh-"

"And once again-" Uncle Will pops his head over the back of the chair, making Nancy jump. "This is another present that was _not _gifted to me."

Mum smacks his shoulder. "In a minute, I'll give you the bloody sketch I was doing yesterday morning just to shut you up."

Uncle Rob's head flies up from where he's bouncing Allegra on his knee. "If one of them's for me, don't you _dare."_

Nancy curls back into the chair, as Granny's head flies up. "Oh, be quiet, William. You're as bad as this when _we're _giving you presents."

"Like the time I gave you that bloody rifle" Grandad declares, turning back from the window. "And you wanted a different type-"

"OK-" Auntie Emily holds up her hands. "Nancy's day."

Uncle Will opens his mouth and Auntie Flora kicks him. "Yeah, we know it's _your_ day, too-" She scoops up Pandora, whom Auntie Sarah has swapped for Flo, and Uncle Theo pulls Nelson onto the couch gently.

"OK-" Auntie Alice holds out her gift. "Know you've still got all _your_ lot-" She indicates Dad, who winks, with her head. "Coming later. So let's get ours' in first."

"Oh, and Uncle Jake's calling later, Nance-" Dad says, brushing her hair off her face. "They wanted to see you, but they can't leave Hong Kong with the baby coming-"

"S'all right." Nancy can't count all her family on both hands, and part of her wonders if they'd all be able to fit into the same room, so the absence of one or two is occasionally a temporary relief.

Uncle Michael and Uncle George are on either side of her now, and Uncle George's hand creeps out to tug at the wrapping paper. Nancy smacks him, while Wolf tugs at his father's sleeve, wriggling about.

Nancy only just remembers then that with all the kids that are here, Mr. Ed Miliband's still haven't arrived yet.

She wonders, briefly, if they'll be OK. Their eyes had almost come out their heads when they'd seen everyone on Friday night and with even more here, she wonders if it'll bother them. They'd seemed surprised again yesterday morning, when they toddled out in their pyjamas to see Mum at the breakfast table, doodling like she always does on Saturdays.

Mr. Ed Miliband had seemed surprised, too. He'd blinked as Mum offered him porridge and pancakes, looking a little like an owl.

Nancy had watched him, legs swinging under the table. Something about the shirt and tracksuit bottoms he was wearing had looked familiar, and after a moment of puzzling, Nancy had realised they were Dad's.

Mr. Ed Miliband had glanced up and caught her watching him. He'd blushed. Nancy had stared back at him, thinking that he looked young, somehow-with his big eyes and rumpled hair, he looked a bit like a kid.

That impression had only been reinforced when Ed had watched Daniel and Elwen talking and opened his mouth a couple of times, as if daring himself to join in.

Watching him, Nancy had felt a sudden pang of sympathy, and when he'd turned to her, swallowing a mouthful of porridge, Adam's Apple bobbing awkwardly, as Florence sat to his right, chattering away partly to Sam, partly to herself, he'd asked "So-uh-um-w-what do you want for your birthday, Nancy?"

Mum had shot her a quick look, which Nancy pretended not to see.

"Um-anything, really" was all she'd come out with, shrugging. "I like books."

Ed had seemed to heave a sigh of relief. "Oh. Good. I can d-"

He'd trailed off, colour rising to his cheeks and Nancy had felt a surge of something that made her chest ache a little.

"What was your favourite book?" she'd asked him a little abruptly, because that seems to be a question every adult likes answering. "When you were a kid?"

Mr. Ed Miliband had blinked rapidly. "Oh. Well. There was this book by Anthony Crosland, and my dad had _Das Kapital, _which he wanted me to read_-"_

Nancy had blinked, but made herself look interested. It had been easier than she would have thought. Not because of what Mr. Ed Miliband said, but because of how he said it. His eyes widened and his hands flew about, and his whole face brightened.

Nancy had caught Mum looking up again with a smile, as he talked, his voice carrying higher with every word. Nancy had watched, taking in the way Mr. Ed Miliband's finger had wandered to the collar of Dad's shirt every few moments, stroking the material gently, almost as though he didn't notice he was doing it at all.

* * *

Ed can't bring himself to get out of the car. He's coming back later after all-he'll pop in then, he thinks, as he sees Gita at the gate, flanked by security, Chequers rising up behind her like a person leaning in to scoop his children up.

It's only as he watches Gita take Daniel and Sam's hands that he remembers he didn't kiss either of them goodbye and nor did either of them try to kiss him.

It had been yesterday that he'd got the phone call-shortly after he'd driven the boys back, having been eager to dispel any notion that he was trying to intrude.

("You could stay until Dave's home, if you like" Samantha had suggested, but Ed, scrambling for words, had managed to get out that he wanted to be home for Justine, despite having no idea when she'd be back. But he'd had to get to the Fabian Conference, anyway, he told himself.)

(When he'd taken off Cameron's shirt, he'd held it for a moment, the knowledge that this was _Cameron's_-that Cameron _wore _this against his skin-stirring somehow at the roots of his hair.)

(He'd held it another moment and then dropped it onto the bed as quickly as possible.)

It had been driving into Dartmouth Park Road that he'd felt his phone vibrating and it had been heading up the steps that he'd answered it and heard Bob's voice-"Don't panic."

Now, twenty-four hours later, Ed isn't panicking.

"Well, we can salvage it" Bob says now, without preamble, lowering his phone. "I mean-"

He lapses into far too long a silence for someone who has just discovered they can salvage anything.

"It's only the Mail" Torsten manages, and even Ed knows that's weak.

"I know" he manages, his voice sounding vaguely unreal even to him, as though he's listening to a recording of himself from years before. "I'm fine."

It's not much easier once he arrives in Sheffield. At least today's visit is quieter, with no possibility of cameras-Ed just hopes that this time he's got less chance of bumping into Nick.

His stomach squirms.

_(David Cameron should be ashamed of himself,_ he'd said on Friday, and now his fingers open and close, trying to feel Cameron's shirt between them.)

Today, they're just meeting Oliver to go over strategies....

_(Get Clegg. _It's been whispered around the office for over a week, _get Clegg. If we get Clegg out, if we unseat him-)_

Now, he keeps his head down and is grateful he pulled a jacket on over his suit. He keeps his eyes on the ground, grateful for not being required to stand out today.

Ed can't quite fathom it-the strange tugging in his chest, the squeeze of something that makes him feel small and bad and guilty when he thinks about Nick, even though he knows that-

Labour need to win seats, Ed tells the small sad feeling in his chest, trying to sound firm. This is what we have to do.

He's so busy telling himself this very firmly that he barely notices they're walking into a cafe, and then doesn't even look at the cup of tea that ends up sitting in front of him for several moments.

"There" Anna's saying suddenly, with a hand on the shoulder that doesn't feel quite right. "Rachel got it for you."

Ed blinks. "Oh-thanks" he says, but the words seem to take a while to reach his mouth.

Anna and Rachel join him, Tom, Bob and Torsten at the table. For a few moments, nobody says anything, all sipping tea and staring meditatively out of the window, apart from Torsten, who appears to be trying out various phrases under his breath. "Solid promise-promises could stand on-house built on rock, not sand-"

Ed pushes anxiously at the guilty, tugging feeling in his chest, probing it like a bruise. He tries to leave it alone, but his thoughts travel back to it like his tongue to a loose tooth-small jabs of irresistible pain. Outside, the sky hangs, grey and leaden overheard, stubbornly refusing to lift and resisting any vague attempts by light to break through.

"You know" says Rachel, after a moment. "Some of that article. We could use some of it to our advantage."

Ed manages, only by a great exercise of willpower, not to snort.

"I was thinking that" says Bob, taking a sip of his own tea. "I mean-that first bit-about his voice-"

"Yeah, but that was a little bit complimentary-" Anna pulls her Mac into her lap, peering at the screen. _"He has soft, olive skin_-we could turn that-"

"Yeah, but-_his speech is so nasal it gets in the way of what he is saying-"_

"But we can take it back to the message last summer-politics of image-"

"But we'd have to-I don't know, dismiss some of it-" Rachel's scrolling on her phone. "Bit about him not being able to open the front door-we've got to laugh that off, turn the joke round-"

"He did address that-about his image-" says Bob, as though Ed isn't there or is something too young or stupid to understand that he's being talked about. "You know, at conference-"

"But it wasn't too successful-"

"Rock-sand-hmm, moving from sand to _rock-"_

"Some of the other stuff we could gloss over" Tom says abruptly. "We'll figure that out-"

"We could try dismissing it as trivia-"

_"Fuck_ Winter." Tom glowers at the screen, as though it personally has written the article. "Does he _want _us to fucking lose?"

"Well, you know how he was when we made him go Independent-"

"I could ask Daddy-" Rachel suggests, with a flick of her blonde hair. "He'd have some advice-Torsten, what on _earth_ are you doing-"

Torsten, who's been muttering "Rock-stones-stones-reliable-" looks up. "Just trying to think of a way to present a contrast to Cameron's broken-promises schtick."

"Well, do it quietly."

Ed catches a glimpse of the article on the screen and hastily turns his face away, though it doesn't matter. He's already read it-in quick grabs of paragraphs, something snatched through half-opened eyes, yesterday in his study. He can't stop his thoughts leaping back to it even now, even while his advisers talk around him as though he's not there, to those memories.

He'd felt out of place in Mark's house; even though his children had all been welcoming and funny, they'd been noisier than he was used to and so _bright._ Their voices were bright, bright and chattering and happy. A bit like the Cameron children.

He hadn't known that they'd known about paintings. He'd only been surprised. Surprised and a little excited to discover they knew things, and he'd only acted as if they hadn't because-

Well.

Because he'd _had_ to-

He was used to it. At school, when some topic had been mentioned that he knew something about-economics or mathematics principles or the history of socialism-Ed would wriggle in his seat, almost bursting with excitement with all of the things he knew and wanted to blurt out.

He had at first. Teachers had always nodded, encouraging him, their eyes brightening as he felt his own voice brighten too.

But afterwards, the other kids would either stare at him, brows crinkling and mouths pulled tight, as if he was some strange creature, the likes of which they'd never seen before, or they'd laugh, their laughter too sharp and clashing and hurting somehow, a type of laughter Ed had grown to anticipate, a prickling of his senses, one he'd learnt to run at if it clattered into the air loud enough, dodging a shove in the chest or sharp little barbs of words, that confused him and left him blushing and nervous and alone.

Ed had learnt to keep a little quieter, watching for clues and hints he didn't quite understand. He'd tried to listen into the other children's conversations, trying to familiarise himself with their teams and bands and TV shows, which sounded like a foreign language, harsh and unfamiliar in his ears. Dutifully, he'd scrabbled for some details, trying to take an interest in the things that filled their days, but his mind had sagged under the boredom of it all.

So he'd been surprised when Mark's children had seemed to know things of their own accord and only now does it occur that maybe he'd seemed too surprised.

But he hadn't meant to upset them.

Or with the money. He feels miserable thinking about it. But it hadn't occurred to him. When people stayed at their house when he was a child, they hadn't had to pay. Though maybe his parents hadn't needed the money.

Ed frowns at the thought. He hadn't considered money much when he was growing up.

But he hadn't known-

Or about the rug.

Suddenly, the thought strikes him-what if he annoyed Cameron's family too, and didn't know-

He hadn't known with what had happened with David.

"The less we make of it the better" Anna's saying, while Rachel tucks her hair behind her ears, saying "I still think we should ring Daddy" and Tom barks "For fuck's sake, Rachel, you do remember your dad _lost_ the fucking election?"

Next to them, Torsten's muttering to himself. "Reliable-what we need is some kind of visual, something dependable, that can't fade-some kind of _stone-"_

Ed listens to his advisers argue as if he isn't there. He bites his lip and ducks down further into his seat, fixing his gaze again on the window, hoping for once that nobody looks at him, his chest tightening, his eyes full of the sky, hanging heavy and grey overhead.

* * *

It's when they're scattering outside, while the pool's being checked and prepared, that Nancy overhears Uncle Rob.

"One for the memoirs for Nancy" is all he says, with a wink and a jerk of the head at the books Mr. Obama sent her, and Mum laughs, but it gets Nancy thinking.

The thing is, she reflects, as she heads over to Libbie and Beatrice, standing on a corner of the tennis court, and dodging Elwen's football, vaguely noticing it fly over the net and bounce off Perry's head, that until recently, she didn't think about it, really. As long as Nancy can remember Dad's been on telly, giving speeches, and so have her uncles.

She doesn't remember when she realised not everyone's dad was on the telly, or when she realised he was famous, which still sounds strange to her. She wasn't even sure what famous was when she was younger-all she knew was that it meant Dad was on telly and sometimes had to have his photograph taken. Nancy had grasped at some point, without quite knowing it, that politics was Dad's job, and it meant making speeches and wanting to be the government, but that was all it had been to her.

One of the only times she remembers noticing things were different is a vague little pocket of memory, when she'd been at the toddling stage-the stage where memories come in quick flashes, one after the other. She remembers being small, tucked into Daddy's knees and laughing in the way toddlers laugh, hard enough to leave her cheeks aching, which somehow made her laugh harder, her little face pressed into Daddy's warm chest. They were watching a cartoon called _Dave The Chameleon_ and Nancy had been laughing when Daddy had said "That's me."

Nancy had just kept laughing because Daddy was, even when Daddy had said, chucking her under the chin, "They've made me into a cartoon."

Nancy had heard that, and a part of her had noticed it as unusual, but the colours had been bright and she'd kept laughing, though that, even though she hadn't known it then, was one of the first times Nancy would notice. Most daddies weren't cartoons. Her daddy was different.

Now, as Nancy heads for Libbie and Bea, she turns to see Chequers towering over them. Nancy has to tilt her head back to see the top. Wandering back, she almost loses her balance and is steadied by Bea and Libbie, who each grab one of her arms.

"Hey" Bea's face says, looking down at her. "Are we going in the pool yet? It's freezing."

Nancy straightens up, wrapping her arms around herself. "Hope so" she says, stamping her feet to keep warm, as Libbie is doing vigorously. "I was thinking."

Libbie, fairly dancing up and down, wraps her arms around herself while Nancy and Bea press themselves into her sides for warmth.

"Did it hurt?" Bea's eyes sparkle and Libbie elbows her. "W-what about?"

Nancy hesitates, unsure how best to put it. She watches idly as Flo and Pandora pull Auntie Flora along, one on each hand, outside the tennis court and watches Wolf delight in spinning himself round, falling over and then, laughing uproariously, pick himself up and do the same thing again. Uncle Will shouts encouragement while baby Allegra toddles determinedly in front of her father, occasionally sinking to her knees, with an astonished look, blinking down at herself, and then, with a little shake of the head, pulling herself up right and plodding determinedly forwards.

"Um-" Nancy turns to look back at Chequers. "Just. _This._ This place. Here. I mean-" She looks at Beatrice for help.

The truth is, while Nancy remembers Dad becoming Prime Minister, she doesn't remember noticing it much. She'd known there was an election, and that Daddy might win or lose. She hadn't seen any of the cameras. The only thing it had really meant was moving house. Of course, she knew John and Fraser's daddy, Mr. Brown, was the Prime Minister before, but somehow she hadn't thought about that much.

It had still been Dad's job and back then, Dad was just Dad. His job was something else he did, when they were at school, and it wasn't _them._ They'd had to live somewhere else, in a big flat instead of their old house, but they'd just seemed vague things happening around Nancy, like planets spinning in their own little orbits.

Nancy isn't sure when it started to sink in; how odd things are for them. She isn't sure when _Prime Minister_ had stopped being lodged between safe capital letters, somewhere off to one side, and had grown bigger and brighter, so that she had to keep quiet about it at school, as though, when she opened her mouth, the light might pour out.

She'd known that it wasn't like other people, but she hadn't known _how_ not like other people it was.

"You know" she manages, looking at Bea and Libbie as she hopes to make them understand. "I mean-here. Other kids. They don't-"

She stops abruptly, not wanting to sound complaining or condescending.

But Bea and Libbie get it. Nancy might not realise it at the time, but later, in years to come, she'll look back on moments like these and realise just what a snatched little gift it was to always have Libbie and Beatrice there, as long as she can remember. The three of them took their first toddling steps together; whispered secrets under duvets together; stood in front of mirrors, twisting and turning into new school uniforms together; scared themselves with tales of ghosts in Chequers' and Dorneywood's corridors together; watched their parents slide into headlines together; squealed with delight at their feet sinking into hot sand and the cold tickle of waves against their bare toes, little fingers damp and strong in the way children's fingers are, wrapped tightly around and squeezing each other's hands as they ran, legs getting tangled up, in and out of the water on a dozen beaches together. It was always together and even if she won't grasp it yet, Nancy has a little sliding, sure hint in her chest now of how much this is to be treasured.

"Yeah" says Bea, without preamble. "It's weird."

Nancy peers up at Chequers again, and frowns at the thought she's had a few times now. "It's just odd. If we don't get to come back here, you know-"

Of course, this happens more and more often now.

Libbie bites her lip, dark hair blowing about her chin. Bea glances between them and Nancy remembers again that Beatrice, unlike her and Liberty, can at least take comfort in the fact that no matter what happens in May, it's unlikely to result in a change of address.

But, and this thought strikes again, a thought that Nancy doesn't quite understand yet and will reflect on more in years to come; the thought that somehow their fathers' careers seem tied together-they always have been, as long as Nancy remembers, Dad and Uncle George and Uncle Michael working together, and now, thinking about May, she has that sense again.

Tug at the rope between the three of them, and if it breaks, all three of them will be sent flying.

Of course, Nancy isn't quite able to grasp any of this yet. Instead, she huddles closer to her friends, taking comfort in the fact they _know_, in the way that other kids at school and on holidays simply don't, however much Nancy likes them.

Despite the icy air jabbing their cheeks, there's an oddly comfortable silence for a few minutes, before Beatrice says "We can swim all day, right?"

"Yeah." Nancy's only allowed to wear a tankini, which she hates, but Dad'd freak at the thought of anything else. It's not for lack of trying on Nancy's part-as she's pointed out, more times than either of them can remember, she was allowed to wear bikinis up until a couple of years ago when they were on holiday in Ibiza at half-term when she was nine, and Dad had stopped when he'd seen Mum tying Nancy's bikini top for her, her fingers curling into the warm sand, almost flinching from the heat.

"Sam" he'd said, worry creeping into his tone as Nancy had turned round and spun happily, discarding her T-shirt and denim shorts next to her blue dress on the stretcher, while Auntie Veneta struggled to get a wriggling Seth to stay still as she suncreamed him.

"Yeah?" Mum had squirted some cream into her hand and then carefully tipped Nancy's head forward. "Here, let me just go over this to give you a second layer, I'll start at the back of your neck-" Nancy had gasped slightly at the cold of the suncream. "Sorry-"

"Are you sure she should be wearing that?"

"What, suncream?" Mum had given Dad a puzzled look under her sunglasses, pulling her own bikini into place. "What are you talking about?"

Nancy had turned to glance at Dad over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of Gita further down the beach, cuddling Flo into her side-Elwen and Xandie were charging in and out of the waves, Uncle Chris with them. Boys could get changed so much quicker-it wasn't fair.

"Sam."

"Oh, for God's sake, it's a swimming costume."

"But it's not."

Nancy had stared at Dad, bemused. "Auntie Anna gave it to me. She said now Alexandra had finished with it, I could have it."

"Yeah, but-" Dad had bitten his lip. "Alexandra's older."

Nancy had stared. "She's a year older than me." She'd turned to frown at Dad. "You can't tell me not to wear it."

"I didn't tell you not to wear it." Dad had been stretched out on his stomach on the stretcher next to Mum, sunglasses on, so Nancy couldn't see his expression properly. "I asked if you were sure you should be."

"No, you asked Mum." Nancy had plucked at the bikini, glancing down at it. "What's wrong with it? You let Alexandra wear it when we went to Italy. And you've let me wear them before."

"It wasn't up to me to let Alexandra wear it or not wear it."

"But you let me."

"Guys." Mum's voice had gone a little bit sharper. "Can we not start the holiday with a bloody argument, please? You look fine, Nance." She'd given Nancy's shoulder a quick kiss, cupping her chin to assuage her daughter's doubtful look.

"I look fine" she'd announced to her father, jutting her chin up at him, sticking her lip out defiantly. "I can wear what I want."

"I know you do" Dad had said, the sunglasses stopping Nancy from meeting his eyes. "It's not about how you look. You look fine, like Mum said."

"Right." Nancy had folded her arms, glancing from one of her parents to the other.

Mum had given her a pat. "Come here, let me finish off your cream."

Nancy had, and by the time Mum had finished a few minutes later, and Nancy ran off down to the water to join Elwen and Xandie paddling, she'd almost forgotten about the argument altogether. She was allowed to wear the bikini for the rest of the week and Dad didn't say anything else about it. In fact, it hadn't been until the summer holidays that year, when they went to Portugal, and then to Cornwall, that the bikini simply hadn't made its' way into Nancy's luggage. It wasn't until the Easter holidays a year later, when they went to Lanzarote, that Nancy had realised once again, examining Mum's unpacking in the villa, that the bikini hadn't appeared.

"Mum, did you pack the bikini?"

"What?" Mum had come in, carrying Flo with her armbands on, Elwen half-ripping his T-shirt off in his haste to reach their swimming pool, which shimmered tantalisingly at them from outside the window.

"My bikini. My black one."

Mum had kissed Flo, setting her down in her baby swimming costume, while Flo had padded back and forth proudly between the beds. "It's a bit small for you, Nance. I think we were pushing it getting into you last time."

"Can we get a new one?"

Mum had glanced at her. "I bought you a couple of new ones. They're in your suitcase, look."

Nancy had glanced at the case. "Yeah, I know. But they're tankinis. Not a bikini."

Mum had drawn in her breath. "Look, Nance-"

"Is this because Dad got mad about it?"

"It's not about Dad."

Nancy had slammed the lid of the suitcase shut. Flo had jumped, looking round in surprise. "Why can't I wear one?"

Mum had sighed. "Sweetheart." She'd sat down on the bed next to Nancy, stroking her hair. Nancy had glowered at her, furious both at her parents for having clearly decided all this quietly behind her back, and at herself for not realising sooner.

"Why can't I wear one? Why's Dad so weird about it?"

Mum had sighed. "Nancy, they were all right when you were little. But now you're getting to be a big girl-"

"I'm not a big girl, though."

Mum had sighed. "You're getting older, lovely. It means that sometimes, you have to be more careful about the things you wear."

Nancy had stared at her. "You wear bikinis."

"But I'm grown up, sweetheart. It's different, then."

Nancy had folded her arms. "Liberty wears them."

"That's up to Uncle George and Auntie Frances, Nance."

"But why don't you let me? If they think it's all right, then how come you don't think it's all right?"

Flo had made an aggrieved growling sound, holding out her hands to be picked up.

"It's not like Uncle George and Auntie Frances are bad parents."

"No, it's not. But different parents make different decisions."

"_Why?"_ Nancy had hit the suitcase again. "Dad didn't even care about it until last year!"

"Nancy, it's not just Dad-"

"I'll be the only one when we go to the beach who doesn't have one!"

"Oh, don't be so silly, Nancy, you know that's not true."

Nancy had shoved the suitcase again hard, with the result that it slid off the bed onto the floor, both of the tankinis sliding onto the floor. Flo had squeaked at the sound, putting her little hands over her ears.

"Oi!" Mum's tone had been harder now and she'd taken Nancy's arm, making Nancy glare at her. "Don't you dare. Pick them up now."

Nancy had glared at her, daring herself to say something more.

Mum had leant forward as Flo whimpered to pick her up. She'd slid her hand under Nancy's chin to make her look at her. "Nancy. We have just spent a fortune on this holiday."

"So?"

"So there are children who would sell their bloody soul to have a holiday like this. They wouldn't even think of behaving like a spoilt brat because they didn't have the swimming costume they wanted."

"That's the B word" Elwen had lifted his head to point out helpfully. Mum had given him a look and he'd fallen silent.

"It's a bikini, not a swimming costume."

"Really?" Mum had pointed at the costumes on the floor. "Well, if they're not good enough for you, after you pick those costumes up and get them back in your suitcase right now, you can just sit in here and think about the difference while the rest of us have a nice swim. If you want to swim, they're the only things you've got to wear."

Nancy had folded her arms and glowered as Mum left the room, waiting until the door had closed before she'd deigned to pick up the tankinis. Once she'd got one of them on, she'd thrown the door open and stormed through the villa, making as much noise as she could in bare feet, giving Dad a furious glare as she passed him, leaving him to call after her as she stamped to the swimming pool without looking back, "What was _that _for?"

Now, relaying this to Bea and Libbie, Bea reports similar rather gloomily. Libbie remains tactfully quiet, already being allowed to wear a bikini. Nancy shoots her a look of no little envy.

"Nancy-" Nancy turns to see Mum standing at the side of the court, with her hand extended. Nancy can make out a phone and at the same moment, she spots two familiar little boys trailing behind Mum, the older one holding Dad's hand.

But she doesn't have time to consider this, as Mum's voice splits the air. "It's Mr. Blair on the phone."

* * *

"I hear it's your birthday."

Mr. Blair's voice sounds the same as it always does-smooth, as though it's a wave rolling over sand, with a few rises and falls carefully inserted in the right places. It's pleasant to listen to, but a little too smooth.

"Yeah." Nancy sits down, gathering her dress around her a little.

"Well, happy birthday." Nancy can picture the grin that just rose up in the middle of Mr. Blair's face-the way it always does at just the right moment, as though he's carefully examined the situation and planned every one out beforehand. "Eleven, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?" Nancy can picture Mr. Blair's grin, which always shows a few too many teeth. They're brighter than anyone else's teeth, as well. Nancy has a vague memory of being small and lifted up by Dad, her cheek pressed against his suit, and seeing Mr. Blair's big smile right there. His teeth had been big and bright and Nancy had put her hand up to his mouth and tried to grab one of them.

"Yeah. The party's today, though." Nancy crumples the material in her hand, her head resting against the back of the armchair.

"Ah, at Chequers. Fantastic for parties. We held a couple of Leo's there." Nancy doesn't remember much about Mr. Blair being Prime Minister, but she remembers Leo, who'd always been running about, with bright, blond hair.

"Oh. Right."

"It's my son's birthday tomorrow as well, actually."

"Leo's."

"No, Euan's."

"How old is he?"

"Thirty-one."

Nancy blinks. "Not eleven, then?"

"No, not quite." Mr. Blair laughs. Nancy pictures the teeth. "Lots of people there?"

"Yeah. Dad and Mum and my aunties and Uncle George and Uncle Michael and everyone."

"Ah-"

"And Mr. Ed Miliband's kids are here-"

Nancy hears something like the catch of a breath and pictures the smile fading a little. She feels a small jab of something like triumph.

"Are they, really?" The voice is just as chipper as before.

"Yep."

"I've been hearing that he and your dad are spending more time together."

Nancy frowns. "But you and Dad spent _some _time together."

Mr. Blair laughs, and it sounds a little more taut than usual. Nancy glances at the door to see Uncle George and Uncle Michael, clutching swimming goggles, and pretending to tap at their watches.

Nancy's so busy rolling her eyes and turning her back that she almost misses Mr. Blair's words.

"Well-" She pictures even more of the teeth appearing. "But that's me and your dad."

Nancy frowns. "Yeah, but they're-" She frowns. "They're doing the same jobs you were doing, I think."

"Well-yes-" Mr. Blair pauses for a moment. "I suppose that is the case, yes. Prime Minister and Leader of the Opposition."

Nancy chews her lip thoughtfully. "Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten you were Prime Minister, once."

There's a strange muffled explosion of laughter from the doorway. Nancy rolls her eyes again as she hears Uncle Michael mutter "To the envy of the rest of the nation."

Nancy presses one hand over her ear as Mr. Blair chortles. "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome."

There's another snort from the doorway.

"I didn't entirely mean it like that-what I meant was-" Mr. Blair does the laugh again. (Nancy always thinks it sounds as though Mr. Blair times his laughs.) "We're quite-different personalities, if you know what I mean."

"You and Dad?"

"No." Mr. Blair sounds a little more thoughtful then, a little quieter. "Me and Miliband-well-then again, your dad and Miliband-" There's a pause, then "More like me and Gordon, really."

It takes a moment for Nancy to grasp the words. "Who? Gordon Brown-" She remembers more of Mr. Brown being Prime Minister, but mainly because Dad beat him.

"Ah-yeah."

"You're saying Dad's like _him?"_ Nancy frowns, unable to imagine someone for her father to be less like.

There's a louder laugh this time, that cracks into the air, smashing its' way out from the careful laughs so far. "Dear God, no. I was thinking about Mr. Miliband-but I was thinking more of the dynamic that that means."

"I know" Nancy interrupts. "Their relationship, and whatever."

There's another snort from the hall, and another surprised laugh from Mr Blair. "Yes."

"But how-weren't you and Mr. Brown on the same side?"

At this, the snort from the hall is so loud that Nancy turns round to see if someone's turned into a pig.

There's a pause, then "Hmmmm."

Nancy waits.

"We _were._ But-well, I suppose you might know-people who are on the same side can sometimes cause more problems for each other than the ones they know they disagree with."

Nancy frowns. There's something about the words that sounds odd, tentative. She wants to touch them and not touch them at once.

"I suppose what I'm saying is-" Mr. Blair goes on when Nancy doesn't say anything-"Maybe it's easier when you know everyone expects you to disagree. Rather than if you're expected to agree, I mean-"

He laughs again, but the sound's quieter this time. Almost a bit sad. "If you already know you disagree-it can be relaxing to not have to tiptoe around each other. Or-" he adds, seemingly as an afterthought. "You can surprise each other."

Nancy frowns to herself. There's a long moment of silence. Even the noises from the hall have stopped.

"Anyway-" Mr. Blair says, sounding as though he's just remembered something. "Have you opened your presents? What did you get?"

Nancy frowns, but only hesitates for a moment before she answers. She knows when grown-ups don't want to talk about something and Mr. Blair might tell her nothing more if she gets to talk to him in the future.

So Nancy answers his question, but her mind hangs onto Mr. Blair's words, turning them over slowly to examine from all sides, while she wonders whether Mr. Blair was talking about Dad or himself or maybe both at once.

* * *

"To be fair" Clare says, lounging against Jem's shoulder. "At least Ed isn't taking your kids punting."

David laughs, though he isn't sure how he feels about Clare calling Miliband "Ed."

"You're the one who asked" he says, taking a sip of his tea, watching Alex through one of the big windows that looks out over the Chequers lawn, and watches as his brother kicks a ball back and forth with Elwen, Daniel, Nelson and Perry. Sam, he notices, has been picked up by Flora, who's taking it in turns to carry him and Pandora, while Florence walks at their side. Will's there too, kicking a ball with Wolf, who occasionally puts his arms up and is cuddled into his father's chest.

"You _begged_ me to take you and Jade punting when I visited you" he says, turning back to his family. George, chin nestled in one hand, is listening with interest, while Frances glances out of the window, eyes falling on Luke, who now seems to be trying to lift Nelson and Daniel simultaneously. "How was I to know she hadn't called her dad?"

Mum, sitting in one of the biggest armchairs with the others circled around her, sucks in a breath. "Yes, Mick Jagger on the phone may have seemed funny to you, Clare-"-off Clare's snort of laughter-"-but it wasn't particularly amusing to have to explain that I didn't even know my son participated in bloodsports, let alone that he'd taken Mick's daughter along-"

"It was hardly my fault he hadn't heard her properly" David argues, looking to Michael and William for support. "I must have said _punting_ about three times."

"Well, he was a man of-" Mum frowns. "Actually, goodness knows how old he was, I've no idea how old he is now."

"Immortal" chips in Sarah. "Surviving on the wonder of plastic."

Annabel shakes her head. "Well, at least you were getting a call from someone _interesting-" _She fixes her eyes on Emily, who grins cheerily back at her. "The headmistress at bloody Marlborough at five in the morning managed to be a fantastic tonic for insomnia. I could have fallen asleep again rather easily, if it hadn't been for William telling me to take the phone out of the room." She raises an eyebrow. "It was quite a feat on her part really, considering she was telling me my daughter had been expelled."

"To be fair" Emily remarks, leaning forward to grab her cup of tea. "They didn't tell you I was expelled until you got there."

"Oh well, that _certainly _wasn't a wasted journey-" Annabel settles back into the chair. "I still remember sitting in that godforsaken office."

"I don't" remarks Emily.

Samantha snorts. "Of course you don't. You were probably high as a kite on the stuff they found-"

Emily grins. "No worse than your husband-"

"At least I never blackened my academic record-"

Samantha elbows him. "No, you just nearly got expelled over it-"

David winks at her and Tania, grinning, says "Of course, these days, wouldn't be surprised to see you bringing in a relaxation on cannabis, given who you're spending time with-"

David rolls his eyes. "I don't imagine Miliband is considering legalising cannabis any time soon-"

Tania's eyes twinkle, the way they used to as a child, blue and deep and bright, as she kicked him under the table, dark hair falling over her shoulders. "I might have been talking about Clegg, for all you know-"

David manages to laugh. "Your husband could give them some advice-"

Carl throws up his hands. "I intervene _once _on the bloody NHS-"

"Twice, at last count-"

"Dad?"

David turns, amongst the laughter around him, to see Nancy holding the phone out. "Mr. Blair wants to speak to you."

"Oh-thanks, darling." He takes the phone, calling after his daughter, who's already darting outside again-"Daniel and Sam are outside, sweetheart. Pool'll be ready in a minute."

Outside, in the hallway, he discovers that this remark has not gone unheard.

"The pool at Chequers hasn't deteriorated, I see" come the unfailingly chipper tones.

David laughs. It's always easy to laugh with Blair, as long as David remembers that there's often a reason Blair wants you to laugh with him.

"Nancy been regaling you with stories, then?"

"Not quite regaling-" Another Blair-laugh. "I have heard about you making a few new friends, though-"

David only just manages to suppress a groan. (And has no doubt that Blair will pick up on it as quickly as he himself would.)

"Well" he says, leaning against the wall. "I suppose it's good for the Tories to befriend a few of Labour's enemies. Which I presume from your recent remarks, Miliband counts as, given you're the pinnacle of Old Labour, Militant values-"

Blair laughs sunnily. Someone who didn't know him well might have thought it was just sunnily. "Is _Red Tory_ back in the headlines again?"

"Should get Campbell back on running them. Might prevent a few more articles like the one the Mail ran yesterday-"

"Still relying on that old rag?"

"Rather an evasion of the question-"

"You're the Prime Minister. You know the strategy."

"You sound a little like him, now."

"Who?"

"Miliband."

Tony laughs. "I'm not sure he'd agree with that. He's rather more like Gordon."

David frowns. "Well, he's certainly a paid-up little Brownite."

"He always was quite like Gordon. Maybe that's why you like him so much."

David almost chokes. Which is quite a feat, given he's got nothing in his mouth.

_"What-_because he reminds me of-of-" He can't even say the name.

Tony laughs. "Not quite."

David tries not to sound too relieved. "Oh. Right."

"I meant more-well-" Tony laughs again. David's one of the few people who would pick up on the slight tautness of the sound. "I suppose Gordon and I are rather different, too."

David frowns. "But you're-" He trails off. "Well."

Tony laughs again. This time, anyone could hear the tautness.

"I know. We weren't exactly an advertisement for opposites attract."

David feels his brow crease. "Opposites attract-" He supposes that's as fair a description as any of him and Miliband.

(Him and Miliband. Like they're a unit.)

"Well-" Tony's voice is slower this time, more careful. "Gordon and I had similar ideas. I suppose it was our-_attitudes_ to things that were different."

"Well, then, Miliband and I might shatter the opposites attract dynamic. We're different in-well-pretty much every way you can-"

"Oh, I wouldn't say so." Blair's voice is a little more cheerful now. "You've got more things in common than you'd realise."

David laughs a little too loudly, heart beating too rapidly. "Given your recent insights on him, that might not be taken as a compliment, Tony."

Another chuckle. "Up to you. But you're not as far apart as you'd like to think."

"Hardly you and-" David still can't say the name. "Brown, though. We're not on the same side, for one thing."

"Well." Tony pauses, then "Maybe that makes it easier."

"What do you mean?"

"Well." There's a moment of silence. "I imagine knowing you disagree can be quite a good starting point."

Starting point for what?

"Well-" David chooses his words carefully. "I imagine it must be harder to be fighting with those you're supposed to agree with."

"Obviously. Why else would you be offering an EU referendum to appease your backbenchers?"

"Only listening to the will of the people. And I meant more-" David hesitates. "Friend-well. Personally."

"Well-" Tony's voice is a little more careful, too. "I suppose when you're meant to agree with someone-"

He clears his throat. "But then" he says, voice a little sharper. "Being supposed to disagree with someone isn't really different."

There's another, longer silence. David suddenly thinks of those photos of Blair and Brown when they were younger, grinning together, arms touching, and then of Miliband, eyes glittering in the candlelight across the table in Paris-

"Well" he says, a little too surely. "Maybe we can reconcile some values, I suppose." He hesitates, then says deliberately, "We can agree on some inquiries, at least."

He isn't sure if he feels bad or not.

Tony laughs too loudly. "Well. I'm sure that's something for me to look forward to with great anticipation-"

"Every cloud-" David follows suit (and thinks grimly of what the headlines would make of _that_ thought) and laughs a little too loudly himself, hearing that tautness, that hint of discomfort David's managed to carve out in the smoothness of Blair's voice over the years, the word _Chilcot_ breathing under it all.

* * *

Elwen's always liked swimming. When he strains his memory back to being very young, not even quite a toddler, he can remember being in warm water with Dad pulling him back and forth. He remembers laughing, liking the splashing sound his feet made when he kicked hard.

Ivan loved being in water. Although Elwen doesn't remember as much of his brother as he'd like to, he knows, without ever needing to ask how, that he and Nancy both remember that without having to be told.

Elwen always remembers Ivan a little more on birthdays and at Christmas. It leaves him with a sad, aching feeling in his chest, but mostly he tries to feel happy about remembering him. It's easier now, with everyone here, splashing about in the water, to remember when Ivan laughed in the pool, his hands opening and closing like starfish.

Now, Elwen scrambles away from Will, who's trying to duck him under the water, and turns to watch his sister. Nancy, Libbie and Bea are all racing each other back and forth, and shouting to Auntie Lohralee and Auntie Sarah, who are supporting Waldorf on his stomach, helping him kick his legs. Auntie Flora's doing the same with Pandora, while Flo and Sam bob nearby, with their water-wings strapped on. Uncle George has been given baby Allegra, who is being bounced in the water and swung up into the air from Uncle George to Uncle Michael to other Auntie Sarah to Uncle Will and back again. Allegra laughs, splashing the surface with her chubby fists and gurgling uproariously. Elwen watches as Uncle Michael kisses her head, then turns back to the side of the pool where Uncle Theo and Uncle Tom are swimming with their arms out, while Nelson and Perry count themselves in and then jump into the pool, Nelson huddling into his father's chest, and then Daniel follows them.

Elwen's swum forward, so when Daniel's head breaks through the surface, he joins in the subsequent clapping and watches as Daniel's eyes widen.

Elwen feels a pang of something he doesn't quite understand, but it's similar to the way he felt on Friday when he saw the way Daniel burrowed into Mum's leg. Maybe that's what makes him swim a little closer and tap Daniel's shoulder. "Hi."

Daniel looks up at him with big blue eyes. Elwen remembers the way Daniel had stared around on Friday at the dinner table. Now, his eyes seem to be pulled in a new direction every second, by the splashing of the water and the laughter of their voices echoing around the pool, and Elwen, remembering Nancy's words about the basement, touches Daniel's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Daniel glances up and nods, before Nelson calls out from his father's arms. "We're going again-"

This time, Elwen and William join the boys as they scramble out of the water. Daniel glances about as they line up, getting ready to jump again, and then taps Elwen's wrist. "Where's your mum and dad?"

"Mum and Dad?" Elwen shrugs, glances around the pool, then remembers. "Oh. They're just meeting Mr. Key. He's the New Zealand Prime Minister."

"Oh. Like your daddy's Prime Minister."

"Yeah."

"And our daddy wants to be Prime Minister."

Elwen only hesitates for a moment. "Yeah. He does."

He waits for Daniel to say something else, but Daniel just sticks his lip out and then tugs at Elwen's hand again. Elwen frowns, but, remembering Daniel's little, holds onto his hand until they get nearer the edge, so that when they jump, Daniel's hand squeezes his tightly.

A few minutes later, Elwen taps Nancy on the shoulder and when she turns, says "Robin Hood."

Bea, Libbie and Daniel all blink, but Nancy just nods.

"Wait, Robin Hood?" Bea stares at her. "What are you doing, like, robbing the rich or something?"

"No. That's his dad's job" says Nancy, pointing at Daniel, who frowns a little. "Though his dad's rich. Anyway, no. World Book Day."

Beatrice's forehead clears. "Ohh."

"What are you being?" Elwen asks, but Nancy just shrugs. "Flo still wants Elsa, though."

Elwen glances across at their younger sister, who's currently jumping into the pool with Sam, to the applause of Auntie Sarah and Auntie Emily. "Yeah. I don't think she grasped the book characters thing, yet."

"Yeah." Nancy pushes back her hair, which is pressed, dark and wet, to her forehead. "But then Dad hasn't either, with Frozen. I think he's still convinced it's based off a book."

Libbie snorts. "Yeah, but Uncle David nearly had a fit when you went to Sayers Croft-"

"God." Nancy's head smacks into the surface of the water. "He wanted to give me a phone just to keep in touch. So he could ring me every night."

Beatrice snorts. "Should have taken it."

"He'd have given me one of Mum's old blocks and then taken it off me the second I got home."

"Actually, yeah." Elwen's lying on his back now, kicking his legs in the water. Daniel's face appears above him. "Dad's got the whole thing about screen-time."

Bea snorts and mutters something about "My dad" which Elwen doesn't quite catch. Instead, he says to Daniel "Who are you going as for World Book Day?"

"Skeletor" says Daniel without hesitation, as Elwen bounces upright. "But just a skeleton costume, I think."

Elwen's half-nodding at Daniel, and half-kicking at Nancy, who's tugging at his ankles, trying to pull him back under the water. "Get off-"

Nancy tries ducking him and Elwen scrabbles back upright, one hand in his sister's hair. Nancy's breath is hot and rapid, her giggles vibrating against his cheek. Her eyes are a bright, clear blue, sparkling and something leaps in Elwen's chest a little, because this is what Nancy's eyes are meant to look like. Not like they looked when he took Flo in to leave her a Get Well Soon note-her cheeks pale, with dark shadows under her eyes, so that she looked younger than him, almost younger than Flo.

Now Nancy's cheeks have some colour back in them. Her eyes sparkle, even as she lifts her head and says "What?"

Elwen's not about to tell her, so he just splashes her instead, simply because he knows it will make her splash him back-which indeed it does, saving them from having to say any more.

The children are still happily engaged in their warfare, when Elwen hears his name being called and stops, arms flailing, Daniel giggling at his side, and looks up to see Dad standing, watching them, accompanied by a smaller man with greying hair and a round, pleasant-looking face.

"And these are my two eldest" Dad's saying, cheeks crinkling with a grin. "Elwen-"

Elwen waves. "Hi" he says, and then, only just remembering what he's meant to do, holds up his hand.

The man kneels down and takes it, rather than ignoring him, which sends him up in Elwen's estimation immediately.

"Hey, Elwen. Great to meet you-"

"This is Mr. Key, Elwen-"

"Jonathon, please-"

Dad leans out, ruffling Nancy's hair. "And this is Nancy. Birthday girl-"

"Hey, Nancy-" Mr. Key shakes Nancy's hand, too, and Nancy takes it a little solemnly, with a quick glance at Dad. "Hello-"

"Happy Birthday." Mr. Key flashes her a grin, which Nancy returns. "Thanks."

"And these-" Dad grins, ruffling Daniel's hair now. "These are my goddaughters-George's daughter, Liberty and this is Beatrice-and William, Beatrice's brother-and they're Michael's children-and this is Daniel. Sam-" Dad laughs, pointing to Sam across the pool. _"That_ Sam is here too-Daniel's brother."

"Hey, there." Mr. Key, having grasped each child's hand for a few seconds, bends down and holds Daniel's too. "How are you doing?"

Daniel bites his lip, blue eyes widening, and shrugs. Dad and Mr. Key both laugh, which is when Will blurts out "Are you going in the pool?"

Bea slams her head into her hands. "Oh my _God-"_

Dad and Mr. Key are laughing, but Mr. Key just says "That's up to your Uncle David, here-"

Dad's laughing. "Be my guest-"

Mr. Key nods and gives a wink to Will, who punches the air. Elwen notes that Mr. Key spoke to everyone just like Dad, which, he's learnt over the years, isn't always the case.

He decides he likes Mr. Key.

"So over there-that's Liberty's brother Luke-George and Frances's eldest-and see the two little ones playing with the dinosaur ring? That's Florence, our youngest, and Sam, Daniel's younger brother."

"Sweet-and who's Daniel and Sam's parents again? Or are they not-"

Elwen doesn't hear the rest of the sentence, or Dad's answer. Instead, he's too busy splashing water at Daniel-gently, the way he does with Flo-and in Daniel's uncertain but high, happy laughter and Nancy wrestling William, those shadows under her eyes gone, and the girls' voices clattering happily together in his ears, Elwen forgets to think about it.

* * *

Ed has already wondered a hundred times if he should even turn up here by the time he knocks on the door-which, as always, feels a little strange after being waved through the gate by a security guard.

But then he remembers that Nancy will have been told he's coming and he can't not arrive and what if they're expecting him to-

The door opens and a baby is handed to him.

Ed splutters, and somehow manages to take the proffered baby, which is issuing him with a joyful, one-toothed grin.

"Um-"

"You're Ed. Come in." Ed finds a hand seizing his arm and tugging him inside, even as he frantically juggles the squirming baby from one arm to the other. As the door is closed behind him, he finds himself standing, holding the baby, facing a tall, tanned woman with long, dark, glossy hair, wearing nothing but a black bikini.

"Um-" Ed immediately snaps his gaze firmly up to her face. The baby's chubby hand reaches out and squeezes his cheek.

"Hey!" She has an accent that sounds something like American and a smile that crawls up, crinkling her dark eyes. "Hey, I'm Lohralee-Sam's sister-in law?"

Ed nods. "Oh-" He sticks his hand out, then reconsiders, but Lohralee's already taken it. "Lohralee. Nice to meet you."

Lohralee's already got a hand on his arm, leading him down the corridor. "Come in! Some of us are in here, and the kids are all in the pool-oh, and this is mine and Will's daughter, Allegra-"

"Oh." Ed shifts the baby cautiously, so that he can look at her. She beams back, cheeks crinkling with delight as she waves her chubby fists in the air. "Um-hello, Allegra."

Allegra stares at him, then throws her head back and proclaims joyfully, _"Baaaaa!"_

Ed isn't sure, but takes this as a positive sign.

Allegra is a rather wriggly baby and Ed finds himself quite firmly concentrating on holding her. Her arms fumble at his neck and as a result, answering Lohralee's questions about the journey and quality thereof, he barely notices where they're going until suddenly he finds himself facing a room full of women and a couple of men-some in swimwear, some fully-clothed.

Ed stops dead. He gulps, not knowing where on earth to look. "Um-"

"Everyone, Ed's here-" Lohralee pats Allegra, and almost skips to a chair-next to Frances, whom Ed recognizes with no small amount of relief.

"Hi, Ed-"

There's a chorus of voices from around the room. Ed looks from one to the other and hugs Allegra very tightly, breathing in her warm baby smell as deeply as possible.

"All right, this is Flora-"

Another woman with dark hair and blue eyes that look a little like Nancy's, gives him a wave. "Sam's sister-and then this is Tania, Dave's sister."

Ed jumps a little at this. "Um-hey-hi-um-"

Tania, who's fully-dressed, swings herself to her feet with grace and a grin that reminds Ed a little of Cameron's with a pleasant jolt. She's got a handsome face, if a woman's face can be called handsome, with a dark curtain of hair that falls over her shoulders.

"I'm the family leftie" are the first words out of her mouth, as she takes Ed's hand. When she grins, Ed gets that jolt again, as though he's just seen David peering out at him. "So you're in safe hands."

Ed feels his shoulders relax before he's quite aware of it. It's something similar to the effect Cameron has on him, but milder, more friendly than-

Than what?

"Hi." Ed can't help smiling back at her and Allegra gurgles happily, waving a hand out to Tania.

"And there's-" Tania points at the men lounging in their trunks, who both grin and wave. Ed feels far too warm in his suit. "Etienne-Alice's husband-and Jem-"

"Jeremy Fawcus" says the other man, standing up with a grin, and adjusting his glasses. "Nice to meet you. I'm Clare's husband."

"Your and David's sister?" Ed asks uncertainly, glancing at both Tania and Lohralee, who's sprung up to smooth Allegra's few tufts of hair.

"Yep." Tania grins. "She's down at the pool with-" She glances at Lohralee. "Well, everyone, really. The kids, and David and Sam-and John Key-"

"John Key-"

"Yep, they're all down there-and Alex-our brother-and Clare-and Carl, my husband-"

"And Will and Theo are in there, too" Flora says, rubbing her eyes. "God knows how Theo's got the energy." Noticing Ed's look, she waves a hand. "God, you'll have to excuse us-we were coming in from France last night and the plane was delayed. It was a whole bloody nightmare-we live in France" she explains, off Ed's questioning look. "Alice and Etienne-" Etienne lazily raises a hand. "Were visiting."

Ed blinks, struggling to hold all the names in his head at once. "Ah. Right. Gosh, that must have been-so you're married to-" He glances at Etienne nervously. "Alice?"

"Yep!" With a bounce, another woman sits upright, from where she's been lying on the couch next to Flora, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders, holding up her wedding finger, upon which a ring glitters.

"And you're th-Sam's sister-"

"Well" Alice shrugs. "Half-sister."

"And I'm her half-sister too" Flora chips in. "On our mum's side, though."

"I'm on her dad's" Alice tells him brightly.

"And my husband Will's her half-brother" Lohralee chips in. "On her mum's side."

"Well, we're all halves, really-"

"No, no-Emily-"

"Right-" Alice grins at him. "Basically, we're Sam's half-brothers and sisters, apart from Emily. Who's her sister. Though we're her sisters too, obviously."

Ed blinks.

"You haven't even met all of us in the pool yet" Flora remarks, with a grin. "You should be grateful Lucy and Jake aren't here as well."

Ed blinks again.

It's Etienne who saves him, with a roll of the eyes. "For ze love of God-this poor guy has only just walked in-" Etienne gives Ed a lazy grin. "Stop expecting him to remember all these names-I don't bloody remember zem myself half the time-"

"Well, you did call me Flora the other day" Alice points out, curling up against her sister's shoulder. "Which prompted some questions."

Frances, clearly sensing Ed's confusion, gets up. "Here, let me take the present-that way, you can hold the baby with both arms-"

Allegra places both her hands on Ed's cheeks and beams. It is a task of immense difficulty to refuse to return a baby's beam and it is not one Ed is capable of.

"Oh, you're Mummy's gorgeous pumpkin-" Lohralee coos, pressing kisses onto Allegra's forehead, while Frances tickles under her chin. "Aren't you, aren't you the most precious pumpkin-"

Ed listens to the baby-talk with something like fascination. He wonders if he ever spoke like that to Daniel or Sam. He can't remember, for some reason.

"Anyway-"Tania claps her hands together. "Let's get you to the birthday girl. She's down in the pool with-well-"

"Everyone" Etienne announces from the couch. "Please don't go through ze names again-I'm sure you'll find a couple of strangers in there if you look hard enough. Indeed, I believe even Lord Lucan might show his face-"

"Emily certainly will" Lohralee grins, curling up on one of the couches. "And Tom."

Ed feels a little despairing. Tania catches the look. "Don't worry" she says, with a quick squeeze of the arm. "I forget their names half the time."

"And Dave tries to forget yours'" Flora says, without even opening her eyes, causing Frances to snort.

Lohralee, dropping another kiss onto Allegra's head, says "Oh, if she starts fussing at the pool, just give her to her dad. She's a right daddy's girl."

Ed isn't even sure he'll remember who her dad is. He stares at Allegra, who stares back out of big blue eyes, smile dimpling her chubby, rosy cheeks.

"Please don't fuss" he says to her, rather timidly.

Allegra doesn't respond, apart from another happy gurgle that sounds rather blessedly unlike fussing, but the rest of the room bursts into laughter. But it's friendly, a little like the dinner on Friday night, and once again, Ed feels his shoulders sink a little.

Tania's hand on his arm is a relief, however. "Come on. I'll show you the way."

* * *

"So-" Tania glances back every few moments, hand tickling under Allegra's chin. "Must be rather fun opposing my little brother."

"Oh. Well-" Away from the bustle and noise, Ed feels a little better, calmer. He clears his throat, trying to grasp the strange swelling sensation in his chest whenever he tries to describe Cameron, something that feels exasperated and fond all at once. He's-he's so-

"He can be....intransigent" he manages, and feels a slow smile spread out as he says it, rich and warm, like melted chocolate.

Tania snorts. "You don't have to tell me that. Always has been." She gives Ed a quick wink. "He must have a soft spot for you, though."

Ed gulps and concentrates on holding Allegra very carefully. Allegra blows a bubble and then smacks her own tummy triumphantly.

"W-why would you say that?" he manages faintly, but before Tania can answer, there's a declaration from the other end of the corridor. _"Darlings-"_

Ed gulps. A regal-looking woman is striding towards them, a translucent black sarong draped over her shoulders, over what looks suspiciously like a black, lacy bikini. Beside her, stands a younger woman, with smooth, brown skin, and a swishing curtain of black hair, whom Ed vaguely recognizes. She eyes the other woman, amused.

"Darlings, the children don't tire at _all_, it's simply _ludicrous-"_ The woman sighs, pulling her dark, dripping hair up and running her fingers through it. "God knows where they get the energy-you know, I think Mary had the right idea going to check on Gwen-William had to start going on about how when he was their age, he'd work the energy off with a rifle, and the hounds being let loose-" She shakes her head and then says, "Anyway, Tania, who's this young chap?"

Tania grins. "This is Ed, Annabel. Ed Miliband. Ed, this is Annabel."

Ed smiles nervously as Allegra's cheek presses against his own.

Annabel clasps her hands. "Of course. How are you?" She extends her hand graciously.

Ed takes it awkwardly, wondering for a slightly bizarre moment if she expects him to kiss it, but his awkward shake in return seems to be satisfactory.

"I'm Annabel, Samantha's mother" she says, clasping Ed's hand. "And you're David's opponent, of course."

Ed blinks, not having expected her assessment to be quite so blunt. "Well-um-yes-"

"Oh, darling, don't worry yourself about that." Annabel dismisses this with a shake of the head, as if being one's political opponent is a rather small thing. "Reggie was still invited, and he ran off with Victoria-"

"To be fair" the other woman points out, looking a little bored as she quickly bundles her hair into a ponytail. "That was over thirty years ago-"

"Bells, darling, these wounds take time to heal-"

Bells rolls her eyes.

It's a few minutes later, when they're heading towards the pool, that Ed, feeling as though he should make some comment on what just happened, says "Um-"

Tania laughs. "Yeah. It's always like this."

Ed opens his mouth, but notes that that pretty much answers his question. Allegra beams, as if concurring.

"And that was Bells" Tania informs him, pushing open the door. "She's Sam's assistant-they've been friends for years-"

Ed doesn't get a chance to reply, because then they walk into the pool area and, rather like Friday, Ed finds himself right in the centre of a loud, friendly chaos.

The swimming pool is huge-safely under the cover of a glass outhouse stretches out either side of the door, the water a beautiful blue, lapping gently, occasionally smashing into ripples as someone jumps in. At one end, a slide seems to have been dragged in separately, which the majority of the children seem to be heading for again and again. Ed's been to Chequers before but always on official business-and never with Cameron.

There are so many people in here that Ed's eyes automatically dart around for any one person he can recognize. His shoulders sink when he spots Samantha and Sarah, both laughing, waist-deep in the water-and then his own son, floating next to them in a rubber ring, dark curls plastered to his head, his dark eyes bright with laughter.

"Come here, Sam-" Samantha seizes his son gently, spinning him round in the water. Sam laughs loudly, and next to him, Florence's head emerges delightedly from the water, Sarah holding her snugly under the arms. Next to them are another woman with long, dark hair who, even at this distance, looks strikingly like Samantha, and a man holding a toddler, bouncing him very gently up and down in the water, the little boy leaning trustingly into his chest.

"Slide" Florence announces, smacking the water with her hands. "I want the slide. Now, _now,_ slide _now_, please-"

"All right-" Sarah taps her nose gently. "Come on then, missy-Sam, do you want to-"

Samantha scoops Sam into her arms and then the other woman calls "Alex, have you got-"

"Yeah, Al, could you get Pandora-" Tania's calling too. Ed turns and does a double-take. At the other end of the pool, Michael Gove is floating, chatting away with two other men-one a much older gentleman and the other, one who at first glance looks quite like Cameron, but chubbier and with a shock of white hair. Between them floats a toddler, who seems to have attached most firmly to the older gentleman, who lifts her into the air every few moments, blowing raspberries on the baby chubbiness of her little tummy.

"Al-" Tania calls, and the man who looks like Cameron glances up.

Tania touches Ed's arm. "This is Alex, our elder brother-"

"Ed!" The welcome rises, high and unmistakeable in Samantha's voice, and after today, the sound makes a lump swell in Ed's throat. He presses his face into Allegra's sweet tufts of baby hair, giving her a quick kiss. Allegra gurgles happily.

"Emily-Em, could you come and take Sam-" Samantha holds out Ed's son, who wraps his arms around Emily's neck with no hesitation. "John-John-Dave-" Samantha's already at the steps. "Oh, you found Tania-" She scrambles out of the pool, unabashed in her dark bikini, and Tania yells-"Al-bring Pandora-"

"Oh, no need-" The older man lifts Pandora in the air, holding her happily over his head. "We'll get ourselves up there, shall we-"

Pandora shrieks with delight as the man lowers her, carrying her with her head nestling into his shoulder.

Samantha gives Ed a quick kiss on the cheek, and Emily juggles Sam. "Say hi to Daddy-"

Sam buries his head into Emily's shoulder, but gives a shy wave. Something jabs in Ed's chest.

A small body hurls itself into his legs, and Ed looks down to see a familiar pair of blue eyes staring up at him. The last time he saw those eyes was yesterday morning, when he'd woken up to find them, along with his son's darker ones, staring down at him, and the owner of the blue eyes poking him decisively in the cheek with one finger.

"Oh, hi, Florence-" He tries to reach down to pat her, while juggling Allegra awkwardly.

Florence beams up and Sarah bends, picking her up, which is all it takes for Ed to immediately remember David's claim last week, and for his cheeks to erupt into a riot of blushing.

But then the older man's shaking his head, eyes twinkling. "Ah. You're the Labour fellow, Miliband."

"Um-yeah. Yes-"

"Ah, I see-" The older man nods and cuddles Pandora a little closer. "Very interesting-not that we could vote for you, of course, we have to say, but each to their own, eh-"

"Ed-" Samantha interrupts, as Emily grins and she and Sarah carry the little ones towards the slide. "This is mine and Emily's stepdad, William. William Astor. He's my half-sister Flora's dad-and my half-brothers, Will and Jake, though Jake isn't here."

"Pleasure" purrs William Astor, while Pandora tugs at his hair and he shakes Ed's hand so fiercely that Ed wonders for a moment if his hand could be about to be pulled off. "Pity Reggie and Vicky couldn't be here, they'd have loved this, fine turnout-"

Samantha's eyes flicker quickly to Tania, who immediately turns to William, gesturing to the slide, while Samantha takes Ed's arm and manoevres him gently to one of the deckchairs at the side, where Alex joins them.

"It _is _great that you're here" Samantha's saying, pushing her hair back. "We had some food earlier, but the birthday tea hasn't been done yet-or Nancy's cake, so you haven't missed much."

She clasps his hand, squeezing it gently. "And like Tania said, this is Alex."

Ed turns, still holding Allegra, to find Alex sitting next to him. "Hello-" His grin's like Cameron's and so are his eyes. He is certainly handsome, in a slightly unusual way, but, Ed thinks, perhaps with a hint of bias, _his_ Cameron has the edge.

He blinks.

_What-_

"David's brother" Alex introduces himself and Ed becomes aware that he's staring silently, with his mouth open.

"Oh. Alex-right, nice to meet you-" They shake hands and Ed tightens his hold around Allegra, suddenly fearful of dropping her.

"I've heard a lot about you" Alex says, with the same easy charm as Cameron.

Ed gulps. "Oh-" He bites his lip, guessing that he's unlikely to have come across another family leftie. "Probably not a lot of good things, then-" He says this mostly to Allegra's head.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that-" Ed looks up to see Alex chuckling a little, but before he can ask anything else, Samantha calls "John-"

Ed glances at the group of people huddled around the slide and blinks.

One of the men waiting at the bottom is quite clearly George Osborne. Another is very obviously the Prime Minister of New Zealand.

The other two are men Ed doesn't recognize, but at that moment John looks round at Samantha's voice, which is precisely the second Elwen Cameron comes shooting off the end of the slide and crashes straight into John Key's chest.

_"Elwen-"_ Samantha's voice is a shout, but John's already laughing, even as Elwen bobs up to the surface, hair drenched, eyes creased with laughter. "I thought Mr. Key would catch me-"

"It's all right-" John's laughing, even as George pats him on the back, saying something to Elwen who laughs, dimpling his freckled cheeks, and then heads for the slide again. "Stephie and Max did that enough times-"

Ed's so busy trying to take everyone in that he almost doesn't notice John pulling himself out of the water and heading towards them until he's right there.

"Ed Miliband." John takes his hand with a grin, and then offers Allegra a beam. "And is this little beauty yours'?"

Allegra puts her head on one side and answers this question with a long _"Aaaaaah",_ her little hands clapping together happily.

Ed can't help but laugh, surprised at how natural it is to hold Allegra, carry her about. Whenever he'd held Daniel or Sam when they were babies, he'd often felt odd, as though there was one final step he was missing out on.

"No" he manages, even as Allegra presses her cheek to his. "She's-Lohralee's, I think-"

"And Will's-" Samantha chips in, chucking Allegra under the chin. "Would you like a hold?"

John beams and immediately holds out his arms. "Ahhh, hand the little angel over-"

Ed is strangely reluctant-something about Allegra's warm trusting weight is comforting-but he does so and John just beams down at the baby, who beams at Ed over her shoulder. "Hey there, Allegra-"

And it's then that Samantha says "Oh, Dave's coming."

Ed looks up a little too eagerly, and doesn't spot Cameron for a moment. His eyes search, and then he spots him, just getting out of the pool-

Just getting out of the-

He's-

And it's Cameron and he's-

And he's walking towards him and-

Well-

Well, he's in a-

He doesn't have a shirt on.

Cameron doesn't have a shirt on.

Cameron-he-

_Cameron!_

Ed should look away. His cheeks are burning.

But, God, his eyes are suddenly _there,_ right _there,_ on Cameron's stomach, and there's-

There's-just so much of Cameron's skin and it looks slick with water, and Ed can't stop looking, taking in-just taking in his chest and-

God, he looks-

Ed blinks frantically.

Oh God. Oh God. Look up.

His cheeks are a frenzy of heat.

Look up, _now._

He does, but as he does, he notices the little bulge of David's stomach.

He's noticed it before, of course, but he's never seen it like-

(Cameron usually pulls it in when he's standing up straight-it's only when he relaxes that Ed notices it)

He just catches it out of the corner of his eye, and somehow-

It's just so _Cameronish_ that-

Ed's eyes fly up, but he can still see Cameron's stomach and chest and everything that's usually kept hidden from him-

All Cameron's bare skin and-

Well.

Something twitches. There's a surge of sensation, a rush of heat, and then there's a-

Oh God.

Ed stands very still, apart from his hands, which immediately and frantically tug his shirt down. He very pointedly does not look down at himself.

Oh God. Oh God.

Oh _God...._

"Nice of you to turn up, Miliband" Cameron says, and he winks.

Oh God, don't wink.

Ed swallows. "Um-"

Say something. Anything.

"I-um-"

His cheeks have erupted into a riot of heat.

Cameron steps closer and Ed feels a strange tug in his chest, wanting him to back away and at the same time, step closer, nearer-

Ed's breath catches.

What's happening-

What's_ happening_ to him?

Cameron frowns. "You all right, Miliband? You look like you're having a hard time with something."

Ed squeezes his eyes shut and, feeling himself twitch again, curses Cameron's name more viciously than he ever has in any session of Prime Minister's Questions.

Cameron's skin's so near, and Ed's insides swoop suddenly.

Oh God.

What's _happening_ to him?

* * *

By the time Cameron's taken him round everyone, Ed's calmed himself.

A little.

Because-

It can't have been anything. It _can't_ have.

That-that has to happen sometimes.

It _has _to.

It-it _must_ do, because-

Ed can't even let his thoughts go there.

Because it's ludicrous that they even _would._

But Cameron's walking him around everyone-John's handed him Allegra back and Ed's grateful, hugging her carefully as they walk. It's not until they get to the group of boys hovering at the slide that he realises Daniel is amongst them, along with Elwen and William. David points out the other two as Nelson and Perry-"Flora and Emily's sons, and there's Rex, Perry's little brother-Nelson's Pandora's brother, Tania's boys aren't here today, they're on a school trip-"and another man as Theo, Flora's husband.

Daniel waves at him but he doesn't come down from the slide. Something wrenches in Ed's chest as he watches, but there's something else too, as he watches Daniel chatting to Elwen, watches the boys nudging and jostling each other in a friendly fashion. Something aches sadly in his chest as he watches, the way it had reading that article.

"And that" Cameron says, leading Ed round to the other side of the pool. "Is my sister Clare. And here is the birthday girl."

Nancy waves at Ed from the water, blue eyes bright and dancing. She's flanked by Liberty and Beatrice, and another guy, who's lounging against the side of the pool.

"Hi, Mr. Ed Miliband-" but Nancy is interrupted by Beatrice inquiring of the other man rather loudly "So, do you actually take your clothes off, then?"

Liberty snorts. Ed almost chokes and covers Allegra's ears protectively.

"Not all the way off" replies the other man, a slight twang in his voice as he examines his nails. "Mostly just putting other people's _on."_

"You mean dresses" says Beatrice, whose interests apparently do not extend to tact.

"Yep" says the man, unfazed, ruffling Beatrice's hair. "Though sometimes we get others. Usually sparkly, though."

"This is Rob" Cameron explains, a grin playing at his mouth. "My brother-in-law."

At this point, Ed's been introduced to so many people with this sort of description that he'd hardly be surprised if Cameron told him Prince Philip was his brother-in-law.

"Hi." Rob gives him a wave, before Beatrice waylays him again.

Ed can't stop looking at Cameron, for some reason. He looks, then looks away. It's almost a silent dare to himself: _See, you didn't feel anything. It didn't mean anything._

Because it _can't_ have done.

"Oh. Um-" Ed suddenly realises the three girls are looking up at him. He crouches down awkwardly, adjusting baby Allegra even as Liberty scrambles up out of the water to press kisses to the baby's head.

"Happy birthday, Nancy" he manages, and, not knowing what else to do, he puts out a hand to shake.

Beatrice giggles, but Nancy folds her smaller hand around his and shakes it solemnly up and down. "Thank you."

"I do have a present for you" he says quickly, still grasping Nancy's hand. "It's-ah-it's in one of the dining rooms, Frances took it for me."

Nancy nods and Ed struggles for something else to say, until Nancy asks, suddenly "Are you coming in?"

Ed freezes. Next to him, for a second, he's sure he feels Cameron freeze too.

"Um-" He bites his lip. "I-maybe a little later-" It comes out as more of a question than he means it to.

"Look-" Beatrice points over Nancy's shoulder and Nancy turns her head to see three of the blondest boys Ed's ever seen running along the side of the swimming pool, followed by a tall woman with long blonde hair, clapping her hands. "Xandie, grab Seth-Isaac, you're meant to be telling them to _stop-"_ Behind them strolls a man Ed vaguely recognizes from Downing Street.

"Oi!" Nancy slaps the water in apparent greeting to the middle of the three boys, who looks to be about her age. "You were meant to be here ages ago."

"Seth needed to find his iPad" the little boy explains with a shrug, before hurtling himself into the water in a cannonball that sprinkles both Ed and David with water, and leads Beatrice to pull the boy into a headlock, the second his head breaks the surface.

"They're my cousins" Nancy explains to Ed. "And that's Uncle Chris and Auntie Venetia."

"Chris-" Ed looks at the man again, and does a double take. "Oh-"

"Yeah, Chris Lockwood" David says with a grin, stroking Allegra's cheek. "Met him through Sam originally-she and Venetia have been close for years-" He points at each of the three blond boys in turn. "Isaac-" the eldest, who's sliding into the water. "Xandie-" the boy currently being dunked by Nancy and Beatrice. "And Seth-" The youngest, who seems to be hurrying to the steps, his father's hand in his, to join Elwen and the others.

Ed nods, thankful for the distraction.

But Cameron, as he straightens up, gives him a tap, as Ed hands him Allegra awkwardly, his arms tiring a little. "Aren't you coming in? Everyone else is-"

Ed swallows, trying to ignore the way his heart is suddenly racing. His palms feel damp. "Oh. Well. Maybe-maybe I-"

Cameron's just looking at him, and he's so close. Ed can see droplets of water clinging to Cameron's eyelashes. He really shouldn't be this close.

"I-I didn't bring anything." His voice is breathier than usual. "To-to-um-wear-"

He's blushing, his cheeks burning.

And he's looking at Cameron's bare chest again.

Ed tugs his shirt down.

"Um-" Cameron's clearing his throat. He scratches his head nervously.

"Ah-Miliband-" His blue eyes meet Ed's too nervously. "You could-well, you could borrow a pair of mine-" and, oh, God, _no-_

"N-no! No-I'll be-be-" Oh God, stop stuttering, stop-

But the thought of wearing-

Wearing Cameron's-

_Like you wore his shirt._

But wearing his-

In the same _area-_

Ed feels dizzy.

A strange squeak comes out of his mouth. "I-"

Cameron's watching him, head on one side, and Ed swallows. "Um-n-no, I'll-I'm fine, I-really-"

Something, do something-

Ed coughs, then clears his throat loudly. "Um-I've-" He coughs again. "I've got a cold. Th-see?"

Cameron stares at him. Ed stares back, cheeks burning.

A grin creeps out at Cameron's mouth slowly, denting dimples in his cheeks. "You really are a terrible liar, Miliband."

Ed blinks. "I-I am not!"

Cameron's sniggering now. "You are. _I've got a cold-"_

"How do you know I haven't?"

Cameron just shakes his head. "You're meant to be a_ politician_, Miliband. Don't you think you should improve those skills a little?"

Ed tries to raise an eyebrow. "Th-so-so that's the th-sort of skill you associate with being a politician, Cameron?"

Cameron just laughs. "I could push you into that pool, you know, Miliband."

Ed jumps back almost immediately, arms wrapping around himself. "Don't!"

Cameron holds up a hand, laughing, but Ed bites his lip at the sharpness of his voice.

"It's all right" Cameron says, and Ed scowls and looks away, because Cameron's skin is too bare and his voice is too kind.

"I know it is" he says a little too sharply, but when Cameron's hand takes his sleeve, it's too gentle and Ed can pretend he doesn't notice.

* * *

It's not that Ed hates sitting by the pool. To an extent, he likes it, watching the others swim. It's one of the first times today that he hasn't felt the urge to talk or argue or even think. Though knowing he's meant to argue with Cameron is sometimes a relief.

He leans forward, watching vaguely as the boys wave to him. His eyes fall on Cameron, tracking him as he swims.

A part of Ed would like to be in the water. But another-

It's not just the thought of Cameron's-offer-which sounds ridiculous in itself-but, and Ed shivers a little-

The thought of-

Well-

Ed folds his arms a little nervously, even thinking about it.

The thought of just-taking his shirt off.

Of Cameron looking at him-well, of _everyone _looking at him.

But especially Cameron.

That thought makes the heat rise to Ed's cheeks.

The truth is, even though everyone, particularly Samantha and George, makes a point of calling out to him every few moments, Ed, in some ways, prefers it when he's allowed to sit silently, just watching the kids splash about and not having to think of a reply. Not gathering his words into order quickly, trying to squeeze whatever's filling his head into sentences.

He has a vague memory of school-day swimming lessons; lining up shivering at the side of a pool, arms wrapped around his own bare chest, goosebumps aching on his arms. He remembers a hard shove in the back, the water smacking into his face, stinging all over his chest and stomach, laughter ringing off the bare, damp walls around him.

"What are you thinking about, Miliband?"

Ed almost jumps out of his skin.

Cameron's standing next to him. This time, Ed manages to keep his eyes on Cameron's face, though it's harder than it should be to let them rove past his chest. Cameron's nipples are peaked and that sends an odd ripple through him.

He suddenly remembers a couple of years beforehand, standing on the stage, hearing his own voice quavering a little: _I-I'm in no doubt he'll even be taking off his shirt and flinging it into the crowd, expecting adoration from the British people, li-like he did-er-recently on holiday-_

Oh God. Don't think about those pictures of him on holiday.

"Do you sneak up on everyone, Prime Minith-ster?" he manages, when his heart is racing a little slower.

Cameron does something remarkably like winking as he sits down next to Ed. "Only you."

Ed can't bear to blush again. He fixes his eyes on his knees, hoping to pretend it's not happening. From a speaker, some pop song is playing, something with lyrics that seem to bounce like a question.

"Are you sure you don't want to swim?"

Ed threads his fingers together, wondering if he's entirely justified in cursing Cameron for being nice. If that's what he's being.

"Maybe later" he manages, threading his fingers in and out of one another, too conscious of David's gaze on him. "Did she have a good birthday?"

Cameron looks up, eyes falling on his daughter, who's laughing with the other girls and, Ed now notices, tugging Daniel along behind her. "I think so. Well-her actual birthday isn't until tomorrow, but she seems to have liked the party."

"I-um-I got her a present." Ed glances up at Cameron through his eyelashes.

Cameron chuckles. "I knew you would."

"How?"

"Because I know you."

Heat rushes to Ed's cheeks as Cameron winks at him.

"It's only manners, Cameron" he mutters.

"That's how you care for us, is it?" Cameron's bare shoulder nudges Ed's clothed one. A shiver of heat runs through Ed.

_And maybe I should make this-maybe I should make this promise while I'm about it, that if I become Prime Minister, I won't take my shirt off in public, I mean it's just-it's just-it's just not necessary, is it..._

"Out of manners?"

His voice is light, but Ed meets his eyes. "Is that what you think?"

They watch each other. Ed can smell David's shampoo, because they're far too close now. Far too close.

"No." Cameron's voice is still light, but lower. "Like I said. I know you."

Ed's heart skips a few beats. He can see the light freckles sprinkled over Cameron's cheeks from here. He can count the drops falling from his hair, let his eyes trace the soft bulge of his stomach.

(He can hear the words he was told were Cameron's reply, imagine them in his voice: _Ed, you keep your shirt on, I'll keep the lights on!)_

What's happening-

He yanks his gaze away quickly. "I bought her a book" he manages, voice somehow remaining fairly steady. "Do you think that's suitable?"

Ed has never been much aware of the peculiarities of his own phrasing, so even if he had not been rather keen to change the subject, he may have been entirely bemused as to why Cameron immediately starts laughing again.

"What?"

"Nothing." Cameron's hand touches Ed's arm quickly, so quickly Ed would barely notice if it wasn't for the odd flutter he's becoming accustomed to around Cameron. "Just-yes, I'm pretty sure Nancy will find that suitable."

"You're making fun of me." Ed says this without his voice trembling.

Cameron meets his eyes. "No."

Ed snorts.

"No. Really."

This time, Cameron doesn't touch him. It would have been easier if he had because Ed looks at him before he can stop himself.

"I-" Cameron clears his throat, the words lost under the childrens' laughter bouncing off the walls. "Well-I-"

It's when Ed catches the tinge of colour in Cameron's cheek that he hastily looks back at his knees, but not before he notices that both of their fingers are drumming back and forth on their thighs.

"And I got her a Rubik's Cube" he says, before he can think about it.

There's a silence, then "A Rubik's Cube?"

Ed braces himself, but when he looks up, Cameron's just watching him with-

A grin, but-

There's something softer about his eyes.

Ed's fingers slide in and out of one another.

"Is that what you're doing?"

Ed blinks. "What?"

Cameron points at his fingers, sliding back and forth. "A Rubik's Cube?"

"Oh-" Ed stares, a little jolted. It's a habit he's so used to it barely merits attention these days; but now, watching them, he can make out the familiarity of the darting movements, the way his fingers criss-cross each other.

"You noticed that."

"Doesn't everyone?"

Ed meets Cameron's eyes. This time, something in him doesn't let him look away. He holds Cameron's gaze, even as his heart beats faster, his breath more and more rapid. It's an odd, excited, frightened feeling, and Ed doesn't know if he likes it or not, but he wants it to go on.

"Not moth-st people, no."

Cameron doesn't look away, either. "Didn't I hear you could solve it in-"

"Under a minute-"

"One minute-"

They both speak at once. There's a jolt in Ed's chest as he sees a smile too like his own creep to Cameron's mouth and for a moment, each sees their own expression on the other's face. It's something they'll remember, even if Ed doesn't know it yet.

"Yeah." He swallows, his mouth suddenly intensely dry. "Yes. I could."

David nods. Ed feels his fingers flutter back and forth nervously, the same way they did on Friday.

His stomach squeezes.

_(I didn't want to be rude and not come up to you_, he'd managed to get out, as Nick had stood there silently after returning Ed's nervous _Hi _a lot more coldly. His eyes had moved up and down Ed's face once, quickly, but Nick's own had been closed somehow, while Ed stood there, feeling more and more nervous and awkward, the gazes of the others burning into his back.)

(_You've been rude enough already. _The slight smile at Nick's mouth, but the words weren't warm, and Ed had bitten his lip, unsure how to navigate around them.)

"Hey-" Cameron's voice pulls his eyes back up. "You're-"

Cameron points and Ed looks to see his fingers sliding again.

"You only do that when you're-" Cameron's voice is low. He stares at Ed, blue eyes unreadable, and then-

His hand settles over Ed's gently, folding over his fingers.

Ed can't speak. His heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. But he can still hear the kids' shouts echoing-their _kids_ are in here, most of Cameron's _family_ are in here, and so this is fine. It's _fine._ This doesn't mean anything, because if it did, they wouldn't-

Cameron's hand is warm and soft and just folds over his and squeezes gently. The sensation makes Ed gulp. It's _Cameron-_

"There." Cameron's eyes are soft, but they sparkle a bit as they meet Ed's.

It takes Ed a moment to look down and realise that his fingers, Cameron's brushing them gently, have stopped shaking.

"Oh." That's all that comes out, faintly, and then "Thank you."

He can't quite meet Cameron's eyes. He bites his lip, glancing down and away, trying to hide the stupid smile he can feel playing at his own mouth.

When he looks back, it's to catch Cameron's eyes darting away. When he risks another glance, he finds Cameron's eyes glancing up at him. A smile's playing at his mouth, one that looks like Ed feels.

Their eyes meet and dart away. Ed wants to laugh and hide, even as he stares at the pool. He can feel his heartbeat thumping, feel a scrunching sensation in his chest that's almost unbearably pleasant. That little glance Cameron gave him when he caught him looking sends a little jolt through Ed. He stares out at the water, breathless, hardly daring to move, watching the kids play without seeing them, his whole body aware, charged, of the fact Cameron's hand is still touching his own.

* * *

Nancy, since it's her birthday, is the last to get out of the pool, so she's floating on her back, staring up at the ceiling, while the others all make their way to the side. Nancy takes the opportunity to squint up at the sky, tracing patterns in it with her eyes. At her side, Bea's hair floats out, tickling Nancy's cheek. Libbie's hand brushes her own and Nancy has a brief memory of being much smaller, on her back in a swimming pool, Dad's arms around her, one finger tracing out shapes in the sky, Bea and Libbie on either side, while Uncle Michael and Uncle George did the same, carving out illustrations in the clouds.

Now, Nancy turns her face in the water to look at Bea, who eventually turns to look back. For a moment, they watch each other.

"Bird" Bea says, without even needing to look at the sky, and Nancy and Libbie say "Dragon."

When they get out of the pool, Nancy glances at the deckchair where Dad and Mr. Ed Miliband were sitting and then slows as she realises the latter is still there alone.

Nancy pauses almost without realising, shivering a little now that she's out of the warmth of the water. She glances up to see Dad at the other end of the pool talking to Mum. Mr. Ed Miliband's sitting looking at the pool, but his eyes are odd, almost as though he's looking at something quite different.

Nancy debates for a moment and then says to Bea and Libbie "See you inside."

She trots up to the chair and when he doesn't acknowledge her, decides to claim the place next to him as her own.

Close up, she squints at him. Mr. Ed Miliband always looks older close up, and sadder, somehow. There are shadows under his eyes, lines creasing at his lips.

"Hi" Nancy says, feeling slightly irked that he hasn't so much as looked at her.

He does look at her, then. "Oh-" He jumps a little, as if Nancy's pushed him, blinking owlishly. "Hi, Nancy."

Nancy watches him, head on one side, considering herself to have made enough effort to initiate the conversation.

"Did you-um-have you had a good day?" Nancy feels a stab of guilt, then, for the edge of worry in his voice. She remembers yesterday morning at the breakfast table and turns towards him a little more.

"Yeah. It was fun. Did you?"

She's not sure why Ed Miliband smiles a little. Nancy's discovered that grown-ups often smile to themselves when she asks questions-particularly ones they've just asked. She's trying to decide whether it annoys her or not.

"Um-yes, actually." Nancy decides it doesn't annoy her coming from Ed Miliband. Something about his eyes-they're too wide, too young. His smiles look too nervous. "It was-ah. Interesting."

Nancy nods at his suit. "Why didn't you swim?"

Ed Miliband's head jerks a little. "What?"

Nancy indicates the suit again, shivering a little. "Everyone else swam. How come you didn't?"

Ed Miliband's forehead creases. He bites his lip. "Ah-I wath-sn't feeling up to it today, Nancy." Nancy notices the lisp again.

"Can you swim?"

Mr. Ed Miliband jumps a little. "Of course I can _swim."_

Nancy frowns. "How come you didn't want to swim, then?"

She notices colour creeping into Ed Miliband's cheeks and stops abruptly.

Instead, wrapping her arms around herself, she asks "Did you have fun?"

He looks up. "I juth-st answered-"

"No, I meant earlier." Nancy squeezes her hair, letting the water drip out. "Where you went earlier. Before you arrived."

"Oh."

Nancy's looking down, trying to dry her hair a little without the aid of a towel, but she senses Mr. Ed Miliband go very still for a second.

"Oh-yes. Well, it was work, but-"

"Where did you go?"

He hesitates and Nancy glances up. "Um. I was in Sheffield."

Nancy brushes her hair behind her ears, shivering at the droplets that fall onto her bare shoulders. "Were you trying to beat my dad?"

This time, Mr. Ed Miliband does freeze. Nancy looks up at him, wondering if he'll actually tell her or not.

"I-" He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. "It's not like that."

Nancy doesn't look away. "Were you?"

"No, I wasn't."

Nancy crosses her legs, tugging her tankini top down. "Were you trying to beat somebody else?"

Mr. Ed Miliband meets her eyes this time. There's a moment of silence. Then, "Yeah."

"Uncle Nick?"

Ed Miliband blinks. "How did you-"

Nancy rolls her eyes. "I know his constituency's in Sheffield." She sits up, folding her hands as she turns to face him. "And..." She hesitates for a moment. "I know everyone sort of hates him."

Ed Miliband doesn't laugh. Instead, he shakes his head and looks away. "It's not-"

"Not what?"

"Not as simple as that." His voice is slower this time. His eyes are staring into the deep blue water.

Nancy wraps her arms around herself, shivering a little more violently. Mr. Ed Miliband looks up sharply. "Why haven't you got a towel?"

Nancy shakes her head. "Everyone else needs them first. They're my guests."

Mr. Ed Miliband's eyes narrow then, and his face-

His face makes an odd, crumpling motion and he looks away. Nancy frowns, but the next thing she knows, Ed Miliband's wriggling out of his suit, tugging at his sleeves. Nancy stares as he pulls off his suit.

"Come here." He drapes it round her shoulders carefully.

"It'll get ruined" Nancy warns him, but he shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, I've got lots of them."

Nancy shakes her head. "It'll get all wet" but she pulls Ed Miliband's suit around her anyway. It smells nice, a different aftershave from Daddy's clinging to the material.

Mr. Ed Miliband's hand rubs her back in an awkward circle before patting her shoulder nervously. Nancy glances him. She'll reflect in years to come that if Mr. Ed Miliband hadn't been as awkward as he was, she might not have asked him the question.

But she curls up a little, pulling his suit tighter around her, and says, watching the pool shimmer under the lights, "Do you like my dad?"

Mr. Ed Miliband jumps a little. When Nancy looks at him, he's biting his lip very, very hard.

Nancy stares. He glances at her and for a moment she thinks he's going to brush the question away.

But then he swallows. "It's-it's not about-"

"Not about what?"

Ed Miliband clears his throat. "Not about-liking or disliking-"

Nancy rolls her eyes, impatience sharpening in her chest. "So do you _not _like my dad?"

"No!"

This time, Ed Miliband's voice is louder. He could sound angry. Almost.

Nancy waits. Ed Miliband turns around, pushing one hand through his hair. He stares straight ahead, eyes flickering as though he's thinking very fast.

"I don't-" His voice suddenly takes on an almost petulant tone. "I don't not like your dad." His voice trails off into something like a mumble. "It's just-"

Nancy considers this new information carefully.

"Well-" she says, after a moment. "You must like him. I mean, you wouldn't be here, otherwise."

For some reason, Mr. Ed Miliband flinches at that, but Nancy doesn't have time to think about it before he takes a deep breath and looks at her, his eyes widening a little, as if about to tell her something.

Nancy waits, but he just looks.

After a moment, thinking about something that's been puzzling her, she blurts out "You know on Wednesdays?"

Mr. Ed Miliband frowns. "What about Wednesdays?"

"Prime Minister's Questions. You argue, then?"

A tinge of colour appears in Ed Miliband's cheeks. "Yes, I suppose-"

"But at weekends, you're-"

Nancy can't find the right word. She settles on "Friendly."

The colour deepens.

"So what about in between?"

Ed Miliband frowns, then, and looks up at her. "What do you mean, in between?"

"When do you go from yelling at each other to being friendly?" Nancy puts her head on one side, looks at him properly. "Are you just pretending?" she says slowly, carving words around a thought that has crept around for a few days without her being entirely sure what to do with it, or even what it is.

"Pretending." Mr. Ed Miliband says the word slowly, as though trying to find a taste to it, and then "When?"

"When what?"

"When am I pretending?" His voice is lower now. He's looking right at her.

Nancy stares back, with her chin up, feeling oddly grown-up and sharp and clever and a little bit nervous all at once. She has an odd sense suddenly that she's poking at something. Something she doesn't quite understand, something bigger than she is. It leaves her feeling strange, opened out a bit.

But she asks the question carefully, feeling as though she's balancing and stumbling her way through the words carefully. "That's what I asked you."

There's a longer silence this time. Ed Miliband watches her, his head tilted to the side. Nancy notices for the first time that they're alone by the pool-everyone else has left while they were talking, so the only sound apart from their conversation is the occasional lap of the water.

"No" Ed Miliband says, and his voice is quieter but a little more sure. "No, I'm not pretending, Nanth-cy."

The colour rises in his cheeks. Nancy just looks back, taking in the lines under his eyes and the quietness of the words, and then

"Oh" is all she says, more quietly herself. "Right."

There's another silence, but it's more comfortable. Nancy stares at the pool for a moment, mulling over the words and feeling oddly pacified, as though they've just settled a question, though she's not sure how.

"Do you think Daniel and Sam had a good time?"

Mr. Ed Miliband is watching her, but his eyes seem softer now, brighter.

"Um. Yeah, I suppose." Nancy pulls her knees up again, huddling inside Ed's suit. "Elwen and Will looked after them. But they were going down the slide a lot."

A corner of Ed Miliband's mouth twitches. "Yeah. I think they like slides."

Nancy looks up, frowning. "You _think?"_

Mr. Ed Miliband bites his lip. Nancy watches him, noticing the way his fingers have started to play back and forth.

"What presents did you get?" The words come out a little too fast. It might be him chewing his lip that makes Nancy answer without questioning the abrupt change of subject.

"Oh. Mostly books."

"Books."

"Yeah. I always get books."

Mr. Ed Miliband chews his lip again. "I got you a book."

Nancy stares at him, and then bursts out laughing before she can stop herself.

Mr. Ed Miliband stares like she's a puzzle he's trying to find all the pieces to. Nancy sits up.

"You aren't meant to tell me" she explains, still snorting. "What my present is."

He winces. "Oh. Gosh. Th-sorry-"

"It's all right" Nancy says, calming herself down. "Like I said, I always get books. Sometimes, Libbie or Bea give me one of their old ones. Or vice versa."

Ed Miliband's eyes widen a little, but he bites his lip, fingers playing back and forth again. He glances at her.

"What?"

He bites his lip. "I also got you a Rubix Cube."

Nancy bursts out laughing again.

This time, Ed Miliband just keeps talking, even as she's laughing. "I could-I could-I didn't mean-"

Nancy notices the worry widening his eyes, and makes an effort to rein in the laughter.

"I could-" He's stuttering. "I could take it back if you don't like it-"

"No." Nancy shakes her head, calming a little now. "No, I'll like it. Most kids wouldn't, though. Don't get Daniel or Sam one."

Ed Miliband's forehead creases. "No?"

This time, Nancy carefully doesn't laugh. Instead, she wriggles closer, so that she can press against his side.

He doesn't jump, but he tenses a little. Nancy's about to pull away but then feels his hand come up and pat her shoulder nervously.

"Any good books?"

"Don't know. I got a series."

"A series?"

"Yeah. From Mr. Obama."

"From Mr-oh, from Barack."

Nancy looks up. "No, Mr. Obama-Dad says I have to call him Mr. Obama. Anyway, he got me a series."

"Have you read any?"

"Only the blurb."

"What's it about?"

Nancy pulls her knees up. "Like-it's this world where they've figured out a way to stop you falling in love. Or, they can make you fall in love with the right person or who they think is the right person. They just take this gene out of you or something when you're eighteen. And then you can't fall in love. Love's an illness. You're just....with the person they want you to be with."

Nancy trails off because Mr. Ed Miliband is looking at her in a decidedly odd way. "It was a long blurb."

He blinks when she looks up, as if just waking up. "Oh. Um. What do you think?"

Nancy shrugs. "Don't know. Haven't read it yet."

"No, I meant-" He looks away, chewing his lip. "Of the idea."

"The idea-"

Ed Miliband's fingers flutter. "Yeah. I mean-it's interesting."

Nancy frowns. "Don't know. Yet. What about you?"

"Hmm."

Nancy looks straight at him. "What do you think of it?"

They watch each other. The water laps softly in the background as though probing the question themselves.

His voice is quieter this time. "Well. I don't know."

Something catches a little in his voice. He stares at the water, his eyes soft. Nancy frowns, suddenly gripped by the feeling that there's something there she can't see somehow.

"Come on." Abruptly, Mr. Ed Miliband gets to his feet and holds out a hand. "You're cold. Let's get you inside."

Nancy knows when not to push, so she gathers his suit around her and hops up. She does a little skip, liking the way it billows around her.

"If it was rainbow-coloured" she explains, when she sees Ed Miliband looking at her. "It would be like Joseph's in the musical. I'm going to write one of them."

She does another little jump and spins to see Ed Miliband watching her. He's smiling, but not in the usual way grown-ups do, when they think that whatever a kid says has just been for them. His eyes are softer, his head tilted to the side, and he watches her as though trying to make something out, trace a pattern with his eyes.

Nancy hops, skips and jumps to the door, turning to check Ed Miliband's still following her. There's something she recognizes about the way he's looking at her, but she's not sure how. She won't realise it yet-it'll be a long time before she realises that the way Mr. Ed Miliband watches her now is almost exactly the same look she herself wore as she watched him watch the pool minutes earlier. Because she's watching him seem to see something else, too-the same look she wore as she tried to grasp something that, for now, is just out of reach.

* * *

It's later, as everyone's singing, eleven candles flickering into life, that Nancy glances at Dad and sees his hand on Mr. Ed Miliband's arm.

She only watches for a moment, but it's enough for her to, looking round at the rest of her family, reflect that everyone here feels like they belong with her, as if their blood runs in each other's veins. Nancy has the odd thought that if she didn't already know-if she had been looking in on the room as a stranger-she wouldn't be able to work out who was related and who wasn't.

For some reason, that thought sticks in her head and reaches out to touch that other quick glimpse of Dad's hand on Mr. Ed Miliband's arm.

It doesn't feel bad, but she looks away quickly.

Not bad. Just...

Private, somehow.

_"Happy birthday to you!"_

Mum kisses her head. "Make a wish, Nance."

Flo jumps up and down at her side. Daniel nestles into her for a moment, before Elwen's hands grip his shoulders. Bea's chin hoicks itself into the crook of Nancy's neck.

Nancy looks up, catching Dad's eye across the table. He's watching her, his cheeks dented, one hand still brushing Ed Miliband's arm. His eye flickers in a quick wink.

Nancy closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and blows out all the candles at once, and in that second of caught blackness with her eyes shut, between the flames vanishing as though they've never been and the hands slapping out their applause around her, she makes a wish.

* * *

David isn't even sure he's thinking about it until he does it.

Somehow, they're off to the side and Ed's there and tugging at his fingers and the kids are ensconced watching a film, and David just touches his wrist.

Ed looks up out of big dark eyes and David blurts it out. "Come for a walk with me?"

And now that's what they're doing. David just hopes Miliband hasn't noticed where they're heading.

But thankfully, Miliband seems to be in a chatty mood.

"I like your sister" he informs David, threading his fingers together.

"Which one?"

"Tania." Miliband blushes. "I mean, both, of course. But I was talking with Tania."

"Family leftie" David says with a nudge. "She's held that position for years."

Miliband's cheeks crease a little. "That wath-sn't really possible in my family."

David laughs, surprise sharpening the sound. Miliband's eyes widen delightedly.

"Did you have fun?"

David curses the question. He sounds like a child, trying to ask someone to his own party.

Miliband shrugs. "Y-yeah, I suppose-" He shoots David a sudden nervous look. "Did Nancy like her present?"

David grins, remembering the sight of Nancy handling a Rubix Cube as though it was a treasure.

"Yeah, she liked them." He glances at Miliband. "Most people don't buy kids Rubix Cubes, though."

He expects a smile, at least, but Miliband bites his lip, dropping his gaze. "I-um-"

David frowns but before he can tell him it was a joke, Miliband squeezes his hands together. "I always had those kind of things when I was younger."

Somehow, that isn't surprising.

But Miliband's brow is puckered a little, and David glances at him. "Come on" he says, giving his wrist a tug. "If you hadn't had one, you'd never have been able to do that trick with one hand."

The oddest squeaking sound comes from Miliband. David stares at him. Miliband blushes scarlet. "D-did-do-"

"Your Rubix Cube trick. You know, under one minute with one hand."

Miliband, if possible, blushes even deeper. "Oh. Um-yes-I thought-"

He trails off, scarlet. David opens his mouth and then snaps it shut, heat reaching his own cheeks. "I-" He can't bear to meet Miliband's eyes for a moment, glancing at him then away, only to notice Miliband doing the same thing.

The one good thing about their mutual embarrassment is that it allows David to beckon Ed into the pool area before he notices.

Of course, there's no way to hide it from him for long.

"What are we-" Ed's eyes snap straight to his and he steps back, arms crossing tightly. "I'm not swimming."

"Fine."

Ed eyes him suspiciously. "I'm really_ not_, Cameron."

"Fine." David kicks off his shoes and socks with a grin and a wink. For some reason, he's gratified to see the colour flood Miliband's cheeks. "That doesn't mean_ I_ can't."

It's when he reaches for his shirt that Miliband lets out a sudden exclamation. _"Cameron!"_

"What?" David pauses, hands at his buttons. "I've got to take it _off_, Miliband."

"But-but-" If Miliband was blushing before, it's nothing to what he's doing now. "You can't-take all your-"

He trails off, apparently too mortified to continue.

"I'm _scandalised_, Miliband." David starts unbuttoning his shirt, thoroughly enjoying the sight of Miliband scowling as ferociously as he can at him, blushing like the setting sun. The sight's about as threatening as a chipmunk. "Imagine even suggesting such a thing."

"I was _not _suggesting-"

He trails off, eyes sliding to David's chest. David glances down, to where he's slid most of the buttons loose.

Miliband's staring at him. Something like a jolt goes through David, something that leaves him far too unsettled.

"Unless of course, you were speaking for yourself, Miliband." He blurts it out, heart thudding. He keeps his voice smooth, his fingers steady, even if he speaks a little more quickly than usual.

The look Miliband gives him then-

David bites his lip, completely failing to suppress his laughter. "I always forget you're not used to that."

Miliband falls silent, as David kicks off his trousers and he looks up expectantly only to see Miliband staring very fixedly at the pool. His fingers open and close rapidly. The colour in his cheeks gives David a small, pleasant jolt in the chest, as he watches Miliband watch the water.

It's an age before Miliband replies "What?" His voice is rougher than usual. His fingers curl.

"Being teased." David drapes his clothes over one of the chairs. "I forget you're not used to it."

Miliband glances up, opening his mouth-and then stares, eyes opening wide. His gaze flickers down, apparently unthinkingly, to David's boxers.

The look-

Something about the look on his face-

David turns away quickly, heart pounding, though he isn't even in the water yet. He lowers himself into the pool as quickly as possible, more grateful than usual for the warm water as it closes over his head.

When he pops up again, head breaking through the surface with a gasp, the first thing he hears is Miliband's voice, echoing off the walls, so it sounds as though there are several Milibands there at once, all shouting at him. "How do you know?"

David has to gasp and blink for a moment. "How do I know what?" He turns to face Miliband, who's standing where he left him, looking oddly drawn-up, as though waiting for David to start arguing with him.

(To start, they'd have to have_ stopped _in the first place.)

Miliband's almost glaring, but not quite. "How do you know I'm not used to being teased?"

Before David can snort, Miliband blurts "People always-"

He shakes his head halfway through the word. "No, forget-" He turns away, as though to head for the door.

"No, don't _go-"_

Miliband stops dead, right where he is. David curses himself, even as he feels limp with relief.

Miliband slowly turns back towards him. Even from this distance, David can make out the shadows under his eyes, and his heart aches.

"I was joking" he hears himself say, when the silence stretches out too long between them. "Honestly-I was-" He clears his throat. "I'm sorry. Miliband."

There's another silence.

Then, abruptly, Miliband moves, turning to perch himself on the end of one of the chairs. He leans over to fiddle with his shoelace. "I think that's the first time you've ever apologised to me, Cameron."

David is so indignant at that, he almost chokes on a mouthful of water. "It is bloody _not,_ Miliband. I've apologised to you _plenty_ of times."

Miliband snorts, even as he pulls off his shoes and socks and only when he perches on the edge of the pool, letting one of his feet dabble in the water does David realise what he's doing and come out with it:

"I've never seen your feet before."

David almost throws his head underwater at _that_ remark.

He knows he's blushing. Miliband certainly is. "They're nothing th-special" is all he mutters, but he doesn't pull them out of the water.

And now that he's said that, David can't stop thinking about it. His eyes stray to Miliband again and again. They're perfectly normal feet. Their arches are slightly delicate, but apart from that-

It's just odd to realise there's parts of Miliband he hasn't seen before.

Without realising it, David's drifted closer to where Miliband's sitting, dangling his feet in the water. He only notices when Miliband's foot kicks gently and some water splashes in his face.

"Oi!"

Miliband laughs. It's his laugh, one he always does when he has to, but the slightly more relaxed one, that dents his eyes and dimples his cheeks, that David's learnt somehow, without knowing when or how, is Miliband's real laugh, the one he only does at his most relaxed, or at least when he's not pretending.

Miliband kicks the water again, and laughs, that high-pitched sound breaking through.

David wants to hear him laugh like that again, which is the only thing he thinks as he reaches out and, before he can stop himself, tickles Miliband's foot quickly.

Miliband _shrieks_. That's the only way David can describe it, because Miliband's laughter cracks into a high-pitched _"No-"_ and he wriggles away furiously, laughter still creasing his cheeks and David could punch the air because _Miliband's ticklish._

Something about that is just-

"You're ticklish." David grins and reaches for Miliband's foot without thinking, scrabbles with his fingers.

_"No-"_ Miliband wriggles frantically, laugher shaking his whole body. _"Stop-"_

"You're_ ticklish_, Miliband-"

Miiband's other foot kicks wildly, soaking David's hair. He squeaks, trying fruitlessly to escape, while David holds onto him, both of them shaking with laughter.

"Get _off-"_

_"You're ticklish-"_

Miliband's laughing too hard to speak. David, noticing the way his breathing's growing heavier, his eyes widening, takes some pity on him, slowing down the tickling until Ed pulls his foot free and curls up, gasping, cheeks flushed.

A slightly awkward silence falls. David bites his lip. "How come you didn't want to swim?"

Miliband, laughter dying away, clears his throat, and wriggles back. "I didn't feel-"

"Don't." David's voice is softer. He suddenly feels softer-something about Miliband's eyes, suddenly watchful, nervous, makes him softer, more gentle.

"Don't-?"

"You can- " He clears his throat. "I'm not going to make you swim-I was just-curious."

Miliband's breath catches. David treads water slowly. "Only I seem to remember you liked swimming."

Miliband frowns. "Have you been checking up on me, Cameron?"

David feels himself blush. (Bloody Miliband. Again.) "That's rather a high opinion you've got of yourself, Miliband."

Miliband snorts, mutters something in which the words "not likely" are audible.

David looks up sharply. "You're shy."

Miliband jumps as if David's hit him. "I am _not."_

David grins. "You could always prove it."

Miliband scowls. "I said _no."_

He gets up abruptly, pulling his feet out of the water, and David's hand shoots out, grabbing his ankle.

_"Cameron!"_

But David holds on, looking up at him. "Miliband. I'm sorry."

He's not sure why his voice is so urgent or why he's holding on, but he can't let Miliband leave, not right now, not when-

Miliband eyes him suspiciously. David stares back and slowly, Miliband sits down again.

"I just-" David tries, once he's sure it's safe enough. "Didn't like the thought of you missing out."

"What?"

"Well-" David rolls onto his back, looking past Miliband at the ceiling. "I didn't want you missing out. Because you were. You know-" He takes a deep breath. "Uncomfortable. Around-"

His voice trails off. He immediately absorbs himself in performing something of a forward roll in the water.

When he emerges, gasping for breath, it's to Miliband's voice. "You really are terribly self-obsessed, Cameron."

"And how?"

Miliband's mouth twitches. "Not everything's about you. This-"

He looks away.

David swims closer and, taking a deep breath, says "Well. It's just me."

Miliband's eyes narrow. "I said-"

Abruptly, he breaks off. His brow creases. He watches David for a long moment. David waits, hardly daring to breathe.

"Turn around." Miliband's voice is very soft.

His voice catches. David stares and Ed's eyebrow raises.

"Oh. Um-" David paddles back, his heart suddenly rapid.

Miliband stands up and then fixes his eyes on David. "Don't look."

"Fine."

"I mean it, Cameron."

"While you're changing, I won't look." David makes his voice as loud as possible, hoping frantically to disguise the sudden rapid beat of his heart.

He turns slowly, but he can hear the soft rustle of clothes against skin. His eyes flicker closed, his breathing deepening. He doesn't know if he wants to picture what's happening behind him or not. Excitement rises achingly in his body, almost a sickness in his stomach, as though something might burst in his chest.

"Are you done?" His voice is louder than usual, clumsier.

"Almoth-st-yeah. You can-"

David turns slowly.

Ed's standing there in his boxers. (That's the first thing that David notices-not his bare chest, the fact he's wearing boxers. It's just so weird putting _Miliband_ and _underwear _together in his head.)

Then he notices everything else.

He very much notices everything else.

David's breath shortens. His heart quickens. Because-

Oh God.

Miliband's chest.

Bloody _hell_, Miliband's-

He's skinny. Of course he's skinny-David can even make out the planes of his hips, sharp even at this distance. But he's-

His skin's smooth and olive. There isn't much hair on his chest but all David can look at is-

His shoulders are bare and smooth. He can see the slight middle-aged bulge of his stomach, and-

Miliband has nipples.

And oh for God's sake, of _course_ he does, of course David _knew_ that, but just seeing them like that, a little peaked and-

_Oh, bloody hell._

Miliband's blushing. He's blushing like David's never seen him blush before. His arms rise, as though to cover himself, and then pause. His eyes, big and dark, hover at David's for a second, then dart away.

He just looks so-

Standing there and_ that's_ how he looks under those suits and those shirts-

God, with those big dark eyes and his chest bare-

David's heart pounds. His breathing is quick. His cheeks are warm.

Neither of them's said anything yet-

And David feels a rush of aching sensation below his waist, a sudden pressure and-

Oh God.

He very carefully doesn't look down at himself. He doesn't need to. He feels himself twitch a little.

Oh God, it can't matter, it can't because-

He nearly laughs, because there are so many reasons because.

He swallows. "Coming in, then?" His voice is hoarse. He's amazed he can manage his voice.

Miliband doesn't nod, but just moves towards the pool and David lowers himself carefully further down in the water, thanking God for the depth and the fact that Miliband isn't wearing goggles.

* * *

The only good thing about being this embarrassed, Ed reflects, is that it makes him numb.

He has absolutely no idea where to look when he walks into the pool, so he just fixes his eyes on the steps, watching his feet disappear slowly under the water

(the same feet Cameron was just tickling, and the heat rushes to Ed's cheeks so quickly that he feels dizzy)

He doesn't know what he was thinking, agreeing.

But it had been-

Cameron had looked as though he thought the problem might be _him._

(and Ed can't bear that.)

Cameron isn't the problem.

Well. He is _a _problem.

He's _a_ problem, but not _the_ problem.

He's not even sure how he got his clothes off. It might have just been the sheer focus on removing each article, his mind clinging onto anything to distract from the urge to curl up inside his own skin.

Ed has to force himself not to dive into the water, to cover as much of his skin as possible. Instead, he only lets himself relax when he finally steps in, the water closing over his shoulders, and then he promptly ducks his head under the water as deeply as possible until his cheeks feel a little cooler.

Only once his head breaks through the surface does he feel able to look at Cameron. He frowns because Cameron's cheeks look as flushed as his own feel and their eyes only meet for a second before they both glance awkwardly away.

"Well, I'm in" he manages, when he's judged the silence to have gone on long enough.

"Well. Yes." Cameron clears his throat, then does the quick glance away. "Didn't know you were ticklish, Miliband."

Ed rolls his eyes, feeling the heat creep even higher in his cheeks. He hadn't particularly known himself. He wasn't often tickled as a child-only by David, whose childish fingers had scrabbled and poked at his ribs inexpertly. Ever since, he hasn't had much experience with it and so the sensation that had erupted when Cameron had run his fingers over his foot had been a shock, as had the giggling that had wracked his body, the feeling of wanting to crawl away but laughing too hard to speak.

"Apparently so" he manages, a little more shortly than he means to.

He bites his lip, staring down at the water, only to look up and find Cameron watching him. They both look away, only to look back and find themselves watching each other again.

This time, they watch each other for another moment before Ed feels a nervous giggle break out of his mouth. Cameron stares at him and then they both dissolve into laughter, glancing at each other only making the situation worse.

Cameron's still laughing when he leans forward and splashes at Ed with a grin. Ed jumps. "Cameron!"

Cameron winks. It sends a shiver through Ed, and he tells himself he only splashes back to push it away.

Cameron splashes him back and Ed backs away from him, scooping water with his hands over David's head.

Cameron splutters. "You-"

Ed doesn't remember ever engaging in a splash fight before. But there are giggles shaking his chest, even as he tries to remind himself that _this is Cameron._

But Cameron's blue eyes crease as he laughs when Ed splashes him furiously, but when Ed repeats the scooping trick, Cameron's eyes and brighten.

He-well-

He-

Tackles Ed.

That's the only way Ed can put it, because he-

Cameron's arms sort of_ crash_ around his shoulders, knocking him back into the water.

Ed splutters and shoves him back and he-

Somehow, he forgets that this is _Cameron_ and where they are and that he's meant to hate-

He just pushes back and he-

In the moment before their chests touch, Ed just feels a strange, leaping sensation in his chest-a bizarrely_ happy_ sensation-and it makes him laugh louder than he usually does, even as his arms fall around Cameron's shoulders.

And that's when he realises they're holding onto each other.

His arms are over Cameron's shoulders, and Cameron's-

Cameron's holding his sides, his fingers digging in a little, and-

Their chests are touching. Cameron's skin is slick and wet and warm.

God, he smells good, and if Ed just turned his face into David's neck-

He freezes.

He only freezes for a second-and then they both leap back at once, or rather, Ed pushes himself back, so busy stammering over the words "Th-sorry, th-sorry-" and in making sure that absolutely no part of his skin is touching Cameron's, that consequently, he falls back into the water, arms windmilling wildly.

Ed gasps and would swallow a mouthful of water, if not for David's hands fastening under his arms, pulling him gently upright. "Hey. It's all right, Miliband. Breathe-"

With a great deal of effort and his fingers digging into Cameron's hand for a moment, Ed just about manages to do so.

"Easy, Miliband-" Cameron's hand lingers on his back a second longer than it needs to. "Though to be fair, that's the kids' usual reaction after I've splashed them-"

If Ed wasn't so busy catching his breath, he'd drop his face back into his hands again. _Brilliant._ Cameron thinks he's a _child._

"It was an accident" is all he can summon, glancing up at Cameron, and far, far too aware of the slight pressure in his boxers, even as he feeds himself frantic, reassuring words. _Calm down-calm down, it can't mean anything-_

"Well." Cameron winks. "I wouldn't be surprised, Miliband. We're apparently at the stage of sharing clothes, according to Samantha-"

Ed nearly moans with embarrassment.

Cameron laughs, a little shakier than usual. "It's fine, Miliband-"

Ed cringes. "Stop _mentioning_ it, then!"

"I've mentioned it _once."_

"Well, _don't."_ Ed knows he sounds like a child, which irritates him even more.

Cameron winks. "It's all right" he says irritatingly, in his most Cameron-ish voice. "You know I generally don't _wear_ them to sleep."

He winks again.

Ed feels faint.

Oh God, please don't talk about not wearing anything.

He tries not to think about it, but-

Oh.

_Oh._

The rush of sensation below his waist is so sudden, Ed nearly gasps. He holds himself ramrod-still, willing Cameron not to look under the water.

God. Oh _God-_

"You can't be that much of a prude, Miliband." Cameron's voice is softly teasing, which makes the sensation worse.

"Um-" Ed can't think straight. He can't.

He takes a deep breath, desperately trying to focus on reciting something, anything, to calm himself down.

It's a coincidence.

A _coincidence._

It has to be-

"Did Nanth-cy have a good time?" He blurts it out desperately, hoping against hope that David doesn't notice how still he's gone.

"I think she did, rather. She certainly liked looking after your boys."

Something about that makes Ed wince.

Suddenly, he remembers asking a similar question, but somewhere completely different-walking next to Justine towards the Echo Arena in Liverpool, autumn sunshine bright on his face, aware the whole time of cameras clicking around him, their shoes clapping against the pavement too loudly, as they chatted the way they'd been told to do-_Ignore the cameras. Talk about the kids-that way if any of the dialogue gets picked up, it's relatable-_

Justine had been at his side, clad in a dark blue dress-Ed thought it was purple, but the papers kept insisting on referring to it as Tory blue, which Tom liked-_Dismisses partisanship, makes you look like you can take a joke at yourselves-_

Justine's hand had been shoved into his own, their fingers grasping too tight around each other. Ed's never been entirely sure about holding hands. He'd been trying to keep the conversation light, relatable, but something had made him-

Some nagging feeling had made him turn to her and ask _So do you think he had a nice time with you and Zia?_

Justine had spoken too quickly, almost before he finished the question. _I think he did. I think he did- _Her words had been a little overbright and something about that had made Ed look away from her.

_He said-my mother said to him_, _she said_-Justine's arm had jostled his a little, so he'd had to look at her. _Did you have a nice time-and he said-er-"Too many, too many of Mummy and Daddy's friends-"_

Ed had felt himself frown, thinking of Daniel's general lackadaisical air when he'd awkwardly kissed his forehead that morning, the way he'd turned towards Zia rather than Justine or Margaret with his arms up-and the other day, when they'd first arrived and they'd been carrying the boys towards the cameras. That had been suggested by Tom, even though no one else did it-_You need to look like a family. If you're carrying the boys when you arrive, it looks relatable, more endearing-have Justine carry the little one, that looks more maternal-_

They'd been pointing up at the buildings, Ed thinking a shot of the boys smiling would be good, look natural, as they walked towards the cameras, but when he'd peered at Daniel's face, Daniel's forehead had been crumpled, a little frown pulling his eyebrows down, even as Justine murmured to him, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice.

Daniel hadn't smiled-he'd just peered in a desultory manner at everything, as if his parents' company was something he'd just have to endure, staring at the cameras crossly. Ed had felt a stab of relief when he could put him down and descend into questions about the economy-Daniel had slithered loose too readily, Justine's hand wrapping a little too hard around his wrist, pulling it a little too high.

_Is that what he said?_ he'd muttered then, walking towards the Echo Arena, glancing down and wondering whether he should have seen Daniel earlier, before they left, but he hadn't had time, and he'd thought Daniel was too little to understand, anyway.

Justine had still been talking, blithely unaware of Ed's ruminations. _And then, erm-but basically, he loved the-I had an amazing packet of chips, and the, erm- brown sauce and the tomato sauce-_

_It might give him heart disease_. Ed had tried to make it sound light, amusing, though there had been an irked jab underneath at the idea that Justine saw fit to give Daniel a bag of chips when she wanted to shut him up when he remembered her face in Cornwall, when Ed had carried Daniel back from the beach, ice cream smeared around his mouth, already excitedly pulling out his phone to show her the pictures he'd taken proudly of their son eating his very first ice cream.

_What the hell were you thinking?_ She'd half-snatched Daniel from him, her fingers digging in too tightly around their son's waist, and Daniel's face had crumpled, a shrill wail spilling out of his mouth. _He's not meant to touch ice cream, do you know what's in it? Are you trying to give him bloody heart disease-_

_I just thought it was a treat-_

Justine had bounced Daniel too hard, and Daniel had screamed louder, his feet kicking dangerously near to her pregnant stomach. _He doesn't need a treat, why do you think we brought the fucking banana bread, for God's sake-Daniel, stop crying, stop crying-_Daniel's face had crumpled and he'd shrieked even louder, even as Ed said his name-_Daniel, Daniel-_over and over, trying to make him see sense, until he was howling so loudly Ed was convinced he could hear it roaring inside his head.

Justine had clearly been remembering the same thing. _Oh, that's funny._ Her voice had been tighter, a blunted spike of irritation, and Ed had felt a small childish stab of something like triumph, looking away from her.

_So, er-_and Ed had noticed the cameras inching closer, and so had Justine, because suddenly her voice was carefully lighter, sweeter, with no hint of the irritation that had crept in, sharpening her words a second before. _No, I, I think he did, I think he had a lovely time._

Ed hadn't had much time to reflect on this before a camera had been there, and he'd been saying _Such a beautiful day_, and then he'd had to step closer to Justine, force his smile brighter, and there hadn't been time to dwell on the fact that for a child who'd had a lovely time, Daniel hadn't laughed once all weekend.

"Hello?" Now, Ed blinks to find Cameron's hand waving in front of his eyes. "Miliband. Still here?"

"Oh. Sorry-just-thinking about things." He jerks his mind out of the past and notices Cameron's floating on his back. His stomach just breaks through the water, sending a strange thrill through Ed.

"Well, anyway-" Ed jerks himself out of his reverie to find Cameron watching him. "The boys had a good time, today. Jumping in and out of the pool a lot-"

"Oh, yeah. They, um-they like that, I think-"

Cameron sits up, looking at him. "You _think?"_ His voice sounds a bit like Nancy's earlier.

Ed swallows. And he's reminded again of that day in Liverpool, walking out towards the Echo Arena, Justine and he launching into their agreed topic of conversation, pretending to ignore the camera following them.

_What did you say?_

_So I went to-we've been to the exhibition, and I got them-I've got Daniel a little-erm, train-that's coming out of the dining room?_

_Yeah. _He'd been waving, interspersing his waves with Thank yous as the clapping echoed around them, so he'd almost missed Justine's next words.

_'Cos I thought that would appeal-because basically, he's really keen on his trains, apparently-_

Ed had only just caught the words, but had noted, almost without noticing himself doing it, that Zia or someone must have told her that.

He wonders if that should have rung any bells.

He blinks. Bells for what-?

He shakes his head a little, glancing at Cameron, then away.

"What?"

"Nothing. Juth-st-earlier-Nancy-"

"Yeah?"

"She asked me if I liked you." Ed tilts his head back to look at the ceiling, avoiding Cameron's eyes.

There's a moment of silence. Then, "Hmm. What did you say?"

Ed looks up, letting himself fall upright in the water. "What do you think?" he asks indignantly. "I've told you before."

Cameron smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "What about vice versa?"

"What?"

"Well." Cameron adopts a slightly different tone that doesn't fool Ed for a second. "Do you think _I _like _you?"_

Ed swallows. "Is this your way of trying to tell me you don't?"

"Don't be stupid, Miliband." Cameron's voice is far too gentle for the words _Don't be stupid._ "You know I do."

Ed's cheeks are too warm. He looks away, then back.

"Not that I don't enjoy proving you wrong, Miliband, but-"

"I know you're going to mention it." Ed's voice cracks a little, and he curses the words immediately.

"Mention what?"

Ed rolls his eyes. He turns to look at Cameron, trying to look as exasperated as he possibly can. "The article. I know you're going to use it." He tries to arch his eyebrow a little, to look up the way Cameron does across the chamber at PMQs, dismissive and uncaring. "You might as well tell me." His voice is a little too high.

Cameron's eyes are very, very soft. He stays quiet for a few moments, as if letting Ed's words babble themselves into silence. Ed flushes, feeling stupid and young, and scowling because he feels stupid and young.

"You're not an idiot, Miliband." Cameron's voice is gentle, now. "You know we're going to use that article."

And that's all right. It _is._

Cameron's moved closer, his hand lying on the water next to Ed's. "But it's just a stupid article."

Ed laughs, but the sound quavers a little too much. "But it's useful for you, isn't it?"

Cameron's mouth twitches. "Not if you set fire to yourself, Miliband. My life would be vastly inferior if you set fire to yourself."

Ed doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or not. So he just stands there, shirtless in a pool, staring at Cameron, water clinging to his bare skin, his lips pressed tightly together until it bursts out very suddenly. "You're still happy about it."

"Ed" and Ed doesn't even notice Cameron's using his first name.

"You don't have to _lie_-I know you're happy that-"

He thinks he's going to say something about the article, but what comes out is something very different. "That I'm like _this."_

The moment it's out of his mouth, Ed wants to sink. His eyes nearly squeeze themselves shut, and he's just said this to _Cameron._

There's a silence. Then, the water ripples and Ed, only just realising he's closed his eyes, opens them to see Cameron's moved towards him.

"I do like that you're like this." Cameron's voice is almost small and Ed's eyes catch his. They're so blue. His voice is quiet. "But not because-"

"Because what?" Ed's voice catches instead of sounding defiant. "Because you want to win?"

"Yes." Cameron's voice is low, feeling its' way through the words. "But-that's not why I like you being like this."

Ed doesn't think he asks why, but Cameron blinks as if he has.

"Well" he says. "I just like.....you, I suppose."

Ed's heartbeat is louder and louder in his ears. It doesn't sound like the other times Cameron has told him he likes him.

But it's the same.

It has to-

"Oh." His own voice is soft, breathy. Cameron's just looking at him.

Then, his hand comes out. Ed thinks for a moment that it looks as if it's shaking, but that's got to be imagination.

And then Cameron's hand touches his cheek.

Ed's breath stops in his throat. Cameron's hand is so warm. The place he's touching tingles, sending something through Ed's skin that makes him want to grin and shriek and stay very still at the same time, in case he breaks whatever's happening. He feels almost unbearably giddy.

"Your hair's dripping." Cameron's fingers are skating up his cheek. They leave a trail of heat behind them, something that sends Ed's thoughts spiralling.

"Yeah." His voice is tiny and his whole body seems to be willing Cameron to do something-_go on, go on, please, come on_-and he's not even sure what-

Cameron's fingers settle all too briefly on Ed's cheek next to his ear. Their noses are almost touching. His chest is nearly pressing into Cameron's.

He _wants._ He wants something, his body almost aching, and he's not even sure-

Cameron's mouth parts a little, a soft flush of pink and Ed's eyes flicker to them, head tilting a little, his breath catching.

The door opens. Ed knows that before he even turns and looks, before he's even pushed himself away from Cameron, almost falling back into the water.

He backs away rapidly, even as George's eyes flicker between them, while Ed stares back, telling himself that George can't possibly have seen anything-

Because there was nothing to see!

Because there _can't_ have been, because this _wouldn't happen-_

_How_ would this-

_What_ wouldn't happen-

Ed's staring at George, his heart pounding. He doesn't look at Cameron. He thinks he might never look at Cameron again.

"Hi" George says-is this the first thing he's said? Ed can't be sure.

Cameron says something but right then is when Ed plunges his face into the water, letting himself sink forward, his cheeks burning, below his waist-

He can't even think about there.

His head breaks through the surface again to George's voice, louder than he's expecting."And the kids will be ready-Sam just said to get dried and dressed if you were swimming-"

"Fine." Cameron still sounds Cameron-ish. "Just give me a few minutes."

George isn't looking away. Ed wants to sink again.

"What?" It's Cameron who asks, but George doesn't even blink, just keeps looking, eyes steady and quiet, and Ed gulps.

"Nothing" he says, and then "Just be careful, all right?"

"Yeah" Cameron says, already heading for the steps. "We'll be quick."

Ed, lagging behind, finds George searching for his eyes now. Cheeks burning, he keeps his eyes carefully away from Cameron.

_(Quick,_ Cameron said.)

_(Careful_, George said.)

Now, hovering, water lapping around his legs, Ed feels his mouth shape one of those words, though he's not sure which one.

"Yes" George says slowly, to whichever one it is, or maybe both at once. "That's what I meant."

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Dear Prudence-The Beatles-" _ _Dear Prudence/Won't you come out to play?/Dear Prudence/Greet the brand new day/The sun is up, the sky is blue/It's beautiful, and so are you...Dear Prudence, let me see you smile/Dear Prudence, like a little child/The clouds will be a daisy chain/So let me see you smile again/Dear Prudence, won't you let me see you smile?"_

_Kidz N' Stuff-Shura-" _ _Wish I knew right from the start/That we would never, ever work things out/Maybe I knew right from the start/And that's exactly how I broke us down/How can I not be, everything that you need?/How can I not be, everything that you need?"_

_Everywhere, Everything-This Century-" _ _Cause I hear your voice cut through the noise/And I wanna hear the words you say..Don't you see me standing in your sunrise/Soaking up your daylight/'Cause I know your smile will last for a while/But I need you more and more each day/'Cause I hear your voice cut through the noise"-this is the pop song that's playing while Ed and Dave are having their conversation by the pool._

_Clean-The Japanese House- _ _"From the movements you made/And the soft gaze you gave/You understood...And I knew it wouldn't last/But in the clean light you cast/I was good/I was good/All the years my soul, all the things you thought I did/This soulless kid was under all my skin/All the things I tried to say remain within/I'm cooling in the clay/I've always been moulded this way"_

_Prove You Wrong-He Is We-" _ _Tell me it's all right/Just for one night/Show you how to feel like/What it feels like/To be hugged, to be kissed/Yes, I can be that part of you..I can be that part of you/Let me be that part of you/I see that you're breaking/Your heart is breaking/Here's my hand if you'll take it..I can be that part of you/I'll try my best"_

_She-Dodie_ _-"I'd never tell/No, I'd never say a word/And oh, it aches/But it feels oddly good to hurt..And she smells like lemongrass and sleep/She tastes like apple juice and peach/You would find her in a polaroid picture...Because she tastes like birthday cake and storytime and fall"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Key attended Nancy's birthday party:https://bit.ly/2QnVHzG  
The Ed anecdotes:http://dailym.ai/3aYFybE  
http://dailym.ai/2UbevmK  
http://dailym.ai/2vtK5no  
Flora and Theo's wedding, with David, Sam & the kids:https://shutr.bz/2Uk7FeC  
The Camerons at Will and Lohralee's wedding:https://bit.ly/2wNM1Y4  
https://shutr.bz/339h50H  
Nancy and Elwen with Perry at the wedding:https://shutr.bz/2TTUl0z  
https://shutr.bz/2vaJarQ  
https://shutr.bz/38G5mrJ  
https://shutr.bz/2TSA4Zi  
https://shutr.bz/2vgxBQ4  
https://shutr.bz/38EImco  
https://shutr.bz/2TUxba7  
The Camerons at Jake and Victoria's wedding, where all the kids mentioned can be seen in the wedding party:https://tinyurl.com/yx5rxny5  
Nancy (as bridesmaid) and Elwen with Perry, Rex and Nelson (l-r: Nancy, Perry, Elwen, Rex and Nelson):https://tinyurl.com/qsoabsv  
https://tinyurl.com/v8x5dfm  
Nancy with Wolf:https://tinyurl.com/qmgoebd  
David carrying Florence: https://tinyurl.com/ufn8uaa  
https://tinyurl.com/sff3t7t  
https://tinyurl.com/qpotfat  
https://tinyurl.com/tfs4re9  
https://tinyurl.com/ssmq8ew  
https://tinyurl.com/v94dhpr  
https://tinyurl.com/udzskxh  
https://tinyurl.com/tvomprx  
https://tinyurl.com/qrntywk  
The kids in the wedding party (l-r: Perry, Elwen, Wolf, Pandora, Allegra (being held), Florence, Nancy and Rex):https://tinyurl.com/tuouc2v  
https://tinyurl.com/sxjk9nr  
https://tinyurl.com/umlgbsu  
David entertaining the kids:https://tinyurl.com/ww77oox  
https://tinyurl.com/ugmlzpq  
Carl is Tania's husband:https://bit.ly/2Wo15GS  
Jem is Clare's husband:http://dailym.ai/2UjcrcB  
The Camerons at Clare's wedding-Nancy a bridesmaid, Elwen a pageboy:  
https://shutr.bz/3a4IxPG  
The kids in the wedding party:https://shutr.bz/2x4IN2E (Oli far left, Elwen 2nd left, Nancy far right)  
https://shutr.bz/2wgT0sE  
https://shutr.bz/3d9rqhN  
https://shutr.bz/2wkQdi9  
https://shutr.bz/2UiNwWw  
https://shutr.bz/2wkQrpv  
https://shutr.bz/2QuuThg  
https://shutr.bz/2U0rdWz  
https://shutr.bz/38X167j  
https://shutr.bz/2IXuDmB  
Elwen as a pageboy (with his cousins Oli and Xan, Tania's sons):https://shutr.bz/2WkAryy  
https://shutr.bz/2QsaJ7t  
https://shutr.bz/3a3vJci (l-r Elwen, Oli and Xan)  
https://shutr.bz/2IZranM  
https://shutr.bz/2x6EuDY  
Nancy as a bridesmaid:https://shutr.bz/2WlLXcZ  
https://shutr.bz/3b5hUdG  
https://shutr.bz/2Qpxado  
https://shutr.bz/38ZRFE5  
Sarah is Alex's wife-their kids, Imogen and Gus:http://dailym.ai/3b4eS9p  
https://bit.ly/2Wltopb  
http://dailym.ai/33sWKU0  
Chris Lockwood is a friend of David's who worked in Downing Street-his wife Venetia and Sam are good friends-the kids loved the pool at Chequers:https://bit.ly/2Wp22P5  
https://bit.ly/33vq9NK  
https://bit.ly/2U1QNdM  
http://dailym.ai/3dcQ2Gg  
https://bit.ly/2WrzwfI  
http://dailym.ai/2TZtTUg  
Alexandra is the daughter of Sebastian James, who also accompanied them on the Italy holiday:http://dailym.ai/2U1CcyV  
The holidays mentioned and the bikini they're talking about:http://dailym.ai/3a05ZO4  
https://bit.ly/2WqKcLu  
The holiday Nancy remembers with Bea and Libbie: https://bit.ly/397hq5z  
Gwen is David's childhood nanny:https://bit.ly/33owavu  
Tania is a leftie:https://bit.ly/2WmxRYU  
Sam's family love hunting:https://bit.ly/2IRh48m  
Clare is friends with Jade Jagger-David took e them punting:https://bit.ly/390GbA9  
https://bit.ly/38UVH0x  
Emily being expelled:https://bit.ly/2xFxoqe  
The books Nancy mentions are the ones the Obama girls read:https://bit.ly/2vArlTm  
Liberty is a bookworm:https://bit.ly/33y2sEf  
Sam doing sketches on Saturdays:https://bit.ly/2UgpBHe  
Ed's speech & encounter with Nick:https://bit.ly/39YG7SV  
Torsten came up with the EdStone:https://bit.ly/3ddMKCX  
Dave The Chameleon was a Labour Party broadcast in 2006, which Nancy loved:https://bit.ly/2WqA2KT  
Tony's remarks about Ed:https://bit.ly/2w7pm9v  
Ivan loved being in water:https://bit.ly/38Z5FO8  
The Cameron children discussing Nancy making their costumes:  
The quotes about Dave being shirtless are from Ed's 2013 speech, referring to this:https://bit.ly/38S2PL2  
https://bit.ly/392lG66  
David's response:https://bit.ly/2TXLE6r  
David wearing nothing to bed:http://dailym.ai/2x2EmW4  
David described as the "Heir To Blair":https://bit.ly/39ZMqW7  
Ed's flashbacks to him & Justine walking to the arena & having the boys filmed, with dialogue:https://bit.ly/3a3NNTO  
https://bit.ly/2vuFVM9  
Ed doing the Rubix Cube one-handed:https://bit.ly/33pho7E  
Justine getting angry with Ed for giving Daniel ice cream:https://bit.ly/3d76LuL


	10. Aspirational Aggravations, Enlightening Eavesdropping And A Fulmination Of Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which midnight conversations over hot chocolate are medicine for Alastair and Peter is rather world-weary of it all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
OK, a quick note-this chapter introduces you all to the delightful, strange and terrifying bond between George and Peter. And as such, some of the reference quotes deal with the almost-too-good-to-be-true incident of their holiday together in Corfu. I can't apologise for those quotes, because the drama, gossip and flouncing involved in that story is a treasure to be enjoyed by all.  
There's also a section of notes at the end dealing with Peter's first resignation, which is another nugget of angst-filled drama, principally because it involves Peter.  
The other quotes deal with more Miliband brothers drama, Ed's inexperience with relationships, David's infamous "hug a husky" photoshoot and Ivan's school and Dave feeding him in public.  
TW: there is mention of mental illness.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

* * *

_Ed said that his brother had done the right thing for himself but added: **"My door is always open for him to serve in the future."** In fact, that door has rarely been approached by David._

_One stark demonstration of the bizarre relationship came with the announcement of Ed's wedding to Justine. Immediately there was speculation on Ed's dilemma over whether or not to ask David to be his best man. The Mail On Sunday reported a rumour that the reason Ed was reluctant to offer David the role was for fear of being rebuffed. Ed had been best man at David's wedding to Louise in 1998, albeit a rather straight and serious one. But now the nature of the relationship had changed. Ed has insisted that he and Justine wanted a **"different"** kind of wedding, a non-traditional ceremony in which there would be no father-of-the-bride speech either. Yet there is surely little doubt that had the brothers not gone head-to-head in the Labour leadership contest, Ed would have opted for a best man, and it would have been David._

_There was another curious element to Ed and Justine's decision to marry. For six years, they had chosen not to, despite having had two children in that time period. Ed is known to disapprove of the view that the traditional family model is somehow superior to every other model, and some believe that his decision to wed was cynical, part of his attempt to ingratiate himself with a hostile and suspicious right-wing press. The singer Lily Allen summed up the view of many on the liberal left when she tweeted: **"Ed Miliband is getting married. Ha, they got to him in the end then?"**_

_In the end, the wedding on 27 May (2011) was a happy and emotional one. It was free from speculation about David, who was the only politician present at the intimate gathering and who deliberately kept a low profile after arriving by car with his wife and children. **"Great day for Ed and Justine"** David wrote on Twitter. **"They look very happy. Congratulations from all the Milibands."** The event itself was low-key but elegant, with the civil ceremony at Langar Hall in Nottinghamshire, near where Justine grew up. After a dinner of asparagus and lamb washed down with champagne and wine, Ed made a moving speech in which he told his new wife: **"You are the most beautiful, generous and kind person that I've ever met in my life. You are my rock, and I'm so lucky to have you and Daniel and Sam. I love you with all my heart."** Justine wept. In her own speech, she said: **"When I was growing up I thought when I was thirty I would be married and have two kids. It was a decade late but it was worth the wait for Ed."** There were distinctly personal touches. Guests were instructed to make donations to Barnardo's and Methodists Home for the Aged, instead of bringing presents for the couple. And in an acknowledgement of the Milibands' Jewish background, Ed smashed a glass with his foot in a symbolic tradition marking the last time the groom can put his foot down before marriage. After the gathering in Nottingham, the couple had some friends round for drinks and music at their London home before escaping on a five-day honeymoon. _

_But, perhaps following a new pattern, David did not turn up at the post-wedding party that night in Ed and Justine's home. And if the Labour leader could not see how his decision to avoid having David as his best man would look to the outside world, or how it would lead to further damaging speculation about the brothers' relationship, then he is guilty of a lack of self-awareness._

_Because of their age gap, Ed and David had always moved in slightly different circles, lived slightly different lives. But they would always speak, at the very least on the phone, at least several times a week. Once Ed became leader, with the exception of occasional requests for advice from Ed, they hardly spoke at all.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_A friend of the family says he remembers asking Marion how strange it must be for her to be the mother of not one but two sons in the Cabinet, the first brothers to sit in the Cabinet since the 1930s. **"But they don't talk to me about politics or policies" **replied Marion. In the final weeks of the Labour leadership contest, Marion decided to fly to New York and visit her sister Hadessa, in order to get away from the media scrum in London. At around the same time, Ralph's old friend and colleague Leo Panitch arrived in New York, from his home in Toronto, to speak at a book launch for the social theorist David Harvey. Panitch had a few moments to talk alone with Marion, who was in the audience, and had come to the front to meet him before the event began. She asked Panitch whether he had spoken to Ed and what he had heard about the campaign's latest twists and turns. Panitch was impressed at her resilience; Fleet Street photographers had been camped outside her sister's doorstep in New York, trying to get a shot of her. She was **"under siege." "You must be proud of them"** Panitch said to Marion, referring to the fact that her two sons were the frontrunners for the leadership of the Labour Party._

_**"Proud?"** she replied. **"What do you mean, Leo? One is not proud of adults, one is proud of children. And if they'd asked my advice, I would have told them to not get into this ridiculous game."**_

_It was an important political point from Marion's perspective. Here was a woman from a Marxist background, with a radical view of mainstream, parliamentary politics, watching her only two sons do potentially permanent damage to their relationship for the sake of something relatively trivial and unimportant: the Labour leadership. What was the point? What was being achieved? It was, she believed, a **"ridiculous game."**...Indeed, one ally of the elder Miliband claims Marion had been annoyed and upset that **"the family would never be the same again"** as a result of Ed's decision to stand. It would not.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_ Inside the small college, Ed soon became part of a small, tight-knit group of friends who had met for the first time. "**There was a group of us on the left who wanted to do politics from day one" s**ays (Marc) Stears...**"So we'd get together, do academic stuff and political stuff."** Another member of the group was Gautam Mody, a PPE student from India, three years Ed's senior...Other first-year undergraduates at Corpus Christi had expressed surprise upon meeting the Indian student, three years their senior, and hearing him speak with his flawless Queen's English; in contrast, Ed's first question to Mody concerned "**the state of the Indian left"-**Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_O'Rawe's relationship with Ed was strictly platonic and they didn't ever date; in fact, she says **"He was just someone who always struck me as being not that bothered about that kind of stuff."** Other friends say Ed did not have a single girlfriend during his three years at Oxford-nor did he go on many, if any, dates. **"I think maybe he was just focused on everything else."** One exception to Ed's seeming obsession with politics was his fondness for soap operas. Again, childhood habits die hard. His Oxford friends remember him slinking off to the college TV room to watch Dallas, Neighbours, and occasionally, Eastenders. But beyond his soft spot for soaps, contemporaries struggle to cite any specific cultural interests. **"He went to see what everyone else went to see in the cinema"** says O'Rawe. "**He would come to the bar, but he didn't drink very much. It just never seemed to interest him. He would have a few drinks but he would always be very in control. I remember him dancing-he was a terrible dancer." "He didn't smoke or do drugs and he drank very little"** says a friend. **"But I do remember him agonising over which chocolate bars to buy from the machine in the graduate common room."**_

_Other university friends are more open about Ed's geekiness and gaucheness as a student. "**He didn't have a great fashion sense back then-not that he's a fashion guru now" l**aughs O'Rawe.** "He used to wear white trainers and these terrible jumpers."** She insisted he undergo a mini-makeover prior to launching his election campaign for JCR president: **"My big brainwave was that he needed to wear a buttoned-up cardigan with a shirt and tie and jeans and ordinary shoes." E**d didn't resist, agreeing to the changes suggested by his female friends. Says O'Rawe: **"He was very self-deprecating and ironic: his cluelessness didn't bother him, which was one of the reasons why I liked him."-**Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_I can hardly claim that the criticism didn't sting a bit. Or that I did not wince slightly, as well as smile, at Ed Miliband's clever quip, when asked about the prospect of my playing a future role in Labour: **"All of us"**, he said, **"believe in dignity in retirement."** But none of it hurt too much, or for too long. I understood the politics behind it. What did worry me was the growing evidence that none of the candidates seemed prepared to go beyond a perfunctory acknowledgement of our thirteen years in power and to say how they would build on the New Labour project-so that we could continue the twenty-first century as we had started it-making it a progressive one, unlike the Tory-dominated twentieth century. There are no new, blank pages in politics, as each of the candidates surely knew. Yet in playing to the activist gallery, they did enough to suggest that they could have this luxury. Even more worrying for Labour's future, it seemed to me, was the fact that David Cameron **was **trying to clone New Labour, chromosome by chromosome, in repositioning his own party. With his coalition partners he was planting his flag on the middle ground of British politics-the territory onto which Tony, Gordon and I, and many others, had, with so much struggle over so many years, moved Labour. The territory that most voters occupied. The territory where national elections are invariably won. As the leadership campaign gathered pace over the summer, ahead of the completion of balloting at the end of September, Ed Miliband came across as suggesting that the New Labour project was irrelevent to where the party went next. This, I felt, was exactly where David Cameron wanted Labour to be. When Ed pronounced New Labour **"dead"**, he was not only being more categorical than was wise, but quite possibly more than he really intended. Still, that set the tone for the campaign, in which the younger Miliband, with deftness and with a determination sometimes bordering on the ruthless, outmanoeuvred the older by telling Labour activists what he believed they wanted to hear.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_I had known Ed for as long as I had known David: from when he had gone to work for Gordon in the Shadow Chancellor's office in the 1990s. For much of that period, Gordon remained convinced that I was personally responsible for Tony, rather than him, becoming party leader after the death of John Smith. As a result, my relations not only with Gordon but with Ed were tense, to put it mildly. But I had always liked him more than some of the others in Gordon's coterie. When I made my surprise return to government from Brussels at Gordon's behest in 2008, Ed went out of his way to befriend me, and I reciprocated. He lived near me then, in Primrose Hill, and we would meet up and go for pleasant walks in the park, often with his partner, Justine. We would talk not just about the state of politics and government but about other things going on in our lives. When they had their first child, I even-jokingly-pressed them to name him Peter. They decided on Daniel, so I personally christened him Daniel Peter: "DP" for short. I enjoyed teasing Ed about his role during the bad old days of open combat between Gordon and Tony. He would reply, with a smile, that none of us could be entirely proud of how we had behaved to one another. And he was right.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_After he (Ed) won the leadership contest, I made a point of saying in a radio interview that I had no axe to grind about his victory. Shortly afterwards, he asked me to see him in the opposition leader's suite which he had inherited from Cameron. Both of us were keen to put the friction of the campaign behind us. His Times potshot at The Third Man had been campaign politics. It was no secret, of course, that I was concerned that Ed had laid himself open to the charge of rejecting New Labour, and the coalition of voters it represented...There were obvious differences, of course, between his approach and the way I was certain David would have operated. Ed attacked the government with moral outrage on almost everything it did. This was the short-term political market: making the party feel warm and, importantly, picking up floating anti-government support. It was not the same as the longer-term market, which relies more on providing a genuine and credible alternative to the government.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_My concern now was that the leadership campaign had taken some in the party back into the bubble. For me, one line in Ed's maiden conference speech as leader summed up the danger. To predictable cheers, he said it was wrong for a banker to earn more in a day than a care worker could earn in a year. Taking aim at rich bankers, of course, was the easiest of applause lines. I doubt that Ed was seriously suggesting that a future Labour government would step in to lay down the proper ratio between the pay packets of a commodities trader and a carer. But there was a more serious issue at play. No one disputes that bankers' bonuses have got out of control-though, as we found while in government, globally fixing the problem is a more complex matter. Nor would anyone question that care workers and others at the lower end of the salary scale, deserve every penny they earn, and more. I certainly don't dissent from either point. But New Labour was predicated on a crucial assumption, not shared by those steadfastly in favour of keeping us a sectional party, with a narrow appeal. It was that while government, and society, had a core duty to help the poorest and least advantaged, this need not, and could not, mean putting limits on the aspirations of others: working people who had bettered themselves, entrepreneurs, small and large businessmen. Even up-and-coming young bankers. New Labour's guiding principle-one which Tony often felt Gordon never fully shared-was always to try to level up rather than level down. Our mission was to remove the roadblocks to opportunity for all, with higher standards and wider access in education, policies to alleviate poverty, moderate taxation, and attempts to build community cohesion and confidence through individual and social rights. That was a crucial reason why the country had started listening to us again, and had entrusted us to govern for thirteen years. We built a broad electoral coalition behind that modern, progressive principle.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_But really, he (Tony) said, I would like to get the best I can and that has to be you. I know you've got reservations, but I just ask you to think about it over the holiday. Even though I expected it, and had thought about it, I didn't quite know how to react. I'd gone in there with a list of names to suggest, and a raft of arguments against the idea. I said I'm not sure I'm suited to it. I've got a big ego of my own and a ferocious temper. I can't stand fools and I don't suffer them. I'm hopeless at biting my tongue. He said, I've thought about that, but I still think you're right for it....I worried about whether the press would go for me personally, all the things they knew about but because I was one of them kind of went unsaid: the breakdown, the drink problem, the violence, the writings for **Forum.**...On the way back, I told Tony in graphic detail about my breakdown. I said I thought it was important he knew, because I had to assume that ultimately I had cracked because of pressure, and the pressure was as nothing compared to what we would face if I did the job. I said I was sure I was a stronger person than ever, but he needed to know there was a risk. He said he was happy to take it.-"Wednesday 27th July 1994-Sunday 31st July 1994-Thursday 11th August 1994", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_In the summer of 1995, Ed and his then girlfriend Liz Lloyd, who worked for Blair, went on holiday with Juliet Soskice (who would later date Ed) and her then boyfriend Phil Collins to the Soskice holiday home in the south of France. The two couples went swimming-Ed enjoys doing laps-and played tennis together, but the holiday was dominated by discussion of a national minimum wage, which had been reaffirmed as Labour Party policy by Tony Blair and Gordon Brown. **"We discussed it like we were in a Fabian Society seminar"** says Collins. **"I remember being in the kitchen and listening to Ed and David (Soskice) having a conversation about it in great detail. I, for my shame, had no real view."**....In Blairite circles, Ed was known as the **"emissary from Planet Fuck."** He was the Brownite who didn't tell supporters of the Prime Minister to **"fuck off." **It helped, of course, that he was dating Liz Lloyd for much of this period. Lloyd had worked for Blair since his days as shadow Home Secretary in 1993 and followed him into Number 10 in 1997, where she worked in the Prime Minister's Policy Unit as his home-affairs adviser (and would later go on to serve as deputy chief of staff.) She sat in a cramped office in Number 10, next to Ed's brother David, who started off as the acting head of the Unit before becoming the permanent head (until his election to Parliament in 2001.) By going out with Lloyd, wrote Alice Miles (the Times journalist who herself later dated Ed), the younger Miliband **"put himself firmly among the Blairite troika of Lloyd, Tim Allan and James Purnell, inseparable Islington flatmates and former schoolmates, originally from Surrey and known as the "Guildford three""** (Lloyd, Allan and Purnell all went to the Royal Grammar School in Guildford.) Purnell worked with David and Lloyd in the Policy Unit and would later join Ed and Douglas Alexander on a holiday to Ireland in 2000; Allan was Alastair Campbell's deputy in the Downing Street press office. Few Brownites, with the exception perhaps of Sue Nye, who had a close friendship with Anji Hunter, Blair's own gatekeeper and director of government relations in Number 10, could claim a better relationship with the Blair court than Ed.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Trussed up against the Arctic chill in a pair of black salopettes, Cameron surveyed the pristine frozen wilderness through his reflective shades. **"Take off the glasses. You look a bit Eurotrash!"** his spin doctor instructed. The newly elected Leader of the Opposition laughed and removed the offending eyewear, smoothing his hair. Squinting into the dazzling white light, he adopted a different pose. **"Got your money shot, yet?"** he quipped, grinning at the photographer._

_It was April 2006 and Cameron was on a glacier on a remote Norwegian archipelago, three hours by sled ride from the nearest civilisation. The primary purpose of the trip was to observe the impact of climate change on the Svalbard icecaps, but of equal importance was the image he projected to voters and Conservative Party members still adapting to the arrival of a fresh face on the political centre stage. Accompanied by an expert from the Worldwide Fund for Nature, he had arrived in the region by private jet, having first offset the estimated carbon missions. Just one photographer and one television crew were invited to accompany him. Their footage would be beamed around the world. The young snapper, Andrew Parsons, knew the Tory leader well. In what would prove the shrewdest move of his career, he had stuck with Cameron during the earliest days of the leadership contest when everyone else thought he was a no-hoper. They had spent hours on the road travelling to constituency hustings in a beat-up Ford Mondeo, the candidate sustaining himself between engagements with cheap sandwiches from petrol stations and the occasional drag on a cigarette. Now they trusted each other enough for Cameron to agree to risky photo stunts, safe in the knowledge that if the pictures were a disaster they would never see the light of day._

_**"Let's try something with the dogs"** Parsons suggested, gesturing towards a pack of huskies waiting to tow them across the ice. **"OK"** Cameron replied gamely, and began rounding up the animals. Half an hour and much flying fur later, the photographer was getting nowhere. The dogs simply refused to sit still._

_**"Get down on your haunches and just bloody hold on to them!"** Parsons yelled, trying to make himself heard over the barking. Cameron crouched down, gripped one of the animals by the collar and beamed into the lens. Finally, Parsons had his **"money shot."** Thus was created the most iconic photographic image of David Cameron. Though the media gave Hilton the credit for stage-managing the shot, the picture that appeared on the front page of every newspaper the following day was entirely unplanned.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_The expedition that became known as** "the husky trip"** symbolised the dramatic change underway in the Tory Party. Traditionally, it had had little truck with touchy-feely issues like the environment. Indeed, the party harboured many climate change sceptics. Now Cameron was applying for planning permission for solar panels and a wind turbine on his own roof and asking people to **"vote blue, go green."**...Liz Rearson, a local green campaigner, took it upon herself to offer him a tutorial.** "I got myself an appointment with him at one of his surgeries. I said, "I've come to find out how much you know about climate change." And he said "Not as much as I probably should." I said, "Well, I've come to give you a private tutorial, if you want it?" He said, "Thanks very much!" So that's what we did."** Now it was paying dividends and he was making the issue his own. The message was clear: under Cameron, the Tories, long seen by voters as hopelessly out of touch, were re-joining the human race.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_So far, however, Ed may be held back by his admirable disdain for political stunts. **"You know, I don't think huskies are the answer"** said Ed in one of his first newspaper interviews as leader, referring to David Cameron's famous decision to be photographed in the Arctic with huskies at the start of his leadership in 2006. **"It was a mistake to say he wouldn't do huskies"** says a former Labour strategist who has known Ed since the 1990s. **"People understand who you are by looking at you rather than reading about you and it drives me mad that I can't think of a single iconic picture of Ed since he became leader."** Mischievous critics of the Labour leader have suggested that there is such a snap: Ed hugging his defeated brother on stage in Manchester on the day of his leadership victory in September (2010). The perceived void over what Ed stands for risk being filled by a definition probably most recognisable to the public: that he is the man who **"shafted"** his brother.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Dave is also the first leader of a major political party to embrace "green issues." He launches our local government campaign with the slogan **"Vote Blue, Go Green"** and our first foreign trip was not to Washington but to the Arctic, to highlight climate change. It's brave-and it's brilliant politically, as it's helping to remould the party, which has become stuck in a certain mindset, including with regards to the environment. It has been a conscious rebranding exercise in which Steve Hilton has played a crucial part. Years later, Tom Bradby, then political editor of ITV, tells me over lunch that he feels responsible for David's political success on two counts. One, because he called his speech at Blackpool in 2005. Tom was clear: David Davis flopped and David Cameron blew them away. Two, because he never reported what a **"total dick"** David looked when he fell off his dog sled on our Arctic trip. We have been friends ever since.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_It was minus 20 degrees. All I could see for miles was snow. Standing on a sled, I clung to the reins of several barking huskies. **"Mush!"** I shouted, and we hurtled across the glacier. It had been four months since I'd taken the reins of a rather different beast. And I had decided to make Svalbard, a Norwegian archipelago in the Arctic Ocean, the destination for one of my first foreign trips as Conservative Party leader. It was dismissed by many as style over substance. But, like all the significant decisions during those early days of my leadership, it was part of a serious, thought-through political strategy. We wanted to demonstrate in the clearest possible way that this was a new leader, a changed political party, and-above all-that the environment and climate change were issues we were determined to lead on. They were personally important to me, but they also helped to define my sort of conservatism. Concerned about preserving our heritage, aware of the responsibilities (not just the limits) of the state, able to talk confidently about new issues that might not have arisen in earlier general elections, and respectful of scientific evidence._

_Yet in opposition it is hard to get across who you are, and to talk about the things you want to talk about. The government can just waltz onto the 10 o'clock news and talk about its latest plan of action, while you have to work relentlessly to try to set the agenda-but with what? Something you **might** do, **if** there is an election, **if** you win it and **if **the issue is relevant in **n **years' time. So we were prepared to take risks. And Svalbard really was a risk. For a start, it nearly resulted in images very different from the photos of me gliding along behind the huskies. I was given a whole load of instructions about how to operate the sled. I ignored all of them, and disaster nearly struck. The cameras were set up for a dynamic, fast-moving shot of me steering the sled. I managed to turn the whole thing over at high speed, and collapsed in a ball of snow, ice and, from everyone around me, hysterical laughter. These weren't quite the picture swe wanted-I kept thinking of another opposition leader, Neil Kinnock, falling over on Brighton beach. Mercifully, these career-maiming shots never made it onto viewers' screens. Later, as we clambered into a cave, everyone was asked to wear protective helmets. I resisted, remembering William Hague's baseball cap embarrassment as leader of the opposition. As a politician, you're haunted by the ghosts of gaffes past.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_GB felt that Cameron was trying to present himself as a bit of a liberal...TB said the public are more likely to go for a traditional Tory party than a traditional Labour party. He thought Cameron was making a mistake in appearing to soften on law and order, and go big on the environment. Philip and I said he had to understand this was not about policy at this stage, it was about rebranding, and he was doing it perfectly well by his own lights._

_Ed M said Cameron was recognising the country was more progressive than the last time they had been in power, and he was trying to get the Tories to adapt. TB said yes, culturally there has been change, but don't underestimate how much they can still get from a traditional agenda.-"Monday 16th January 2006", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_Half an hour or so later, George and Andy reappear, exhausted by their copious spinning. They have done their best, but it is not as easy to sell as a win.** "Give me the hard stuff"** Andy says, reaching for the spirits. George has been picked on by his old bete noire, Peter Mandelson. His briefing to a gathering of journalists was interrupted.** "Look who's over there"** George imitates Mandy. ** "It's my little friend Georgie...poor Georgie...spinning his little web, but he has nothing to spin with, 'cos his old pal Dave didn't do very well."**-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

* * *

_In the spring of 2003, during the build-up to the war in Iraq, things began to reach a point of crisis. **""It was around then that I think they both began to wilt slightly under the tiredness and incredible stress of coping with everything on their own"** said Birrell. The couple made three major decisions. The first was to alter Ivan's feeding by arranging for him to take in food through his stomach. It had been proving impossible to get his food and medicine into him reliably, so they agreed to the insertion of a gastrostomy tube. Second, they decided to go to the social services. As Birrell attests: **"It is only when you get plunged into this world of disability that you realise, slowly, there is help available, poor and haphazard as it often is."** And third, Samantha decided to go for counselling....By the autumn of 2003 Cameron was beginning to talk about his family situation publicly. In an article in his local paper he said, **"those families that do the most themselves to cope with the situation often get the least help."** The young MP really began to harness his political talents to the cause of disabled parents in a battle over the policy of **"inclusion", **that is, of educating disabled children in mainstream schools. By May 2004 it threatened Ivan's own day centre in London._

_It was during a campaign to save the Cheyne Day Centre that Cameron spoke most directly about Ivan. In an article in the Daily Telegraph he wrote: **"Ivan's epilepsy is so powerful he can fit for an hour at a time, his small body contorted, often screaming in agony. And with the epilepsy comes cerebral palsy so severe that Ivan cannot move, sit up or hold on to anything or anybody. He cannot crawl, walk or talk and never will. Ivan is two-and he is my son. The point of writing this is not to see sympathy. My wife, Samantha, and I have had that in welcome abundance. It is to tell a story about something that seems to be going badly wrong in our country."** Cameron explained the complex, under-resourced and unhelpful bureaucracies parents faced in getting any sort of education for a disabled child. **"Even I, with a university degree, English as my first language and three years as a member of Parliament, taking up complex constituency cases, am finding the process of getting the right school for my son a constant battle"....**Every morning soon after seven, Ivan would be collected from his basement quarters by his mother or father or brought upstairs by his night carer. His father, generally, would then apply Ivan's face creams, brush his teeth and hair, dress him, put him in his wheelchair and get him ready for school. Then Cameron would wheel him out to the ambulance and kiss him goodbye before he was taken, in the early years, to the Cheyne Centre. There Ivan had a special, protected environment, with physio, speech and music therapy, a special swimming pool and a full-time nurse, with whom he would spend much of the day before being driven home again. Sometimes he would have a convulsion and the ambulance driver would have to pull over and try to induce some calm. That routine lasted until 2007, when the centre, despite Cameron's lobbying, was closed. Then he attended Jack Tizard, a special school, in Hammersmith. Initially this was not a success as the vulnerable Ivan had to share a class with hyperactive children with autism. Ivan needed more help and protection, which, under a new teacher, he was soon given. He shared a class with five or six other children, some wheelchair-bound, most tube-fed like him, and had plenty of one-to-one attention.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

_When I visited Cameron at his home in Dean, we began by talking about his son Ivan...**Can you describe your day-to-day dealings with Ivan? Let's start in the morning.**_

_We're very lucky because we have some excellent night care. She brings Ivan upstairs at 7.30-we've converted our house and he lives downstairs-he's got his own bedroom with a bathroom in it, with its' own pulley and hoist system so he doesn't have to be lifted. Although actually we all do lift him because he's lovely to pick up and cuddle. So I normally take over at 7.30 and do what we call his oral routine. I do his face creams and teeth and hair and all that, get him dressed and put him in his wheelchair and get him ready for school. That's my contact with him in the morning. And then in the evening if I'm home to do some things with the kids I'll do something with him. I'll read him some stories or do some exercises...At the weekends, when we obviously have him all the time, it's very hard because with a seriously disabled child you have to work very hard to entertain them. When children really can't walk or talk you just have to work an awful lot harder to find out which books they like and what activities stimulate them, what exercise is good for them etc. ...it takes a lot more effort. Samantha is brilliant. I go in bursts but she sort of has it all the time. I just love cuddling him and looking at him and there's such a sense of joy when he turns to look at you because you know you're getting through. It's great when you find something that stimulates him.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_At this moment his life is going to be lived through a loving and supportive family, but also the school._

_ **How is school for Ivan? He goes to Jack Tizard in Hammersmith.** _

_I think all parents of disabled children feel that if you get the school right then it makes everything else so much easier, because you know that while he's there he's getting the right stimulation, he's getting the right care, he's getting a lot of one-to-one attention, a lot of colours and sounds and shapes and stories...When you go to the schools that cater for disabled children, as a parent you think it's wonderful because they are obviously getting so much stimulation and attention. And it takes an enormous amount of energy from the teachers to do that. Most children at playtime, they run around and discover the world. Ivan can't do that, you have to help him discover it. And so you have to work very hard to stimulate him. His school is just round the corner from us in Hammersmith, but the reason we fought so hard to keep the Cheyne Centre open, where he was, was because it wasn't working for Ivan at Jack Tizard at all, because previously they put together children like Ivan-who is quadriplegic and very passive-with very active kids with autism. And the children in Ivan's group just weren't safe. And Ivan can't defend himself. But the new head teacher is wonderful, and he has Ivan in a class with five or six other children like him. Some are wheelchair-bound, most of them are tube-fed like Ivan, and they can do things together. And they have lots of one-on-one attention. The times that I've been I've been really encouraged by what I've seen...What we've focused on is quality of life. And that means trying to make sure he's fundamentally well. We made a big decision to have a gastrostomy so he is tube-fed. He was losing weight and not eating properly and becoming very ill. He wasn't able to keep his medicine down and so that was a big decision to do that. But the most important therapies I think are the ones that keep him healthy and those that give him some quality of life and some stimulation. So he loves swimming, for instance, and he likes bath time. He loves those extraordinary play centres they have at these schools where there is lots of light and stimulation. So we concentrate on those things. Plus the other important aspect is making things consistent, the regular diet, the regular feeding times, regular medicine times, and sleep patterns, etc. All of those things are terribly important, even if they seem so little.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_As Ivan became bigger, they converted their north Kensington home to create a bedroom and bathroom for him on the ground floor, with a hoist and pulley system as well as facilities for a specialist nurse. Every morning, at 7.30a.m., the nurse would bring him upstairs and hand him to Cameron, who would take over what they called his morning routine. It involved multiple face creams and massages, brushing Ivan's teeth and hair, dressing him for the day, and manoeuvring him into his wheelchair. In order not to upset his son by suddenly putting a toothbrush into his mouth, Cameron would-on expert advice-gently and repeatedly tap Ivan's forehead as a signal that intrusive ablutions were coming. He became adept at multi-tasking.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_They became close friends (with the Birrells) as well as colleagues (Birrell worked as one of Cameron's speechwriters in the run-up to the 2010 election.) As well as understanding, Birrell was able to provide practical advice on how to harass the help of social services and find the right special school. This prove a bitter battle: initially, educational psychologists were insistent that Ivan should go to a mainstream nursery.** "It was political correctness gone mad" **Samantha said. **"It simply wasn't the right thing (for him) and was really upsetting as a parent. Ivan had a feeding tube, very bad epilepsy. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't communicate at all. He needed to be somewhere more sensory and stimulating, with people who knew how to look after him."** Eventually they got him a place at a school in Hammersmith for children with severe learning disabilities. It proved a godsend. Here he received plenty of one-to-one attention and specialist help.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Nowhere was parental navigation more essential than in the highly charged world of special-needs education. I had already seen as a constituency MP that special schools were struggling, partly because of their high costs, but principally because of the doctrine of inclusion. At its most extreme, this held that all children, whatever their needs, whatever their disability, should be taught in mainstream schools. Of course it is right that children with special needs who **can** be integrated into mainstream schools should be able to be, but some children are undoubtedly better off in a special school. In any event, parents should be able to make informed choices. Far too often they simply weren't being told about what was available. Even though I had seen this happen to others, I rather irrationally didn't see it coming. But of course it did. We had heard about an amazing special school called the Cheyne Day Centre, attached to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. But when the education adviser from the council came around to talk about Ivan's schooling they failed to mention it. We then began a battle to get him in; and once he was, we found ourselves having to fight another battle to keep it open. For a time we were successful, and he received the best possible start. Care, stimulation, therapy and education, all in a place where we knew he was safe and where the staff could cope._

_After his fifth birthday Ivan needed to move on. While we had fought valiantly, the cost of Cheyne was too great, and a new special school was being built next to Queen's Park Rangers' Loftus Road ground, which was near where we lived. We accepted the inevitable and agreed to a place at this school, Jack Tizard, which in the end turned out well.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_A visit from a journalist from the Sunday Times in 2007 coincided with Ivan's feeding time. Cameron's son was lying across his father's lap exposing a large hole in his stomach (he had had a gastrostomy) through which a tube was delivering drugs and liquid food. ** "When children visit"** Cameron smiled, **"and won't eat their tea, I tell them I'm going to put one of these in their tummy." ** The journalist-fairly hard-boiled-also witnessed Cameron picking up a lamb at a nearby farm for Ivan to touch. **"Can you feel the lambkin, Ivan?"**_

_**"Thankfully, we don't vote for politicians on the basis of how sweetly they minister to sick children, but when I have forgotten every word Cameron said to me"**, wrote the journalist, **"and long after the next election is won or lost, that tenderness will remain."**-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_Most of the medicines tasted disgusting, and it was often impossible to get him to keep them down. He developed "reflux", where everything-milk and medicines-would come shooting back up again, sometimes accompanied by a burp and a winning smile. It was almost as if he was telling us that nothing was going to work...Above all we saw the compassion that there is in the NHS. I lost count of the nurses who went above and beyond. Who would stop at nothing to try to make Ivan comfortable. They tried so hard to look after us, as well as him. A perfect example was when Ivan went for an operation to have a feeding tube-basically a small plastic plug-inserted into his stomach, because his weight loss was getting so severe, and delivering the medicines had become so painful and so difficult. The sight of your little boy about to go under the knife, even for a relatively straightforward operation like this, is hard to bear. I'll never forget the warm-hearted nurse, originally from Zambia, who held my hand as I watched Ivan go under the anaesthetic, tears streaming down my face as I wondered if he would ever wake up again. The tube feeding helped us control his weight and measure the drugs more precisely. Sam and I became expert with the tubes, valves, syringes and measurements._

_We were always determined not to hide Ivan away. While he could never tell us his likes and dislikes, we sensed that he liked the stimulation of being out and about in the fresh air. So he would be fed on trains and planes, in pubs and restaurants, usually with a gaggle of other people's children watching. Occasionally, one of them would ask if the tube was there because he'd been naughty and not eaten his tea.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_The coalition's early political surefootedness and confidence were impressive. I have no doubt that this was due in part to the further lessons that Cameron, and Osborne as well, had learned from the experience of New Labour. George and I had had an early, high-profile, political tussle when I arrived back in Gordon's government in 2008-sparked by a waterside dinner the two of us had shared in Corfu that summer. The scrap did not last long. It ended well, with first me, and, more gradually, George, coming out of it unscathed. My first face-to-face encounter with Cameron after the general election came at the annual Spectator event for politician of the year-an award I had received in 2009, and which Cameron was presenting in 2010. He began his remarks by saying what a pleasure it was to see me and George sitting and talking together, **"this time, safely on dry land."** Both of us laughed. Still, the most significant aspect of "Corfugate" was what George and I had talked about-or, more accurately, what George had said, since I did more listening than talking. He was preoccupied, at first, with Gordon, with whom he shared a huge mutual dislike. But he opened up about how he and Cameron had studied New Labour in building their own "New Tory" project. He described the need to drain their party of its' Thatcherite **"poison"**, and added that one of the many things they had learned from us was the need for him and Cameron, at all costs, to remain a seamless team and never to become rivals.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_On the way, I was making a stop-over on the Greek island of Corfu. Two months earlier, I had received a phone call from Matthew Freud, the PR supremo (then) married to Rupert Murdoch's daughter Elisabeth...Matthew was calling because he wanted me to come to Corfu for Elisabeth's fortieth birthday party, which was being organised at the house of my friends there, Jacob and Serena Rothschild. I imagined that it would be fun and looked forward to spending a few days on the waterside estate...I looked forward too to seeing their son Nat with whom I had also become close. By the time I arrived it was Friday evening, just before the party was due to begin. The other guests-an array of yacht-borne Murdochs, and friends of both generations of Rothschilds-were already there. There was not a bed to sleep in at the Rothschild home. In part, as Nat explained to me with a smile, this was because one of his old Oxford friends was staying there: George Osborne, David Cameron's closest political ally and Shadow Chancellor. Nat arranged for me to be billeted on a yacht belonging to another of his friends, the Russian industrialist Oleg Deripaska. I also knew Oleg, though not well, having met him previously through Nat....Not only had he become wealthy, he was also well-read, and voraciously interested in a constellation of social and economic ideas, as well as Russia's future, which dominated his conversation. Despite later media suggestions that I had gone to Corfu to join Oleg for a holiday on his yacht, I barely saw him, except for an amusing episode in which, during an early-morning wander around his boat, I stumbled across a yoga session he and his wife were taking, and I happily joined in under the instruction of their teacher.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_One evening in the week before we came home we went for dinner at the Senes and I texted Peter M. After chatting a bit re Propiac, where he had once come on holiday with us when the boys were small, he said George Osborne was at the next table in the taverna in Corfu. I tell him sometimes things go to those who don't deserve it. He did so and Osborne said simply, **"GB."**-"Wednesday 20th August 2008", The Alastair Campbell Diaires: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_I knew George Osborne, too. We had never exchanged much beyond social pleasantries and that is all we did at the birthday party. It was not until the following evening, with repercussions that would emerge only later, that this changed. The remaining guests, about thirty of us in all, had arranged to assemble at a seaside taverna down the road from the Rothschilds' house. I had fallen asleep in the evening sun, and arrived late. When I showed up there were two vacant seats, one at each end of the table, and two simultaneous shouts of welcome. One was from Rebekah Wade, then editor of Rupert Murdoch's Sun. The other was from George. I planted myself next to him, as he'd seemed the more insistent. For the next fifty minutes or so, we talked. By the time our remarks, or a skewed version of them, surfaced in the press a couple of months later, a central point would be lost._

_Yes, we talked frankly, on both sides. But it was the kind of conversation political colleagues on opposite sides of the party fence have far more often than is sometimes realised. I had been one of the creators of New Labour, and the repositioning David Cameron and George were attempting with the Conservatives was in many ways being modelled on that. I was sceptical that they had learned the real lesson of New Labour: that it was not just about creating a new image, but required making tough policy changes and bringing the party behind them. But it was a fascinating and not unenjoyable chat, a bit like two golf pros comparing their swings.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_In fact, George did most of the talking. He spoke animatedly, initially about the Prime Minister. It was not just that he disliked Gordon Brown; he seemed consumed by his interest in what the Observer had once famously called Gordon's **"psychological flaws."** George recited a litany of slights he said he had suffered at Gordon's hands in the months while he was shadowing him as Chancellor: Gordon had blanked him whenever they met; he had denied him the courtesy of advance copies of Treasury statements; on one occasion, George had phoned him only for Gordon to put the receiver down, or so he said. He was especially fascinated by the tension between Gordon and Tony, saying that the **"TB-GBs"** had made both him and David Cameron aware of the importance of sustaining their own relationship. I listened. On occasion, I nodded. And yes, I added a brush-stroke or two to the psychological portrait George had obviously spent many months assembling. But I said nothing I hadn't said to others at one time or another before. Nothing, in fact, I hadn't said to Gordon. So it was difficult not to smile when, in George's leaked version of our discussion which subsequently appeared in the press, I was said to have poured **"pure poison"** about Gordon into his ear. If anyone's ear was scorched that evening, it was mine, as George expounded on what he saw as his and Cameron's Conservative equivalent of our New Labour project. They had drained the Thatcher-era ideology from the Tories, detoxified the party, he said, to make it electable. I said it had always been my understanding that the rising generation of Tory MPs and the current activists had grown up under Thatcher, and their thinking had been formed under her leadership. George said this was true only up to a point. The party was mainly made up of old people, not young people, most of whom were involved more for social than for political reasons. In his own constituency, there were lots of divorcees, widows and widowers whose interest in the party was a place to find companionship, or a partner. **"They're not interested in ideology"** George said. **"They're interested in a Conservative Party that wins."** His, and David Cameron's, interest was also in a Tory Party that won.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_Any lingering anxiety the shadow Chancellor might have felt about whether he had struck the right note was soon blown out of the water by a far bigger drama, however. The episode, which became known as Yachtgate, almost cost him his career. It involved a surprising figure: Peter Mandelson. That October, Brown had stunned Westminster by announcing Mandelson's return to frontline politics. By giving him a peerage, the Prime Minister was able to parachute him into Cabinet as Business Secretary. The appointment was all the more surprising given the Labour grandee's well-known antipathy to the Prime Minister. Just a few weeks earlier-presumably before he knew he was about to be welcomed back into the fold-Mandelson had been deliciously indiscreet about what he really thought of Brown. The setting was the Greek island of Corfu, where he and Osborne were both guests of the financier Nat Rothschild. They had partied together on board a £70 million yacht belonging to Russian aluminium tycoon Oleg Deripaska, and had shared confidences about the political scene. During their conversation, Mandelson **"dripped pure poison"** about Brown.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Went to see PG (Philip Gould) at the Honest Sausage. He was slightly manic, I was on a major down. He said he had a bad feeling about the Peter M scene. The whole business of what happened when he and (George) Osborne were on some Russian oligarch's yacht was getting massive coverage after Nat Rothschild (financier) wrote to the Times having a dig at Osborne. It was damaging all round and PG felt there was a real worry re Peter.-"Thursday 23rd October 2008", T_ _he Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_The Shadow Chancellor George Osborne had evidently been regaling his friends about our summer chat on the taverna terrace in Corfu. Just forty-eight hours after I had told reporters outside Number 10 that I was proud to be invited to join Gordon's government, a Sunday newspaper took understandable delight in unsheathing George's allegation that during the summer I had **"dripped pure poison in his ear"** about the Prime Minister. The timing mattered more than the substance. If anyone with even the most casual knowledge of me or Gordon had been told that I had been critical of the man I was now working for, they would have thought: a bit embarrassing, but so what? My differences over the last decade with Gordon were hardly a secret. When Sky's Adam Boulton asked me about the report on his Sunday programme, I shrugged it off and added that George had had some pretty interesting things of his own to say about his Tory colleagues over his ouzo._

_Still, the story appeared to have legs. There was particular fascination with my relationship with Oleg Deripaska, a successful Russian industrialist whose interests included aluminium. There were unsettling and totally false, suggestions that I had done special favours for him in Brussels. EU duties on aluminium had indeed been reduced on my watch, but the pressure for change had come from several EU member states, not from Russia. Certainly not from Deripaska, with whom I had never discussed the matter...The facts were not the issue, however. It was the narrative, which soon turned spectacularly in my favour. Over the previous decade Nat Rothschild, Jacob and Serena's son and one of our hosts on Corfu, had become a good friend. He was furious at George, whom he had known since university days, because he felt that his family's hospitality had been abused. He and I spoke by phone to discuss a letter that he planned to send to The Times. Not only did it have a go at George for gossiping, it said the media's **"obsession"** with me was trivial compared to the more significant facts about Corfu and Oleg Deripaska. George, it said, had found **"the opportunity of meeting with Mr Deripaska so good that he invited the Conservatives' fund-raiser Andrew Feldman to accompany him on to Mr Deripaska's boat to solicit a donation.**" This was important, because foreign donations to British political parties are illegal. Nat was usually allergic to political involvement, but now he was prepared to see a grenade lobbed onto the field of battle. **"Do you really want to let yourself in for this?"** I asked. He felt the true facts should be known, and George immediately found himself in the firing line-from the media, from other parties, and from his own.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_In the context of his shock return to government, this information was dynamite. In a move he would come to bitterly regret, Osborne leaked details of the exchange to a newspaper, sparking a media furore. Mandelson was angry enough, but Rothschild-who expected total indiscretion from those to whom he extended hospitality-was incandescent. In a highly unusual step, he retaliated by writing a letter to The Times, accusing Osborne of trying to solicit donations to the Tory Party from the Russian oligarch, a potential breach of UK election law. Writing from Klosters, Switzerland, Rothschild described Mandelson's indiscretions as **"trivial"** relative to Osborne's actions, concluding archly that in future **"perhaps"** it would be better** "if all involved accepted the age-old adage that private parties are just that."** _

_The letter unleashed a firestorm that threatened to engulf the shadow Chancellor. Initially, Cameron thought it would quickly blow over. **"It's a storm in a teacup"** he told colleagues blithely. He was wrong.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Osborne was even more astonished (at Mandelson's return to work for Brown) than the rest of Westminster. He had encountered Mandelson on his summer holiday in Corfu, where both were guests of the financier (and Osborne's student friend) Nat Rothschild, and gleaned no sign that his relationship with Brown was healing. Indeed, as Osborne mischievously mentioned to journalists during the Tory conference, Mandelson actually **"dripped pure poison"** in Osborne's ear about Brown. The quote was printed and attributed to Osborne in the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph on 6 October (2008). If Osborne thought he was being cunning, the initial evidence proved him right. The media examined whether Oleg Deripaska, a Russian aluminium tycoon who was also among Rothschild's guests, had benefited from decisions taken by Mandelson as Trade Commissioner. But the scrutiny soon turned to Osborne himself. His gossip inaugurated a sequence of events that almost ended his career._

_First, Mandelson indicated to journalists that he could reveal equally embarrassing remarks that Osborne had made about the Conservatives during their time together in Corfu. Then, on 21 October, a letter from Rothschild appeared in The Times that deplored the newspaper's focus on Mandelson and immediately embroiled Osborne in serious scandal: **"Not once in the acres of coverage did you mention that George Osborne, who also accepted my hospitality, found the opportunity of meeting with Mr Deripaska so good that he invited the Conservatives' fundraiser Andrew Feldman, who was staying nearby, to accompany him on to Mr Deripaska's boat to solicit a donation. Since Mr Deripaska is not a British citizen, it was suggested by Mr Feldman in a subsequent conversation at which Mr Deripaska was not present, that the donation was "channelled" through one of Mr Deripaska's British companies. Mr Deripaska declined to make any donation."**_

_Donations from foreign nationals to British political parties are not permitted by law.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_GB called on his way to Paris to see Sarko. He sounded OK. Said it had been pretty tough. I asked where it would end. Not sure. And where was the Peter M situation leading? He laughed. No idea! Peter had seemingly managed to get the thing shifted on to Osborne, but the media was still digging into Peter much more than the Tories.-"Tuesday 28th October 2008", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_For several days, Osborne's career hung in the balance. It was the first serious test of his bond with Cameron, who came under intense pressure to sack him. In private conversations with close confidants, the Tory leader hinted that he would be willing-if absolutely necessary-to jettison his closest ally. It did not come to that, but friends say Osborne was deeply shaken._

_**"It was very touch and go for him. You could tell he was worried-it was in his eyes"** says one.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Fighting for Osborne's career, Conservative Campaign Headquarters (CCHQ) issued a statement denying that either he or Feldman had solicited any money from Deripaska or suggested any mechanism by which a donation could be channelled legally. He then had to face the media himself. With Hilton and Coulson, he drafted a statement in Cameron's office repeating his denial of Rothschild's allegations before setting off to CCHQ to deliver it in front of journalists and cameramen. The staff rose and applauded him on his way out. The statement was strong enough to buy him time and highlighted the fact that no donation had actually been given. **"Journalists say "follow the money", but in this case there is no money to follow"** quipped Osborne, who also had to sit down with one of his aides, Seth Cumming, and draw up a chronology recounting his movements and conversations during his time in Corfu. When Brown demanded an investigation into the matter the following day, it actually served to shore up Osborne's position as the authority in question, the Electoral Commission, confirmed that, even if he had asked Deripaska for a donation, solicitation itself was not an offence._

_Exactly how close Osborne came to losing his job divides opinion among senior Tories. Cameron showed no outward sign that he was contemplating his friend's dismissal, even in front of his very closest aides. Ian Katz of The Guardian called his friend Hilton to say that he thought Osborne would go, only for Hilton to vehemently trash the idea. But neither Osborne himself nor his own team were anything like as confident. He knew that even if his behaviour in Corfu did not by itself merit a resignation, the timing of its' revelation to coincide with unconvincing performances as shadow Chancellor could do for him. Osborne had been planning to announce his idea of a National Insurance **"holiday"** for employers, but he was forced to delay it. **"We can't do this one because if it goes wrong, I'm finished"** he said to his aides, **"so coolly it was as if he was talking about someone else."** **"That was a very, very bad forty-eight hours for George"** agrees another member of the team. **"He genuinely thought he could go."** Many other leaders would have ditched him. The episode captured the strangeness of the relationship between the Tories' ruling duo: Osborne alternated between effectively managing Cameron to only holding onto his own job because of Cameron's indulgence._

_Osborne and his family had been taking holidays in Corfu in the years leading up to 2008. As they were approaching the end of their stay that summer, Rothschild, according to Osborne, asked him to extend his holiday by a week and stay at his hillside villa, where he was to host Elizabeth Murdoch's fortieth birthday party. Before the soiree, Osborne and his wife were invited by Deripaska, whom the shadow Chancellor had met in Davos that year, to board his yacht, the **Queen K.** Ironically, Osborne thought that this would be politically uncontroversial precisely because Mandelson, a European Commissioner, was already staying on the boat. Osborne was impressed by Deripaska, who is an intellectual as well as an industrialist, and the pair discussed Russian history and politics. They met again on three occasions during the holiday-once more aboard **Queen K**-but Osborne insists that neither he nor Feldman (who had dropped by from his own nearby holiday) ever discussed donations with the Russian.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_For all this, the scandal did leave one constructive legacy for Osborne's career. It made it petrifyingly clear to him how few friends he had among Conservative MPs. During the worst of the crisis, Liam Fox was almost the only prominent Tory MP to take to the airwaves in his defence. Many others were (anonymously) contemptuous of him, and at best indifferent as to whether he survived. Ever since, he has toiled as hard to win friends in Parliament as he always has to cultivate allies in the media and in business. He spends time in the Commons tea room and invites backbenchers to dinners and seminars at No. 11. This strategic sociability is often interpreted as the groundwork for a future leadership run but Osborne's first motive is defense: he knows the vulnerability that comes without a parliamentary base._

_Two weeks after the worst of the scandal had died down, Osborne received a friendly text message from Rothschild. He did not respond. Nowadays, Osborne prefers to holiday in Majorca.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_For some time afterwards, Osborne was uncharacteristically subdued.** "I am in humble mode"** he told Hague, shortly after the drama had died down._

_**"God should take advantage of this rare moment"** came the retort.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Off to Matthew Freud's...George Osborne and wife arrived. I asked him who was going to win the election. **"I don't know"** he said. He seemed less confident than previous times I had seen him. DC (David Cameron) not there. He said he was in Yorkshire. F (Fiona Millar) thought it was probably a diplomatic absence, that all the toffing with Freud-Murdochs not good for them. Peter M there. Chatting with George, a real toff when close up. Vulnerable.-"Thursday 18th December 2008", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_George had been enjoying a reputation as the Tories' bright young thing since his party conference coup de theatre on inheritance tax the previous year. Now he was just a young thing. Since everyone assumed that I had been behind Nat's letter, the moral of the story became: Don't Mess With Mandelson. The whole affair left me politically stronger, not least in my own party. I happened to run into George a couple of months later at a Christmas reception, and he somewhat sheepishly approached me and made the closest thing possible to an apology. He said he had never intended our conversation to become public. I resisted the temptation to thank him for his help. Now, of course, as Chancellor he has made a political recovery, so neither of us has suffered any long-term damage from the affair....The spat with George was trivial compared with the real problems facing the government, and Gordon.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_Although Osborne survived his brush with political mortality, it put him out of commission during a momentous period for the world economy...."Yachtagte" exhibited Osborne's personal foibles. His attraction to glamour and power, his addiction to the **"game" **of political intrigue, his occasionally sybaritic lifestyle-all these dangerous and, ironically, Mandelsonian quirks had long been known to insiders, but were now unmistakable to a wider audience too. If he joined the Bullingdon Club out of a restless desire to belong to the loftiest social circles, perhaps he boarded Deripaska's yacht for much the same reason. Although Cameron was another Buller man, it was hard to imagine him craving glitzy company in quite the same way. In the aftermath of Yachtgate, Coulson told a colleague that the difference between Osborne and Cameron could be captured by one thing: **"Dave would never have got on that boat."**-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

* * *

_**But honestly, I-I remember the "Hug A Hoodie" thing and I remember thinking when-when I was leader-and-it was when the riots happened-and I never found a way of doing this, but I-and Cameron was not good in his response to the riots-but-but I remember wanting to go to him and say "Listen-"-you know, just privately-"Your Hug A Hoodie speech was a good speech", it was, it was an important thing that he was saying, and, and then he sort of went off it, there-there were-I know this is kind of controversial to some people-there were good parts to Cameron's agenda when he was Leader Of The Opposition-you know, about understanding more-all of that stuff that he said.**-Ed Miliband, speaking about David Cameron as Leader Of The Opposition in 2017_

* * *

_"I think they're both subconsciously obsessed with each other and I don't think that will ever go away."-Alice Oseman, speaking about characters in her novel Solitaire_

_""I'm **not** like that" she says, and Emily looks up at her, startled. "I mean, I'm not a cheater" Naomi clarifies, finds herself stupidly blushing at her own statement. "I mean, well, what happened before-it's not going to happen again, yeah? We were just drunk and, things got a little-well, I'm not saying that I don't want to be your friend, mind, I think you're quite nice , but that's as far as it goes, okay? So don't think that I'm like....Like I said, don't think it'll happen again.""-writing books through letters, majesdane (Skins fanfiction)_

_"Why canst thou not always be a good lass, Cathy?"_

_And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, and answered_

_"Why cannot you always be a good man, Father?"-Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte_

* * *

The Lisa Angel store is the sort of place that's a little pocket of warmth in the cold January air. The whiteness of the walls makes the shop seem a little bigger, David observes, and then flinches as his hand jumps a little.

"Oh, damn-" He glances up ruefully at Lisa, who gives him a grin, then at Craig, who gives him a far less pleasant one. "Can't see Nancy liking this."

"Nope" Craig points out cheerily. "Neither can I. That's the third one you've messed up."

"God knows what I'd do without you to keep track" David mutters.

Lisa leans over his shoulder. "Looks like you just sent the _N _a little out of line-"

"We should have given her a one-letter name." David tugs his sleeves up a little, shrugs his suit off. He hadn't expected a visit to Norwich to require so much concentration.

"I'd throw it in after this one" Craig advises, giving the other employees a grin. "Lisa's the expert, she already offered twice-"

"One more go." David flashes Lisa a quick grin, turning back to his engraving. "Just-Nancy's only eleven once."

At least it means she only has one birthday party a year.

David tries not to wince, but guilt flares again in his chest. He fixes his eyes firmly on the five gold letters, trying not to let his hand shake this time.

The guilt's been jabbing away in his chest ever since the moment he scrambled out of the pool, his heart banging away in his chest, his skin far too slick with water, grabbing a towel as quickly as he could, determinedly not looking at Miliband.

He'd spent the rest of the evening trying not to look at Miliband-carefully guiding childrens' arms into sleeves, rubbing a towel too vigorously through his hair, and when the moment came when they had to speak, managing to look past Miliband's shoulder, their arms bumping together awkwardly.

It had been one of those times David wished he was still allowed to drive. Driving, watching the road stretch out underneath the wheels, always seemed to iron out whatever crease he'd been tangled in in his thoughts, his only focus being the smoothness of the steering wheel under his hands and the white flashes of arrows in the dark, pointing him ahead.

Having to settle for a driver these days, David had been relieved when Nancy asked if she could ride with him. He'd listened to her chatter, soaking in the little details that rang out in her little voice, about how much of the cake was left and where all her new books were going to go and what she could take to school tomorrow. David had slid an arm around her shoulder, pressing a kiss into her hair, breathing in the warm sweetness of his daughter.

When Nancy had fallen asleep against his shoulder, David had absorbed himself in watching her sleep, the way he used to when she was a tiny baby and her head nestled on his chest. Back then, he'd counted her breaths one by one, each one a tiny little reassurance that he held onto like a gift as he stroked her silky little cheek, almost too soft to believe, and pressed little kisses to her sweet-smelling downy little head.

He'd done much the same last night, with one important distinction. As Nancy slept, her head nestled into his shoulder, her hand had been curved around his; and David hadn't tensed every time her fingers fluttered, body rigid, eyes fixed on her hand, waiting for the sick warning to stab into his stomach, for the telltale sign of her fingers snapping open and closed, her hand jerking viciously of its' own accord-the signs he'd watched for every night of the first year of her life, until Nancy had started to burble the beginnings of words and had taken her first toddling steps, and David had finally dared to believe that no genetic trap lay in wait for her-the same way he'd watched Elwen and Florence, until finally he could watch them, and not dread a contortion of their face or a jerk of their limbs, an invisible sword falling over their little heads.

He'd been absorbed and he tried to remain so, all this morning, because every time he thinks about that guilt-

Well.

He remembers.

His fingers almost trembling against Miliband's cheek.

David doesn't know how he caught Miliband's hair between his fingers.

He isn't even sure what he said.

He remembers Miliband's voice, almost a breath. "Yeah." His eyes had been on David's mouth, and that had sent a thrill straight down to David's-

David's hand jerks again.

"Oh God-"

Craig snorts, peering over his shoulder. "Bloody hell. Nancy's going to_ love_ that-"

Lisa laughs. David glares at Craig. "I could always get Graeme in here instead, you know."

"He's busy" Craig points out cheerfully. "Seeing off that idiot in the chicken costume."

"Yes, he had a subtle message-"

"Bet Miliband planted it."

Craig chuckles. David winces. _Don't say his-_

"Maybe Miliband was in the costume" he says lightly. Craig snorts again, but his eyes flicker in the briefest of warning looks-_let's rein it in in front of Lisa._

David doesn't mind. Any mention of Miliband isn't helping.

Because it was _odd._

David tries to breathe deeply, focus on the engraving, focus on the mantra he'd begun feeding himself through his mind as he rubbed a towel too rapidly over his shoulders so water still clung inside his shirt, leaving him damp and uncomfortable.

It was an accident. It was the atmosphere. It was just-

But-

Well.

How had that _happened?_ How had they got to the point where they-

Where they-

David almost laughs and tightens his hand around the tool.

Because it's so ludicrous that his mind rears away from the thought.

Because it has to be-

They just got too close. For a moment.

It's probably normal. It's probably happened to hundreds of people.

People who are-competing against each other-

But also happen to be-

Friendly.

It's probably just tension-and David had actually sat down with relief on his bed last night when that occurred to him, because of _course._

Of _course_, that had been _it._

Or frustration.

Frustration at how-

How downright _irritating_ Miliband can be.

Yes. That.

That can cause you to move closer.

It can cause your hands to shake, your-

He's shouted at Miliband enough times before. Got _close _to him enough times before.

It's probably just _that._ Coming out sideways.

Of course it is. David had almost felt faint with relief as he pondered it further into the night, pressing his thoughts into his pillow. Of course it is.

The thought of it being anything else, after all-

Guilt had still jabbed, though.

It had been his daughter's birthday party and the fact he'd even been-

Well, he shouldn't have. Been.

He just-shouldn't have.

It was that that had prompted him to hug Nancy even tighter this morning-her first few hours of being officially eleven years old-and exclaim over the homemade card decorated with Flo's trademark wobbly letters that had been presented to her by their younger children, while he'd dished out warm, buttery pancakes-a treat there's usually only time for on weekends. Even when Bea and Will had been standing there in the kitchen, Luke and Libbie tumbling in a few moments later, he'd still found the time to press a homemade blueberry muffin into each of the childrens' hands-"Here. Treat for birthdays"-with a kiss to each of their heads, and a ruffle to Luke's hair (who deems himself too grown up for such things), and a long hug for Nancy.

It hadn't eased the jabbing, but it had made him notice it less. And maybe that's all he can hope for for now.

But it can't hurt to keep a bit of distance from Miliband. It might even be good for them. Let them both focus. He's sure he's satisfied Lynton's wish for things to look a little less antagonistic-

(God, is that really what this all _started _with?)

But-

Just a little distance.

That can't hurt anyone.

Even if the idea leaves David with a sudden heaviness in his chest, the thought of days without Miliband's odd little pronouncements on the world, his almost boyish geekiness lighting up his eyes when something strikes his interest, leaves him with a strange listless feeling, a drabness clinging to everything.

"David?"

David blinks. Looking up, he becomes aware that he's managed to sit in silence for several moments, the tool hanging aloft from his hands, manifestly not being used at all.

He only blinks for a moment. Then, he turns to Lisa with a smile. "I might have to call in your superior skills here-" He beams up at her. "Though, as it is-" He glances at his own, rather pathetic effort. "I don't think this is going to be her favourite present."

Lisa laughs, and then, on a whim, David asks, "I couldn't actually purchase a few, could I?"

Lisa's brow creases, but she nods, and David watches, telling himself firmly the idea that's just sprung to life in his brain doesn't go against keeping his distance from Miliband, as Lisa carefully engraves the five gold letters perfectly the right size and the right space, so he can fold his own effort into his hand and tuck it into his pocket, to examine in his own time and only as much as he wishes.

* * *

Peter's been interviewed a rather wearying number of times.

Emily Maitlis is rather refreshingly sharp, he reflects-if the setting for the interview is a _tad _unimaginative. One would think politicians spent all their time in libraries.

But no matter. Peter has a job to do. And he's under no illusions about what little Eddie might expect from him, especially now the BBC and the public have got his precious mansion tax quivering in their sights.

Of course, Peter's under no illusions about what _Alastair_ wants. But he can handle Alastair.

"You're famously and often quoted for, um-" Emily's blonde hair hangs over her head as she glances down. Peter nods automatically, the old urge to put someone at ease rising up.

"Your comment, you're_-"intensely relaxed about the filthy rich as long as they pay their taxes.""_ Emily's dark eyes meet Peter's now. "What should those taxes now include? Should they include a mansion tax?"

Ah, here we go. Peter barely exhales, already preparing himself for the image of Alastair punching his fist through the TV screen. Though he's probably not there yet. Not at this point.

It's not as though Peter had been surprised that Ed wanted a mansion tax. It's not as though he's surprised Ed doesn't see the problems with it. He'd spent enough time during the dragging of those winter months in 2009 and early 2010, wandering over Hampstead Heath with Ed's earnest, nasal chatter filling the air next to him about all the things Ed thought would make the country better, while Peter listened to Ed talk himself closer and closer to the question, the question that had really been hovering in the air between them all along, that Ed had been skating around for years perhaps, without daring to close the circle, the word _leadership_ not daring to shape itself between his lips.

Justine had been there too, at his side, mousy hair brushing her shoulders in a rather shapeless bob, pushing a red buggy in front of them, which had bounced a little too roughly along the path. The baby, Daniel-they'd turned down, with grins, his offer of the name Peter, leaving Peter to jokingly christen him Daniel Peter, or DP (they'd chosen Ralph as a middle name, fairly predictably)-had been shoved into a little blue coat, invariably the wrong size-which, when Peter had commented on it, had led his parents to blink at the coat as though they'd never seen it before, which led Peter to speculate that it had been selected with haste rather than care.

Daniel had tended to peer out crossly from inside the hood, the coat swimming around him, eyes occasionally widening as though begging someone to rescue him. The buggy was always pushed on, however, and if Daniel was ever paid attention at all, it would only be for the moment it took for his mother to flick her scarf-Peter recalls one dreadful one, pale pink circular _splodges _all over it, for goodness' sake-over her shoulder and peer desultorily over the hood at her son, before leaning back, shoulders almost slumping in relief, inspection complete, not looking at the baby a second longer than she had to.

Peter had watched this, watched the way Ed and Justine always stood a little apart from each other, the way their words to each other always circled around politics or law. He'd watched the way Justine's eyes flickered to Ed every time his words seemed to breathe near the question-_if I was-what I would do-, _the way they'd widen the slightest bit.

Peter would notice it. And unease would stir in his chest.

Now, he leans forward just a little, meets Emily's eyes.

"Yes, I think we have-we don't have an efficient system of taxing property in Britain-"

As far as Ed's concerned, so far, so good.

"I don't happen to think that the mansion tax is the-is the right policy response to that."

At this point, Alastair will have punched the television.

"I think it's sort of-_crude,_ sort of short-termist-"

He watches Emily's eyes widen a little, no doubt picturing the headline. No doubt Ed's eyes will be widening for a rather different reason.

As the old saying goes, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"What we need is-as I think the Liberal Democrats are proposing-and that is the introduction of, er-the, er-bands that relate to different values of, er-poverty-"

Somewhere, Alastair will have crumpled another Coke can.

"Within the-ah-council tax system, and that's what I would like to see."

He lets his eyes flicker to the camera lens so that, momentarily, he'll hold the gaze of anyone watching. Including Alastair and Ed.

It'll look like an accident to most people.

Not to Alastair. Alastair knows better.

Alastair knows Peter rather too well.

"I mean, it'll take longer to introduce-that's true-" He's looking back at Emily, now. "But it'll be more effective and if, you know, and efficient in the longer term than simply-"

He pauses for a breath, lets the words percolate.

"Ah-clobbering people with a rather crude, short-term mansion-

"What sort of message-" Emily's already saying, but no matter. Peter's already said what he wanted.

"-do you think the mansion tax is sending out, then?"

Tread carefully, here.

"I don't think it's sending a _message-"_ Peter lets his eyes wander a little, as if he's only just letting the words come to him. "I, I just-"

He smiles just a little. "I want policy sort of _effectiveness-"_ Laughing a little. "I want sort of efficiency-ah, I think people are entitled to expect-" A little more serious now. "Ah-thought-through sophisticated responses to serious problems-"

Those words a little slower, to make the words not being said a little louder.

_Unlike Ed Miliband's mansion tax._

He wonders briefly if Ed's house would count as a mansion. He's fairly sure it would, which will crucify the policy a little more.

The last time he saw little Daniel Peter was in that house. Two, maybe three years ago. And only a glimpse of him, over a young woman's shoulder, being carried down the stairs to the basement. A flash of big blue-grey eyes, peering up at Peter with little recognition, before he was tidied swiftly away.

"You mentioned interventions-" Emily is saying, but Peter's work is done.

He can almost hear the nail being pounded through the coffin of the mansion tax. It's rather a lovely sound. The death of an ill-thought-out policy-Peter has _missed_ it.

Of course, he reflects ruefully, as he tilts his head to listen more closely to Emily's question-if Alastair has his way, the coffin the nail will be hammered into may well be Peter's own.

* * *

The flame takes a moment to catch, and then flickers into life, bending a little in the air.

Ed steps back. Justine's hand folds onto his arm and squeezes a little too tight. Ed steps back again, stands there a little awkwardly.

It is odd to try to remember someone you never knew.

Ed tries closing his eyes, hoping Justine will let him be silent for a few moments-though he's sure she will. After all, she'll want this venture to be as successful as much as he does.

Ed's stomach tightens uncomfortably because-

And this should be personal, should be just for them, and if he talks about it on LBC next week, if he's even now trying to think how best to tell this story in a dozen interviews-that doesn't make a difference. Does it?

The same conversation echoes in his mind-this one a ghost, a ghost from over a year ago, from when he'd first mentioned going to Yad Vashem, and Tom had clapped his hands and said _Great. We'll have to get Robinson along._

At his side, there's an impatient shifting and then Daniel's voice, sharp and querulous. "What's that for?"

Ed opens his eyes, not sure if he's relieved or not. "It's-um-"

Ed bites his lip, the question stirring something in his chest-a sudden memory of himself, a bit older than Daniel, staring up a photograph on a mantelpiece in a foreign living room, a man with glasses staring out, and his own too-little fingers jabbing. _Who's that?_

And it jabs again that he'll tell that story, too.

"It's a kind of remembrance, Daniel" Justine's telling Daniel, who ignores her. Ed clears his throat, trying to simplify the words a little.

"It's-um-well, it's a candle-"

Daniel looks unimpressed.

"And we-um-it'th-s to remember, th-sweetie-" Sam has already turned away and wandered over to the armchair. "Do you remember at Easter? When Mummy and I came back from our trip and told you about your great-grandfather?"

(He always feels vaguely stupid and overbright when he calls Justine _Mummy _or _Sweetie_, something about the words tasting too sugary, too sweet, when he tries to bend them around her.)

Daniel screws up his face a little, while Justine says "Sam-" and heading over, picks him up awkwardly under the arms, while Sam lets himself dangle, not doing anything to help her. "Yeah-"

"Well-it was for him. Because he died a long time ago, in the war. Remember?"

The little boy looks up at him, brow furrowed, before suddenly his voice, sharper than a five-year-old's should be, says "Oh, _that's _why we got to eat upstairs."

Ed opens and closes his mouth, looking at Justine for help.

Ed won't let his mind touch it-he won't for a while, anyway-but the fact is, Daniel is right. Of course he is, even if Ed doesn't know it yet himself. Or won't let himself know it.

He might not let himself know, either, that he'd looked at his two sons, sitting across the table, and wondered quite what they were supposed to say to them. Daniel had been slumped down in his seat, his legs kicking back and forth, while Sam, perched in his higher chair, had just picked at his food, staring around the room, eyes always somewhere else when Ed tried to meet them.

He'd seized on words, pushing them out a little too loudly. _So what did you learn at school today? What did you think about it?_ and it had only been listening to Justine ask similar things, trying too hard to sound interested, to appear as if she was listening to Daniel's monosyllabic answers and Sam's silence that it was too easy to let him lapse into, that Ed had realised they were asking the same kind of questions he'd asked the children at the school he'd visited that morning. As if they were people he didn't quite know.

But Ed won't let himself know this yet and so when Daniel says "What else?", Ed misses Justine's confused look by a second with his own.

"Oh-um-" He hadn't thought through what they'd do afterwards-he'd somehow counted on the novelty of an hour upstairs with their parents being enough for Daniel and Sam.

It's Justine who says "Well, it's nearly bedtime-" with a glance at the clock, and Ed's shoulders slump in relief.

Daniel shrugs, and Ed, suddenly eager to rescue something of the evening, says "I can tell you a story, if you like." He wracks his brain frantically for a Booboo and Heehee story he hasn't told before, and wonders suddenly if he's got time to scribble out a new plan. He's got a vague presentiment that most people don't have to use plans to tell a child a story, but somehow, he's rarely entirely sure what they want in a story-what children are _supposed_ to want in a story.

Daniel shakes his head, pushing his lip out. "I want Zia to put me to bed."

Ed nearly flinches, at what feels like a small punch in the chest. And isn't sure whether or not he hates the relief that swoops a little in his stomach.

"Daniel-" Justine tries to adjust Sam on her hip, even as he leans away from her, eyes wandering around as though searching for an escape.

Ed won't be sure if it's the look on his son's face or the way Justine's holding him-too tightly, as if she's not sure what to do with him-or the fact he already knows he'll smooth over this story for next week and sculpt the moment into an anecdote, something relatable, human-but suddenly, he's remembering.

"You can come" he'd said to his mother, perched nervously on the edge of an armchair, clutching a mug of tea awkwardly between his hands. "I mean-you and Sarah haven't seen each other in years."

His mother had taken a moment to answer. "So what's happening with the boys?"

"Sorry?"

"The boys. Your boys. Daniel and Sam." Marion's dark eyes, so much like both her sons', had held his, then. "You're leaving them?"

Ed had swallowed, beginning to chatter nervously without really being sure why. "Um. Yeah. Well. It's only for three days-"

"Again." Marion had said it almost too quickly for Ed to catch, and then "And you're filming this."

"Um. Yes. By the BBC. It'll probably get some coverage."

Ed's mother had nodded, but hadn't looked away from him. Ed had swallowed, his mouth suddenly unaccountably dry.

"It'll be-I want to know where you come from" he'd said, feeling embarrassed even saying the words.

"I know that." She'd kept looking.

"And-" Ed had glanced down at his cup, suddenly finding the slight ripples fascinating. "Well. It'll give me a chance to share that. With people."

She'd taken a sip of tea. "With people who might vote for you."

_We need the Jewish vote,_ Tom had said abruptly. _Look, we know it's sensitive, but the Jewish stuff is something we've got over Cameron._

_We just need some memories at first._ Bob's voice, placating. _And then. Well. Obviously, it's up to you. But a trip would be..._

_We need something personal. A rebranding. Something more than fucking potato latkes._

Ed had stared at his mother. He'd opened his mouth and closed it again. "Well-"

Marion had nodded, as though he'd answered. "Would you be going-"

She'd stopped, and Ed had been about to ask; but then she'd given her head a slight shake and said, before he could speak, "So this'll be very public."

Ed had gulped. "That-that's not the way I'd-"

Marion had looked at him. Ed had fallen silent.

"Public" she'd said again, and then "I don't think so, Edward. Not this time."

Ed had bitten his lip, not sure why he was disappointed and hating himself for it. "You're-um. We'll be visiting Sarah." It had felt like a last-ditch attempt. "You could-we could visit."

Marion's eyes had been on his again. "Does Sarah know that this will be filmed?"

Ed had blinked. "Well. Yes. Yes, of course. Well-"

He'd hesitated. "I don't know if she-if she knows how many cameras will be-but she-I'm sure she'll be told-"

Marion had nodded quietly to herself.

"It'll be good" Ed had said, pressing valiantly on. "For-it'll help explain what we've been through-what-"

"What we've been through?" Marion's voice wouldn't have changed if you hadn't known her. But her eyes had flickered back to Ed's a little more sharply than usual.

Ed had swallowed. "I mean-what we've-you know, the family-"

He'd bitten his lip again, then. "It juth-st-helps, I suppose-"

"Right." Marion had nodded once, eyes not leaving his.

Ed had felt his palms, suddenly damp, wrap themselves tighter around the hot mug. "You-it is all right with you, isn't it?" he'd asked suddenly, needing her to say yes. "I mean-I am doing the right thing-"

He hadn't been sure, suddenly, if he was asking her or telling her.

Marion hadn't looked away, as they sat in armchairs across from each other. "Well. I trust you to do what you think is right, Edward."

That could be a blessing, Ed had thought.

Could be.

He shouldn't have had to tell himself it was more than _could be._

When they'd been there, walking up the steps to the kibbutz, the cameras had been clicking. Sarah, her face wreathed in welcome, had her arms out waiting, her voice cracked with joy around _Edward._ She'd stepped towards him trustingly, taking his and their word for it, on the cameras, the clicking, the personal wrapped with _Get that shot there._

_I'm here._ He'd wrapped his arms around her carefully, pulled her into a hug, while she squeezed him tightly, as if she'd been waiting for him forever, since the last time she'd hugged him, when he was small, almost too small to remember. And the cameras had clicked away.

Ed had buried his face in her shoulder. Something cold and dark and sickening had gripped his insides, as he saw her trusting look again.

_We need the Jewish vote._

Ed's heart had twisted.

_This is Justine_, he'd managed to get out too quickly and then Sarah had been turning to Justine, embracing her, welcoming her, just because she was with Ed, the same way she would to every cameraman who was jostling for a photo of her to fill their headline. Because they were with Ed.

Ed had turned away, just for a moment, from Justine, who didn't seem to be having any such problems, and the cameramen, grabbing at every moment they could, and once again saw himself reflected in his mother's cousin's eyes, reflected and held in love and trust, and he'd felt sick.

Inside, he'd watched as she offered _hamantaschen-_Ed was told later they were usually only made for Purim-around, her hospitality clearly soaking into the cameramen and when she'd insisted it was no trouble, Ed had had to look away, feeling a prickling at his eyes and a tight, hot, horrible feeling in his chest.

It had pulled again as they'd sat there, peering at a photo album, as the cameras crouched far too close, and Ed wanted to tell them to move back, but-

_Career suicide._

So he'd kept grinning, until his cheeks ached, holding himself tightly inside his jumper and kept his eyes down on the pages.

"And who's that?" Justine had said, pointing at a picture that she knew perfectly well was Ed, because Ed had showed it to her, because it was one his mother had sent to Sarah.

Sarah had looked at her delightedly and Ed had felt a sudden bolt of something-white-hot and grating, even as he'd said "I'm afraid that's me", keeping it light, keeping a smile.

"Is that _you?"_ Justine had said, sounding ridiculously surprised for looking at a photo of someone who could not have been more clearly Ed if his name had been scribbled across his forehead.

But Sarah had beamed; and the cameras had been there; and so he'd laughed, too loudly, probably, as Justine had, trying to grin, eyes darting from one camera to another, even as the sounds had pealed out of his throat, too loud, _A-ha-ha._

And the cameras had clicked away.

Now, standing in his living room, looking at the boys and Justine, Ed remembers, and strangely, remembers something else, too, the words that had latched in his head as he'd laughed too loudly on that couch in that room in front of those cameras, wishing he could take Sarah out of the kibbutz, out of her home, until it was quiet and unphotographed and hers' again, or that he could throw the cameras out, scrubbing their photos out of existence.

They'd been in his mother's voice, vaguely, and Ed had tried to hold onto them, even as they echoed amongst the laughter.

_It's all about the politics, Edward._

Now, he looks at Daniel's bottom lip sticking out, and his blue eyes, narrowed in his little face, contorted, Ed too vaguely notices, in a way no five-year-old's should be, and Justine, holding Sam awkwardly against her hip and looking at Ed but not seeing him, and Sam, under his mess of dark curls, dark eyes fixed on Ed for the first time and seeing him all too well.

"Ed?" Justine says.

_The moment this will be sculpted into._

_It's all about the politics, Edward._

Ed turns away. "All right" he says, or thinks he says, as he turns towards the doorway, but the words make almost no sound, and as Ed turns to the hallway to get Zia to take the children to bed, his chest wrapped in that hot, tight, horrible feeling again, he wonders if he really said anything to them at all.

* * *

Libbie's forehead presses against the bannisters, Nancy's hair tickling her neck. Bea crouches below them, her freckled nose pushing through the spokes, while Elwen presses his periscope to his eye.

Nancy whacks it away. "You'll drop it. "

Elwen sticks out his tongue, and Libbie turns to see Luke, several steps above them, rolling his eyes, staring at his phone. "Yeah. The periscope just _makes_ it...."

Elwen turns the tongue-sticking on him and Will reaches up for the phone. Luke swats him away and Bea turns on her brother, chestnut hair bouncing around her face. "Will you shut up?"

He sticks his tongue out at her. _"You _shut up-"

"Shhh-" Libbie puts a hand on Bea's arm, and it's Nancy who nestles against her shoulder. Bea looks indignant, but complies with a huff, shuffling closer to the bannisters to hear. Meanwhile, Florence, scrambling about at the top of the stairs, decides the place she wants to be most in the world at this present moment is in Luke's lap, where she plonks herself. Libbie used to do the same, until Luke decided they were both too big for this and started refusing to hold her hand as they walked to school.

Libbie feels Nancy's leg press itself firmly against her own as she listens, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. If it was Dad who caught them, they probably wouldn't be told off at all-Libbie remembers whenever she and Luke were caught listening at doors when they were little, Dad sweeping her up in his arms, letting her scramble onto his shoulders. But leaving them to the birthday tea Nancy had been allowed to have Libbie, Bea, Luke and Will round for, Dad and Uncle Michael had headed downstairs with Uncle David to talk over some details, and only Uncle David has come back up so far, which the children only discovered when, bored with _Tangled_ (one of the few exceptions Florence would accept to _Frozen_), they'd decided to see exactly what was going on downstairs, only to realise there was a meeting going on.

And so in there with Mr Crosby and Craig are Uncle David, Auntie Sam and Auntie Sarah.

"Did you see Clegg on Marr?" The voice is an Australian drawl and Nancy nudges Bea, who's still scowling a little, in the cheek. "Mr Crosby."

"The Aussie guy?"

"Yeah."

"No, we-"

"We didn't get the chance to-" Auntie Sam's voice. "We were doing Nancy's-"

"Nancy's party."

"Well, you didn't miss much-"

"It was just more of the whole heart-and-head thing-" Craig.

"Yeah, more of an aim for the centre-ground. But he's already junked that with tuition fees. He'll probably lose more seats than-more than half-"

"Yeah, it was more of the head and heart-but he's clearly aiming for a coalition-"

The younger boys glance at each other and shrug, while Libbie, considering it her duty to inform them, remarks "The type of thing Uncle David and Nick Clegg have now. Where they work together."

"Uncle Nick" Florence declares, louder. "They're talking 'bout Uncle Nick. Uncle Nick did _bedside_ cabinet-"

_"Shhhh-"_ They all turn to her at once, Elwen scrambling up and pushing a hand over her mouth. Flo wriggles furiously. Luke, who, as the eldest and most reluctant of the bunch, has been issued with the task of guarding Flo, shushes her, squeezing her sides gently.

"Well, Clegg's the one who's got the most to lose" Mr Crosby's saying-Libbie's met him a couple of times and wasn't overly impressed that he seemed a little too astonished that she knew some Mandarin-"And he clearly knows it, which is why he's sitting on the centre about which side he'll go for in a coalition-"

"But he could still go for Labour." That's Auntie Sam.

A snort. "Yeah, well. Hardly be a surprise." Auntie Sarah.

"Well, yeah. But it's less likely. Labour need to gain more seats than we do to have even a chance of forming the government-"

"Seats are constituencies, right?" Elwen says, in an undertone. Nancy nods impatiently, copying Libbie and hooking her hair behind her ears as though that'll improve her hearing.

"And under Miliband, that's pretty fucking unlikely."

"That's the bad word" announces Flo, who's had her ears covered a second too late.

No one has time to confirm this, as right then, a little volley of barks emanates from the landing above, and Luke spins round. "Oh, sh-Lola! Lola, _shh-"_

Libbie scrambles upright, nearly stamping her foot and only refraining by remembering the fact she'd probably kick one of her friends in the face. "Lola, down! _Down!"_

The white poodle, gambolling happily about at the end of the corridor, turns and bolts through the warren-like maze that are the upstairs flats of Downing Street.

Flo pouts, trying to twist towards the dog, but Luke holds her still, even as Libbie sits back down, suddenly remembering yesterday, in the pool.

She's seen Ed Miliband before, lots of times. But she'd noticed the way his fingers closed around hers' too tightly yesterday, and the way his eyes flickered back and forth, as though searching for a safe place to look.

She and Bea had noticed Nancy noticing too, without either of them having to say it, but then the three of them rarely have to say things.

"Anyway-" A mug's clinking on the table. "Speaking of Clegg, we need a decision."

"A decision-"

"Yeah. You know what on."

"Careful, Flo-" Will shifts suddenly, as Flo wriggles down next to him, with the result that her elbow digs sharply into Libbie's ribs.

"What if Lola eats Larry?"

"Shhh!"

"But _what if Lola eats Larry-"_

"SHHHH!" The storm of consequential shushing drowns out Mr Crosby's next few words.

"She won't" Libbie manages to hiss into Flo's ear, pulling her between her and Nancy. "Dogs don't eat cats."

"And Larry's too fast-" Nancy breaks her uncharacteristic silence to issue this comfort, before turning firmly back to the bannisters, where they catch Mr Crosby's next few words.

"-on his seat."

"Hopefully not that kind of seat-"

Luke snorts.

"It's not a joke, David-"

"I know it isn't. And I'll have an answer for you-"

"You said that three months ago-"

"Clegg is bloody spineless-" That's Auntie Sarah.

"What the heck are they talking about?" Elwen leans closer to the bannisters, his cheek wedged against Nancy's.

"Seats" Flo announces, still taking no trouble to keep her voice down. "I want _my _seat. My seat with my name on."

With that, before anyone can quieten her, she trots off up the stairs to fetch it.

"-need a decision on this" Mr Crosby's saying.

There's a pause. Then, "I'll sleep on it."

"Why don't you sleep on the bloody election as well-"

"I'll sleep on it."

Uncle David doesn't shout, but his voice is firm and low. Next to her, Libbie feels Nancy straighten a little, and watches her eyes brighten, a look of pride touching her face.

Bea turns round, wrapping her arms around her knees. "What's he sleeping on?"

Nancy shrugs. "Something about Uncle Nick. Can you see the-"

"I can't see the door." Bea scrambles up to lean dangerously over the bannisters, peering at the door, beyond which the meeting is taking place.

"You can't see because you can't read-" mutters Will, heading into dangerous territory. "Because you're _stupid."_

_"Bea-"_ Libbie dives too late, and Nancy spins as Bea launches herself up the stairs. Her hand fastens around her brother's leg and holds him there, even as he giggles, trying to pull away.

_"Bea-"_ Libbie tries to pull at her friend's shoulders, but it makes no difference as Bea, mouth free and vicious, sinks her teeth into her brother's leg.

Will screams. Fortunately for the children, Elwen's next to him to muffle the sound and at the same exact moment, the kettle begins to boil loudly. Bea holds on viciously, her green eyes bright with fury, until Libbie loosens her mouth and Nancy pulls her back, hissing "Shut _up_, William-"

_"You bit me-"_

"Serves you right, _dickhead-"_ hisses Bea, her pretty little face contorted, the way both Libbie and Nancy have seen many times in their lives.

"That's a bad word-" Elwen remarks, turning back to the bannisters as Will rubs his leg, which has been left with the imprint of teethmarks and what looks like spots of blood rising, courtesy of Bea's sharp teeth.

"That's _ableist, _you _idiot"_ Libbie snaps at Will, while Nancy grips Bea's hand, turning it over and tracing her palm, reading her fortune, the way she does whenever the children do homework together and Bea, the only one with extra reading, is reluctant and therefore, snippy. Libbie doesn't believe in fortunes, but is happy to go along with it.

Behind them, Flo is trotting back down the stairs, dragging what looks like a small booster seat behind her. "My _seat"_ she announces triumphantly, curtailing any further fighting.

She places it on the steps above them and settles herself in it triumphantly. Libbie gets a glimpse of the name FLORENCE printed across the back.

"One of the ones Mr Obama gave us" Nancy says, off Libbie's look.

"What about the children?"

It's Auntie Sam's voice and the word _children_ pulls all their attention round. Nancy hushes her sister. Even Will stops sniffling.

"Well." There's a pause, then "Remember what we talked about?"

"No." Auntie Sam's voice is brittle, sharper in Liberty's ears. Auntie Sarah says something, too low for them to hear.

Libbie has a sudden recollection of being small, crouched on the floor, crawling with Nancy and Bea, Gita picking one or other of them up every moment or so and swinging them round, and Auntie Sam sitting on the couch, holding Ivan on one knee, supporting his head like a baby. She'd had the phone pressed to her ear, saying something about _school_ and _Ivan._ Her voice had been sharp and brittle, with Auntie Sarah and Mummy sitting on either side of her, Auntie Sarah's hand on her arm, but her finger stroked Ivan's cheek as gently as a baby's.

Now, Mr Crosby's saying "Well, we talked about you doing more media-"

"I'm happy to do that" Auntie Sam's saying. "I'm happy, as long as you understand that it'll be what I think-"

"What you think-"

"What I think that might not necessarily-necessarily always be what the party thinks, so if you're OK with-"

"What the party thinks-"

"If you're OK with that, that's fine, I'm happy to-but you do have to be OK with that."

There's a short silence. Then, Craig's voice. "Well. We can sort of-fine-tune the details later--"

Liberty grins, remembering Auntie Sam helping her sew her suffragette outfit. _This'll shut your dad up_, she'd said amiably, which had been entirely Liberty's intention.

"What about the children?"

Nancy reaches up to stroke Flo's hand.

"What about the-"

"What about the children?" That's Uncle David and Auntie Sarah, at once.

"Miliband's are going to be filmed. In fact, he's had them filmed at conferences, a few times."

_"Conferences?"_

"Yeah, I thought that was a bit OTT myself. But, the fact remains, it's an election-"

"So what are you saying?" Auntie Sam.

"Well." A pause, then-"How much-how much do you want the kids involved, is what I'm saying-"

There's a clatter or what sounds like a clatter.

Elwen frowns. "Does that mean us-"

"They're not _being-"_

"Sam and I don't want the kids involved-" Uncle David's voice is placating, calming, and for some reason, Libbie pictures him placing a comforting hand on Auntie Sam's arm. She won't realise it now, but she's remembering another time, when she was much smaller, her feet kicking back and forth under the table, while Uncle David held forkfuls of food to her mouth.

"No" she'd said, her giggles breaking high from her mouth. "No, no, no-"

Uncle David's hand had been tickling under her chin, while Nancy waved her own spoon about next to her. "Open wide-"

"No-"

"I'll put one of them in your tummy-"

Nancy had been burbling next to her. Uncle David had been smiling over his shoulder at Ivan, who was propped on Auntie Sam's lap, tube running under his shirt, and he'd leaned back to touch his wife's arm gently. Liberty had been impressed when she was held up to him earlier, allowed to take a look at the cut in his tummy, which got Ivan's food in more quickly, Uncle David explained.

"I can't have one of those in my _tummy-"_

"You can. You can-"

Liberty had been giggling, her knees drawn up in her seat, while Ivan yawned.

"Look-" A chair screeches back. "I know you want to protect the kids. But this is a step up from last time."

"What are you suggesting, Lynton?" Auntie Sam's voice is colder now. Nancy's cheek presses into the bannisters, and Bea, seemingly forgetting her earlier annoyance, and Libbie exchange glances, before Libbie hoicks her chin into Nancy's shoulder.

There's a moment of silence, then Craig's voice. "We were thinking. One clip. At home with the kids-"

Something bangs down on the table. _"No."_

"Sam-" That's Auntie Sarah, and Libbie hears a chair screech back.

"No-we agreed this. We agreed, Dave-they won't be filmed. Not after last time-"

"You two will be totally in control of-"

"No. No _way."_

"This isn't-"

"It's not like last time-"

"So we don't need to film our kids, do we?"

"It isn't the kids' choice to be in the public eye" Uncle David says, the first time he's spoken in several minutes. "We don't want them to have their faces out there-"

"For God's sake-"

"Look, we don't have to-we can work round it-" Craig's saying, another chair screeching back. "We don't have to show the kids' faces."

"You don't have to _show them_ at all."

Auntie Sarah's voice breaks in-"What do you mean, you wouldn't show their-"

"We could just use shots of the backs of their heads. We could use pixelations-"

"Oh, fantastic." Auntie Sam's voice cuts the air in two. "They can all walk around with giant blobs in front of their faces."

Elwen collapses into giggles, clearly taken with the image, as does Will next to him. _"Blobs-"_

Liberty scrabbles to slap a hand over his mouth, but it's Nancy who says, voice lower, "Shut up, El."

"Sam-" Uncle David's voice is lower too. "Calm down-"

"Don't tell me to calm down."

There's a silence, then "I don't want the kids having to speak for us on camera." Uncle David's voice coincides with a mug being banged down on the counter and Auntie Sarah's voice, low and murmuring, too quiet to hear.

"It feels exploitative. I won't do that to them."

There's a snort. "Oh, for God's-"

"Hey." It's Craig. "Look. We can-" Another chair. "It's just a point for consideration, Sam. We don't have to decide anything, though. Not tonight."

"No." It's Auntie Sam's voice. "We don't_ have_ to decide anything tonight."

Next to Libbie, Nancy frowns.

There's another silence, then Auntie Sam's voice, low, steady. "I can tell you right now if we do anything, it's only if the kids are fine with it."

"Oh, for-"

"No-" Uncle David's voice is firm. "Really. If anything is done, it isn't being done if they're not happy with it."

There's another silence. Then, "You know it'll look strange, though. If the Milibands are doing it-"

"Yeah, well. The Milibands."

Liberty suddenly remembers something, and isn't quite sure why it pops into her head. She remembers scrambling down from the dinner table, her bare feet shocked by the cool of the wooden floor and toddling her way up to Auntie Sam, who was holding Ivan. "Ivan, kissy-"

"Careful, Libbie-" Dad had been holding her suddenly, round the waist. "Ivan's ill, remember. Be gentle-"

"It's all right-" Uncle David had crouched down next to her, taking her gently from Dad. "Here, Libbie-"

Auntie Sam had moved Ivan round towards her, speaking quietly to him. "Libbie, Ivan. Libbie's come to give you a cuddle-"

Ivan's eyes had stared past her. Libbie had thought how nice they looked, big and dark, and his face soft and white around them like cream, with lovely thick dark hair, that she'd once tried to stroke before Dad had stopped her and told her she had to be gentle.

"Ive-Ive-" Nancy, who'd been at a burbling stage, had toddled up next to her, touching her brother's hand. "Ive-Ive-" and Luke, bigger, had stumbled over as well, with Dad taking him carefully round the waist. "Careful, Luke-"

Libbie had reached out very carefully. _"Ivan-"_ She'd tapped his forehead once very gently, like Uncle David had taught her, and then twice more, and waited for his eyes to move, to tell Ivan someone was there. Then, carefully, she'd pressed her mouth to Ivan's cheek. "Big kiss, Ivan" she'd said, touching his hair and delighted to find it was as soft as it looked.

Ivan didn't make a noise, but his eyes moved to her for a minute and then moved away. Dad had kissed her cheek, hard. "Good girl-"

Liberty is interrupted in this memory by the sound of footsteps heading towards the stairs.

Nancy freezes. "Come on-"

It's Luke, surprisingly, who takes the initiative to seize Florence under her arms and swing her over his shoulder. Bea, Nancy and Libbie scramble up the stairs together, legs nearly tangling in their haste, whilst Elwen manages to grab Florence's chair, tugging it clumsily behind him and nearly tripping up Will. It is in this distinctly unsubtle manner that the seven children manage to stumble down the corridor towards the den, where they are greeted by a volley of barks and promptly tumble into the room, with Florence squealing, the seat falling, and Lola barking excitedly, thrilled at this new game of racing down the corridors, tripping all of them up and making them profoundly grateful for the liberal beanbags which scatter the room, ensuring each child a safe landing.

* * *

It is odd, George muses, as he glances at Michael across the table, sometimes, not to be the three of them.

He and David alone is never a problem; and nor are David and Michael alone-in fact, they go back further than David and George do.

It's not that George doesn't regard himself and Michael as close-they are, undoubtedly, even outside of David's friendship. It's just that, through a strange combination of circumstances, when they're together, it's usually with David-they're rarely just _together._

But they both know David well as a result, as Michael is about to prove.

"David isn't going to take Clegg's seat, is he?" Michael says without preamble, unwittingly proving George's point.

George, acknowledging this with a rueful nod, glances up at Michael, who's fastidiously polishing his glasses. "No" he says bluntly, leaning back in his chair and closing his menu. "Of course he isn't. He won't tell us that, though. Yet."

Michael takes a careful sip of water. "It was always a danger, though. Him getting close to Clegg."

And other people.

"Well, taking Clegg's seat was always going to be a challenge" George muses, mainly to distract his thoughts from that worrying _other people_ tangent. "Though Labour are hitting him up there and the last thing we want is them gifted with another seat."

Michael dabs at his lips with a corner of his napkin. George watches with some amusement. "True. Though Clegg's seat's only one, isn't it?"

"Of course. We're going to be pushing for as many as we can down south." George hesitates, but Michael can be trusted. "Though Lynton reckons it's not us that'll wipe Labour out north of the border."

Michael looks up over his glasses then, his eyes glittering. "The SNP?"

George grins. "Never thought I'd be grateful for nationalism."

Michael snorts. George takes a moment to absorb the relative peace of the restaurant around them.

The restaurant is one of Downing Street's secrets that most people wouldn't believe existed, tucked away in the hidden depths of the building. It's anything but dark, the gentle lighting often doing a good job of waking George up as he waits, grumpy and a little dishevelled, for kippers in anticipation of a morning meeting.

"Danny's seat's north of the border, isn't it?"

George glances up, knowing that Michael knows this perfectly well. "Yep. Inverness."

Michael seems to be taking a long time to adjust his glasses, in a manner that could almost remind George of someone else he's just been speaking to. "So-I surmise his seat is in the same condition."

"Yep." George takes a sip of wine a little too quickly.

"That doesn't bother you?" Michael glances up at him. "That Danny'll-"

George knows better than to deny it. So he settles for merely looking Michael straight in the eye. "This is what happens" he says, sounding more immovable than perhaps he means to. "It'd be stupid to wish it didn't if that gave them a majority." There's no chance, of course, that the Lib Dems will get a majority, but that doesn't matter. Even a chance-even no chance-has to be treated as a possibility, these days.

Michael just watches him for a moment, and then "Did you speak to him?"

He doesn't mean Danny.

George allows himself the smallest of grins. "Yeah."

"George." The voice had been soft, as carefully-enunciated as ever on the other end of the phone. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"Heard you've done us rather a good turn on _Newsnight_, Peter."

"Ah. So things haven't remained as-private-as I'd hoped."

"It seems not. Any chance you'd tell me what prompted it?"

"Well, I'm sure if you can wait for my interview, you'll see for yourself, Chancellor."

"I was thinking more of your motivation."

"Ah-" Peter is one of the few people in the world who would use _"Ah"_ non-ironically. "Was that not clear?"

"Miliband giving you too much of a break with New Labour, then?"

"I'm sure you know it's wildly against my moral code to brief against my leader."

George had almost snorted, then. Almost.

"Well" he'd said, careful himself. "Given your leader was accepting invitations from rather high places over the weekend, maybe he's not planning to break with all the traditions of New Labour after all."

There had been a moment of silence. It's not often that Peter Mandelson is prone to moments of silence. Not unintentional ones, anyway.

"And what-" The Prince of Darkness's voice murmured in his ear. "Do you mean by that?"

Now, George relays the conversation to Michael.

"Are you sure you should have told him?"

"Same way Theresa's sure she shouldn't have let Philip buy that iPad." They grin for a moment before George says, more seriously "If anything came out, it would harm Miliband as much as David. Far more, probably. Why do you think David told Blair?" George takes a bite of the bread that arrived midway through the conversation. "They've got something on us-we've got more on them."

"I'd really rather they missed out on something on us, to be honest" grumbles Michael, carefully tearing a piece of bread himself.

"Well, it'll create more ructions between Miliband and his team" George opines with some satisfaction, leaning back in his seat. "Which can only be a good thing."

Michael frowns. "Are you bothered?"

"About what?"

"Miliband coming to Chequers."

George takes a moment to answer, spreading his knife in slow, careful strokes over his bread. "I'm not bothered by him being there" he says slowly, when he can no longer pretend to find the butter fascinating. "The only way it's a problem is if-it starts impairing either of their judgement."

Michael watches him over his glasses. "You're worried."

George doesn't deny it. He picks up his piece of bread, crumbling it between his fingers. "There was this-" He sighs, wondering how best to put it into words.

"Moment" he eventually settles on, glancing up at Michael and feeling the door bang open again under his palm, the sudden assault of chlorine in his nostrils, as his eyes fell on the blue water and-

"They were-"

Michael stares at him. "Well?" he demands impatiently, when George doesn't finish.

"I don't know." George sighs, glances again at the bread, which he's resumed crumbling. "That's the thing. They weren't _doing_ anything. They were just-"

He glances up, suddenly rather desperate to make Michael understand. "Very _close_-and-it didn't-"

Michael's watching him apprehensively, eyes seeming larger than usual behind his glasses in the soft light.

"There was just-something. They were-closer than they should be" says George, suddenly running out of steam. "That's all-it wasn't-"

Maybe he's tired of trying to make Michael understand when he doesn't even really understand himself.

"It was just-odd" he says slowly. "That's all-it was like-" He looks up again. "When something just feels-wrong. Do you know what I mean?"

Michael's brow crinkles. "I suppose so. When things just don't seem to-click-"

"The way they should do. Exactly." George looks back at the bread. "Like Frances said."

"About what?"

"About things not clicking." George takes a bite of bread. "But not about David and Ed-David and Miliband. She meant Miliband's kids."

It had been an all-too-brief moment, sitting at the table, watching the children kick their legs, stuffing sweet treats into their mouths. George's eyes had hovered on Daniel and Sam, noting the way Miliband seemed reluctant to touch them, holding their wrists instead of their hands.

He'd glanced up to see Frances, watching him watch them.

"Yeah" she'd said, exactly as if he'd spoken to her. "Weird, isn't it?"

"Them?" George had looked again, this time noting the way Daniel leaned away from his father so Miliband's hands brushed his shoulders a little too late. "Well-it doesn't seem to-"

"I know." Frances had sighed, barely audibly, glancing up at Miliband and the boys under her eyelashes. "I should have-I suppose I should have known. With Justine." A pause, then "For Justine, really."

That had made George look up. "For-"

"Yes." Frances had just shaken her head suddenly, her eyes still on the boys. "It's just-something about her doesn't fit with-"

George had frowned, seized with a sudden knowing, peripheral but strong. (Unbeknownst to him, if he ever mentioned it to Samantha, she'd have known the feeling immediately.) "You didn't go to their wedding, did you?"

"No." Frances had glanced at him briefly, then back at the boys. "Hag do, though." George had snorted. "And the afterparty. And that was weird. They-"

"What?"

Frances had taken a moment to answer. "They don't fit together. They're not like-" She'd sighed suddenly. "You know when the kids had jigsaw puzzles and they used to shove two pieces that didn't fit into each other?"

"Yeah-"

"Well, they're not like that. They're like two pieces that are just lying next to each other, with absolutely nothing between them. Flat and plain. Like wheat." Frances had shaken her head suddenly. "Do you know what they said about their honeymoon at that party? They were going to Seville because it had _political significance."_

George had almost choked on his tea. "You're joking" he'd said, once he could breathe again.

"No" Frances had said, an odd shadow touching her face. "No, no, I'm not."

There'd been a short silence, then "He came home early, too. Ed. He came home a day early. They came back separately."

George, watching Miliband sit next to his sons and not look at them once, had felt something uneasy stir in his chest.

"I thought you liked Justine" he'd burst out suddenly, a little more quickly than he'd meant to.

"I do" Frances had said quietly, watching them from under her eyelashes. "That's what makes it so-"

She'd shrugged. "Maybe I should have-"

She hadn't finished the sentence. And George had watched her watch Miliband, and watched Miliband and his sons not watch each other.

Now, he relates this exchange to Michael. "Do you know what the first thing Miliband said was?" he asks, tearing into another piece of bread. "On their wedding day?"

"No. What?"

_""Why didn't you wave?"_ At the cameras. That was the first thing he said to her. After they were married. _"Why didn't you wave?""_

Michael's face contorts a little. "Well, let's face it. It's not as though we didn't know that the whole thing was politically motivated. Some of his strategists have as good as _admitted_ it-new definition of _marriage of convenience-"_

"Well, yeah. But something about it-" George shakes his head, unable to convey the odd feeling of unease that had twisted in his stomach, hearing those words as he watched Miliband. "Something about it. Didn't _fit-"_

"Like with David and Miliband?"

There's a moment of silence.

Then, "No" George says slowly. _"They_ fit too well."

He trails off with his eyes on Michael's face. "I suppose-"

He shakes his head. "It's just-strange."

"Well" Michael says, after a long moment. "Maybe we should just....keep an eye on things."

George glances down at the bread he's annihilating between his hands. "Yes" he says. "I suppose so."

Their eyes meet and look away, with Michael dwelling on the gap that always stretches a little too wide between Miliband and his wife, and George dwelling on that moment when the gap between David and Ed seemed a little too narrow, and both of them dwelling on their own children and David's, playing several floors above them, blissfully unaware of everything they're discussing and everything they're waiting for.

* * *

Peter has been waiting for the bang on the door.

He sighs, glancing at his watch as the buzzer rings, barely hearing the garbled voice of the security guard outside-half an hour later than he was expecting.

He sighs, turns to the microphone. "Tell him I'll be there to greet him."

He pours a mug of hot chocolate, squirts it liberally with whipped cream, heads to the hallway, waits until the banging commences again and then pulls the door open.

Alastair glowers at him, apparently unable to decide what to shout at Peter about first, which is a depressingly familiar state of events.

"Why are you in your dressing gown?" he barks, apparently lighting upon this as more irritating than the rest of the situation put together.

"Because it's quarter to twelve at night, Alastair" Peter says calmly, still holding out the hot chocolate. "And do keep your voice down. Reinaldo's trying to sleep."

Alastair looks as though he might explode, but somehow manages to contain himself until they're inside and in the kitchen with the door closed.

"What the_ hell_ were you fucking-"

"Does Fiona know you're here?" Peter pushes the hot chocolate towards him and takes a sip of his own.

Alastair ignores it. "What the_ hell_ were you doing? The whole fucking policy is now fucking open season to the press-"

"The only reason you're so angry is because you know I was right" says Peter lazily, taking a sip of his own hot chocolate.

For a moment, he thinks Alastair might actually explode. He takes the opportunity to gulp more of his hot chocolate.

"Are you fucking-"

"The mansion tax, while well-intentioned, is an incoherent policy" says Peter smoothly, dabbing away whipped cream from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "And it's suicide with voters."

Alastair grinds his teeth, a sure sign that he doesn't like whatever conclusion he's coming to.

"It's anti-aspirational" Peter says, quietly pressing his advantage. "And that could do for us."

"It's Ed's policy" Alastair says, almost through gritted teeth. "It's not fucking rocket science to look loyal to your fucking _leader."_

"It's better that Ed sees the policy's nonsensical now, rather than when he's trying to run into an election with it" Peter says, ostensibly peaceably, before "He'll have enough problems to be going on with."

Alastair grinds his teeth. Peter pushes the hot chocolate towards him once again. This time, Alastair accepts it.

"It's not nonsensical" he announces defiantly, after a sip. "It's just not fucking _right_, and Ed doesn't want to fucking _see_ that."

Peter laughs. "Well. Ed isn't exactly-_open_, shall we say, to the idea of his proposals not working."

Alastair snorts. "Don't you think I've tried to fucking tell him that in those bloody rehearsals? It's like talking to the fucking speaking clock-"

"So-" Peter steeples his fingers over the mug. "Is there a reason I'm being tarred and feathered?"

"Oh, fuck off. You know why-you didn't bloody stick to the bloody message-that's how we've always won in the past-"

"That's how we won with New Labour" Peter reminds him. "This isn't New Labour."

Alastair's scowl says he's reminded of that more often than he'd like.

"That's still how we won" he rallies a little. "By putting out an agreed message and sticking to it."

"Because then we had an agreed message" Peter points out softly. "And coherent policies. And a weak government and a weak Prime Minister to oppose."

He pauses, carefully. "And a popular leader."

Alastair scowls. "The message helped. We'd have bloody fallen apart without it."

"Of course" Peter agrees. "But that alone wouldn't have done it. And that was then. This time, it's completely different."

Alastair makes a small scoffing sound and Peter looks up, alarm stirring faintly in his chest.

"Being united around a weak message is as bad as not being united around any message" he says very mildly, as Alastair blows moodily on the whipped cream. "You're in danger of believing your own propaganda. This isn't last time. This isn't New Labour."

Alastair scowls at him. "You helped _create _New Labour-"

"And I'm proud of it" Peter muses agreeably. "But I also know that this isn't it. Ed wants to dismantle New Labour" he reminds him softly.

Alastair gulps his hot chocolate harder.

"You know he does."

"He's a fucking idiot" Alastair spits out loudly. "That's the ticket we ran three bloody elections on and won-"

"Maybe part of it makes sense" Peter suggests-off Alastair's look, he hastens to explain-"The country was ready for a change. Again. But Ed's problem-he's got nothing to replace it with. He only knows what he doesn't want to be."

"He wants a _Milibandism"_ Alastair sneers slightly, shaking his head as he takes another gulp of hot chocolate. "He wants to see himself as some glorious leader. And fucking undo all the work we did to make the party electable again."

"So much for not criticising our wonderful leader" Peter can't help but point out.

Alastair scowls at him. "Yeah. I'm doing it here in your bloody kitchen. Not in the fucking _Newsnight _studio, chatting to bloody Maitlis-"

"It was in an office, actually."

For a moment, Peter wonders if Alastair's going to throw the hot chocolate at him. But instead, Alastair takes a longer, deeper breath and says "This is what did for you last time."

Peter puts his mug down very slowly. "And which time" he says, dabbing his lips with care. "Were you referring to?"

Alastair looks as though he's fighting with himself for a moment, before his head flies up. "For fuck's sake. We told you about Robertson. We told you. We _always_ told you."

Peter can't help but raise an eyebrow. _"Tony_ told me about spending time with the rich?"

Alastair's mouth twitches and for a moment, Peter thinks he's going to laugh. But then his eyes harden. "We told you before Robertson and we fucking told you after Robertson and we kept _on _fucking telling you. And you-"

"This is nothing to do with that" Peter interrupts, carefully popping a marshmallow into the middle of his whipped cream. "This isn't me creating a problem, Alastair. This is me articulating a problem that already exists. It's _you _who's choosing not to see it."

This time, neither of them speak for a few moments.

"You still haven't helped" Alastair says, after a long silence.

Peter shrugs. "Perhaps it was ill-advised."

Alastair snorts. _"Perhaps."_

"But we needed to do something. Ed needed to get the message that that policy needs to vanish-"

"Ed doesn't get the message about anything." Peter can't decide if it's terrifying or not that Alastair's saying this with a whipped cream moustache on his top lip.

"He thinks the centre is a betrayal." Alastair rests his head on his hand. "He's dragging us back twenty fucking years-"

Peter chews a marshmallow contemplatively. "Is there-_no _other option?"

"Not since Alan wouldn't be persuaded." Alastair tips his head back. "We fucking _nearly_ had him."

"He doesn't want to take on a task like that at his age" Peter points out. "And even then, I had my doubts-" Peter's always been able to appreciate charm, that certain quality, in a way that Alastair is a little less willing to.

"We'd have had a damn sight better chance." Alastair kicks bitterly at the leg of his chair. "If I could go back, I'd do the whole fucking coup again-"

"Maybe we should have gone for mass resignations" Peter agrees, staring into his hot chocolate and reflecting how simple a hot drink makes life look. "It would have given the Tories a short-term tactical advantage, but-"

"Any leadership change would have done that, I know." Alastair sips his drink testily. "And he can't know-" With a sudden warning look at Peter. "He can't."

Peter manages a smile. "Eddie's confidence may take a knock?"

Alastair snorts. "You must be joking. If I thought that was what would fucking happen, I'd bloody tell him myself."

It's not often that Peter looks surprised these days, but he knows from Alastair's slight grin that this is one of those rare occasions.

"His confidence-in his fucking ideas, at least-isn't the problem. He's caught up in some bloody utopian hero-narrative where he gets to walk in and slay the fucking dragon. I'd say he was read too many fairytales as a kid, except I'd be surprised if his parents read him _any _fucking fairytales."

Peter can't disagree there, thinking of little Daniel Peter.

Alastair shakes his head. "He's got this stupid fucking idea that the entire country will follow him away from the centre and join him in singing The Fucking Red Flag."

Peter can't resist. "To think people once said you were more Old Labour-"

Alastair glares at him. "I've got enough fucking sense to know it's not what the country want. You've got to go_ to_ them-even Cameron recognised that. Ed wants them to come to him. And he thinks they will. He's one fucking step off quoting fucking _Field Of Dreams."_

Peter sighs and stirs his hot chocolate. "He's a problem. If only it was-"

"Don't say it-"

"You're thinking it."

_"Everyone's_ thinking it. If it was David, we'd be a lot fucking closer to a majority." Alastair glares suddenly. "I'll never forgive you for not talking him out of it."

Peter sighs. "All I did was merely advise-"

"Yeah, well, your fucking _merely advising-"_

"Besides, it wasn't me who encouraged him to stand." Peter pauses, feeling his lip curl a little. "It was _her."_

Alastair's brow creases. "Ah."

There's another silence, and then "Besides. Ed isn't quite as inflexible as he might seem."

Alastair frowns. "What do you mean?"

Peter pauses, weighing the words carefully.

It's an odd feeling, giving himself and George what he knows they both want without either one of them saying it. But one Peter's oddly used to.

"Well, when he visited Cameron this weekend-"

Alastair freezes. Peter wonders briefly if he should have made him put down the hot chocolate first.

"What?"

"That's right. For Cameron's daughter's birthday, apparently. He and his kids were invited." Peter takes another sip of his own hot chocolate. "Didn't you know?"

Alastair is staring at him, cheeks bulging with hot chocolate. They hold eyes for a moment before Alastair promptly spits the hot chocolate out everywhere.

_"Honestly."_ Peter eyes the puddle with distaste, until it occurs to him that it'll now fall to him to clean it up, at which he shudders. "This floor's just been _cleaned."_

Alastair seems to place little importance on this, instead leaping up off the chair to stare at Peter with the expression of a man whose cares are a little beyond hot chocolate. _"He went WHERE?!"_

Peter breaks off from reconciling himself to dealing with the clean-up operation to hiss disapprovingly. _"Alastair-"_

_"WHAT?!"_

Peter points upwards meaningfully. Alastair looks as though he might explode before turning round and, without a backwards glance, storms into Peter's larder and slams the door.

The next few minutes are fairly peaceful, as Peter mops up the floor, punctuated only by the sounds of ferocious banging from within the larder. There's a brief interruption in the form of Reinaldo who comes downstairs to inquire about the source of the noise.

He glances in the direction of the larder, from where it sounds rather as though someone is attempting to pull the room apart. "What's that?"

"Alastair." Peter tells him simply.

"Ah. Make sure he watches his head." Reinaldo disappears upstairs again.

With this advice ringing in his ears, Peter allows the banging to continue for a few more minutes before judging whether it's safe enough to open the door. As it happens, he doesn't have to-the door flies open of its' own accord, almost hitting him in the face.

"Have you destroyed everything in there?" he asks peaceably, approaching the larder himself to take a look.

Having assured himself that the larder has survived the assault relatively unscathed, he turns back to see Alastair fumbling with his phone.

"No." Peter grabs at it. "Give that to me-"

"Get the fuck off it-"

_"Give it_ to me-" Peter half-twists himself over Alastair's shoulders and, by dint of much wriggling, manages to partly prize the phone free. "Don't make me tackle you-I'm far too benign these days-"

Alastair snorts, but by dint of his own strength, manages to twist away. Compared to Peter, Alastair is built like a barn door, as they both know.

"You are not phoning Ed." Peter refuses to loosen his hold. "It's past midnight. You'll sound like Tony in the dying days."

Alastair makes a snarling sound-whether because he's not being allowed to vent his spleen or because Peter's reminded him of the dying days, Peter isn't sure.

"You will sound absurd."

Alastair snarls again.

"Plus, we'll have to talk to _her."_

Alastair stills.

Peter holds on until he's sure Alastair isn't going to throw the phone to his ear anyway, then slowly releases him.

Alastair immediately throws the phone to his ear. Peter dives, but Alastair's already moved it away and holds it up so he can see-the screen is blank.

Alastair gives Peter the ghost of his usual grin, but it disappears almost instantly. "He's getting a carpeting, though."

"Well-"

"Nope. No _well._ This isn't a fucking _well_ situation. This is a fucking _carpeting_ situation."

"What for, exactly?"

Alastair swells. It's a sight to behold. "What _for-"_

"You had Tory friends" Peter says smoothly. "Have Tory friends. So do I. We had dinner with Hague and Duncan Smith and Howard-"

"It's not the fucking _same_, Peter-"

"Why isn't it?"

Alastair sighs and tilts his head back-perhaps despairing of such ignorance, perhaps simply trying not to yell.

"Cameron is his _opponent"_ he says, as one would to a small or stupid child. "It doesn't-meals and speeches, they can't be fucking avoided. But going to-going to _parties-"_

He spits out the word _parties_, as though it's a particularly disgusting swear word.

"And that's not all."

"What else is there?"

Alastair gives Peter an impatient, appraising sort of look. "You remember before-"

"Before-"

"When Cameron was Leader of the Opposition, doing the fucking Heir to Blair stuff. Hugging huskies and being all green-"

"Yes-"

It takes Alastair a moment to spit it out.

"Well, you remember what Ed was like. Constantly fucking defending him to Gordon. Telling Gordon to take Cameron more _seriously,_ that he wasn't _like _other Tories_-Jesus-"_

Peter, for once, is silent.

"He _liked_ Cameron" Alastair manages, gripping the back of a chair. "He always has done. I can fucking tell by-"

"By what?"

Alastair laughs then, a little bitterly. "Because of how much _now_ he won't shut up about how he doesn't. God, I remember him doing that fucking interview-_well, it'll be easier because, I, I don't love David Cameron-_I mean, _who_ in Christ's name brings _love_ into it?" Alastair looks as if given his own way, anyone so much as daring to _breathe_ the word_ love_ in his presence would have it smacked around their heads.

"They said his relationship with_ that_ David was more straightforward" he says, almost as an aside. Then, "It's the same thing he does with his brother. The same thing Tony used to do with Gordon. Just the other way round." Off Peter's look, Alastair rolls his eyes. "You know. All the TB/GB joint unit stuff-"

"I remember that." Peter looks at Alastair for a long moment over his fingers. "Though if anything came out, this wouldn't affect either of them negatively publicly-"

"It's not the public I'm concerned about."

Peter blinks. "I feel rather as though I just witnessed the apocalypse."

Alastair doesn't laugh. Peter pauses, weighing the situation carefully, before "Doing anything tonight won't make any difference. Wait until after PMQs-"

For a moment, he thinks Alastair's going to actually fly off the floor. "After _PMQ-"_

"They're going to be difficult enough this week" Peter interjects firmly. "With that article-"

Alastair almost punches the table. "Fucking _Winter._ And fucking _Baldwin_-where the _fuck's _the counter-briefing, he's fucking _useless,_ he was useless when he was a fucking _hack _ringing me up, and he's fucking useless _now-"_

"And I thought you were the best of friends, once upon a time."

Alastair swells ominously.

"Two days won't make a difference" Peter says steadily. "He's not going to get overly attached to Cameron during that time."

Alastair's eyes bulge, as though he's going to blow up. "He'd better _not _get bloody attached. If I think he's even_ close_ to becoming bloody attached, I will personally bloody _go_ round there and fucking _de_-tach him myself, in as very fucking _painful _a manner as fucking _possible-"_

Peter lets this pass. Instead, he says mildly "When does your book tour start?"

Alastair blinks and scowls, the way he always does when cut off in mid-rant or praised. "Next few months."

Peter nods, gestures to a chair. "You're combining that with the campaign. When's your next book out?"

Alastair condescends to answer. "Next October's when we're aiming for. Volume of diaries-"

Peter nods, mentally noting that this is one of the incidents that Alastair will probably choose to neglect to include in the published version of his diaries. "And when did you last sleep?"

Alastair's eyes meet his. Peter watches him steadily for a moment before Alastair says "I'm not a fucking invalid."

"I know you're not" Peter says mildly. "Now. Finish your hot chocolate and I shall see about getting you a taxi."

He knows they're both remembering somewhere else.

_Jesus, Peter, did you know-did you see anything about him-_

_What is it? What's happened to him-_

_It's Ali, it's Ali, he's had a fucking-up in Scotland, he's at a police station-_

_What?_

_He's-he's broken, he's broken or something-he doesn't know who he-we need to get him out-we need to get him somewhere safe-_

"Not an _invalid"_ Alastair scowls again, condescending to take a sip of hot chocolate.

Peter sighs. "No" he says, taking a sip of his own. "But you will be if Fiona finds out you haven't slept."

Alastair rolls his eyes, but gulps his hot chocolate a little more quickly after that.

* * *

Ed lies still, trying to breathe slowly. It's OK. It's OK. It's OK.

The boys are asleep-long-asleep, though he didn't think to check them until he was going to bed. He'd only been squinting from the doorway, but it had looked even then as though their little foreheads were furrowed in their sleep.

Ed usually likes to stay up later. Whenever he goes to bed early, he tends to lie awake, mind working over everything he should be getting done until he doesn't even have to hold onto the words-they're just there, like a heartbeat behind his eyes, until sometimes he just gets up and does whatever he can't stop thinking about.

But tonight, Justine suggested they go to bed early, which means she thinks they should...

Ed supposes they should. It's what they're meant to do, isn't it?

They're married. The children are asleep.

He should _want _to do it, probably.

This is, he supposes, what people do. Ed's limited knowledge of other people's sex lives-and it's not a topic many have ever discussed with him-is that they seem to make time for it. It seems to be important.

Ed lies still, waiting. Justine's getting ready. He tries to calm his breathing, to fix his mind somewhere else. To pull into his head something he can recite, something he knows-

Ed does want to do this, he tells himself.

He wants to want to do this.

His stomach tightens. He curls his fingers over and over again.

He tries to focus on something he knows. Somewhere he can make his mind disappear, when panic tightens his chest, hollowing out his stomach.

The door opens and Justine appears, dressed in a nightie, hair a little flyaway, and Ed bites his lip hard as she perches on the edge of the bed.

"Are the boys asleep?" He asks it quickly, praying she'll say no, one of them's woken up, what a shame, and he'll have to go and see to it, and by the time it's been dealt with and sent safely back to sleep again, they'll both be too tired and it'll be too late, and maybe she's too tired _now..._

"Yeah, they seem to be" Justine says, propping herself up against the pillow, leaving Ed with a horrible jolt of something worse than disappointment-his stomach dropping, as though he's a fox that's just discovered its' leg is caught in a trap. "So, we'd better..."

Ed swallows.

It's not Justine, he tells himself. (Part of that's true, but Ed won't admit it to himself for a while, yet.) But Ed's never really-_got it_ with-

_We'll have to set you up with someone_, Catherine had said to him in one of the Oxford bars, tossing her hair, dark eyes dancing, as if it was that easy. _You can't be the only one who's never got-_

She'd winked at him. Gautam had laughed, slapping Ed on the shoulder.

Ed had smiled weakly, hand gripping round the oddly clammy glass of warm beer, trying to nod his head, staring at the amber liquid _Oh God, oh God, make them stop, talk about something else, something else, something, oh God, please, please, please-_

It just seems so-

"Oh. Right." He turns to face Justine, his heart pounding achingly hard in his chest, his thoughts still scrabbling for something, anything else to say, to put this off, or just make it _not happen-_

He presses his mouth awkwardly to Justine's and closes his eyes, welcoming in the blackness, trying to lose his thoughts there.

Her mouth is warm. Ed drags his thoughts away, fastening them onto something, anything-

_Robert Walpole, Whig, MP for King's Lyn-_

He falls into the pattern easily, holding onto the familiar names and dates like a child with a nursery rhyme.

_1721-1742-_

Justine tugs his hand to the bottom of her nightie and then higher, past her knickers, which he can feel brushing his hand-

_Resigned after losing vote of no confidence over-_

Justine's skin is warm underneath his hands. Ed squeezes his eyes shut, tries to push away his stomach lurching.

"Here-put your head-here-" Justine manoeuvres his head carefully, so that it's sitting on her shoulder. "Here-OK-"

_Failings in the battle of Jenkin's Ear-_

Justine's kissing him. Ed barely knows what he's doing with his mouth-he can usually get through this, dragging his brain somewhere else, focusing on something-

_Spencer Compton, Whig_-

"Here-" Justine's tugging his shirt up over his head, busying herself with it, another task to manage, adjust around-

Ed isn't sure if that makes it better or worse.

_1742-1743-_

He's trying to force his arms up, even as they lie limp at his sides, weak with the feeling of wanting to get _out_, out of his skin, not feeling this-

_Died in office-_

He opens his eyes, then closes them again. He's trying to smile, counting the minutes, his heart beating horribly fast, tears wanting to prick at his eyes, _please, please stop-_

_Henry Pelham, Henry Pelham-_

His shirt is over his head. There's a rush of air on his chest and then he drops his arms down, feeling stupid but dragging himself out of his body-

_Whig, 1743-1754-_

Justine's hands are warm on his chest and they're gentle, but they move learnedly, clinically, and something about the sheer routine of them sends a shiver to Ed's bones. He feels sick, and frightened, and then Justine's tugging his hands to her nightie and she's pulling them up to make her take it off-

_Died in office, died in office, died in office-_

(He remembers that day, cheeks aching with trying to grin correctly, standing there with the wind buffeting their hair and clothes, trying to meet the eyes of the cameramen or the lenses and not being sure-)

"Here-" and he has to open his eyes for another few moments, getting a snatched glimpse of Justine with her hair a little mussed, but her eyes clear, he realises-the way they are when she's going through some kind of list in her head, some routine she needs to complete-

"Here-" She takes his hand-hers' isn't shaking, but there's no look on her face-she doesn't look excited or overwhelmed or anything-just her usual look, eyes slightly too wide, freckles sprinkled darker on her forehead, pulling his hand up to-

Ed's grateful, because he can shut his eyes now. He can shut them because that's what men do, isn't it? They shut their eyes. They like it.

_Most guys like that,_ Liz had said when she'd fastened her mouth around him, warm and wet and _too much, too much_, and Ed had cried out, pushing her off by the shoulder and scrambling away, hating the feeling of it, sticky and wet and wrong, so jarringly wrong he felt sick with it. Liz's arms had been around his shoulders, but Ed had been trembling, sick with how wrong it felt, how-

He was pulled-apart inside, everything sliding around, and that's how it is now, and-

He's got his eyes closed and he thinks he's moving his hands up and down, he thinks, he's not sure-

_How long's left_, screaming inside his skull. _How long, how long does this go on for_-because there must be a time-limit, there must be some way of knowing when it's acceptable to _stop, please, please-_Justine's hands are on his bare back, guiding him round to face her-_make it stop, just make it be over, just make it-_

_Can we have a kiss now, please?_ one of them had been yelling that day, Cockney accent a twang through his voice, and Ed had felt his spine grow rigid in his suit, that felt tight and awkward, even as Justine laughed a little next to him, the way she must have thought would be acceptable, her wedding dress blowing across his legs, and _please, please, don't make me-_

_Come on, she's lovely_ and oh God, please, don't-

And then Justine had squeezed his hand ever so slightly and he'd turned to look at her and before he could stop her, she'd leaned up and simply touched their mouths against each other. Slightly longer than a peck, but not doing anything, their mouths just leaning against each other.

There'd been a chorus of awws and then _And again, please, sir-_

_And again, please-_

_Oh God, oh God, oh God-_

He'd been quicker this time, pressing their mouths together a little more so that it was like they stuck together for a moment and then were tugged wetly apart again.

He'd stood there, his cheeks aching with the smile he'd somehow kept hold of, something hot and wet prickling at his eyes, and Ed had stood there, feeling his legs shake, a horrible frightened, angry feeling gripping him from the inside, making him shiver, making him gabble out the words _Thank you very much_ almost before one of the journalists had finished her question-_Congratulations, have you had a nice day?_

_Fantastic day _was all he'd managed, the words feeling odd, robotic, distant in his mouth. _Fantastic day_ and to make up for it, he'd waved frantically, managing a _Hello_ at one of them he recognized, which he could hear was overbright when it left his mouth, even as one of them called out _Thank you so much for coming-_

Ed could have laughed then, because as if they were going to do anything else, when they needed the photographs, the normality of it all-

_Brilliant-_

_Let's have a wave-_

_All right, guys, is that all right, brilliant-_and Justine had been looking up at him, and he'd known she was willing him to do something, one more kiss, something to show they were a unit, joined, different, and he'd stared steadfastly away from her at the cameras, but-

_One more kiss?_ and Ed's stomach had turned over.

There'd been no getting away from it this time and when he'd turned to look at Justine, she'd already been tilting her head and he couldn't pull away.

This time, she'd pushed her mouth up to his and fastened it on for a moment, squeezing their lips together, before she pulled away, head darting back like a bullet.

_Can we have a wave-_

_All right-_

_Give us a wave, sir-_ and he had, one hand flying up into the air and flapping uselessly.

_How's it going so far? _someone had asked, even as Justine stepped back and then forward again, clearly realising her presence was still required, laughing a little. Ed wasn't sure if it was real or not.

_Very well_ he'd said, the words fitting themselves out between his teeth before he could think about them, knowing they were meant to be there. _Very well._

They'd stood there, the wind blowing around them, with the journalists saying something, to them or to each other, Ed wasn't sure, and an emptiness had gripped his stomach suddenly, something so empty and then the thought that this was it now, that they were married legally, and they had to get on with it and the coldness, the emptiness of it gripping his stomach-

He had to say something, something to make himself feel it, and so he'd forced it out, grinning an aching grin harder as he said it, curved around the words that he knew you were meant to say, that fit themselves out awkwardly through his lips and wedged there between them all: _Happiest day of my life._

He'd seen the fingers go to the shutters and it gripped him suddenly that he might be about to be asked for one last kiss, and then another, and then another, and then the wave of _no, no, no _had been gripping his throat and before they could say it, before it could spill out, too loud for him to pretend he hadn't heard, he'd yanked Justine's hand up to his mouth, barely pressed a kiss to the back of it, getting a fleeting impression of warm skin, and then let it drop again, shaking it a couple of times as a full stop to it all.

The _Awws_ had echoed in his ears and Ed had forced his smile bigger, praying that that would be OK, that there wouldn't be any more requests for-

_All right, guys, thanks very much-_one woman had been calling out then, and Ed had joined in with _Thank you very much_, for once, grateful for Justine's quick _Thank you_ at his side as she'd turned away, tugging at his hand.

_As you walk up_-as they turned back to the tree-lined drive-_could you just look over your shoulder, please-_and Ed had been so grateful there was nothing more required that he'd stepped round awkwardly to comply, his and Justine's arms extended between them, only their hands touching, a careful distance between their bodies.

_Bit more-that's lovely-_

Justine had been leaning into him a bit more and Ed's body had stiffened, his spine ramrod straight, his smile fixed, because he couldn't handle another kiss, he couldn't, and then one of them had been calling_ We're going to call it the long march of Labour!_

Ed had been so relieved that it had been a little easier to force out a laugh-for once, Justine's had come out as a little stiffer than his own. Maybe she'd thought another kiss would look better, but then they'd been saying _All right-_and that was it, they could go, it was over-

They hadn't said anything to each other as they'd walked back up the drive, Justine's hand still holding onto his, fingers a little too tight, and Ed had been grateful for the silence, trying to calm the horrible, clammy, cold feeling in his stomach, and the oddly scared, tearful feeling, shaky between his ribs.

And then they'd been shouting them again, and they'd had to turn again and stand under the trees and Justine had looked up at him, and he'd met her eyes and thought defiantly _I'm not doing it again. Don't make me do it again, I'm not-_

Perhaps it was that angry edge that had sharpened his words earlier, after they'd first walked out of Langar Hall.

He'd known he'd have to kiss her even as they stood outside the building, forcing his hand into hers', until they were given a quick signal and they had to walk slowly-_Remember to look at each other-_down towards the cameras as if they'd just ambled out of the sodding building in a wedding dress and a suit, and happened to bump into a bunch of paparazzi.

When they'd come to a stop, Justine still clutching her bouquet of white flowers in one hand, he'd looked at her awkwardly. _Do you want to do-_ he'd asked, wondering which of them should start it.

_Do you-_she'd said, meeting his eyes, clearly calculating which moving first would look best.

_Well-I don't know if-_ He'd been conscious of children laughing behind them on the lawns and had been gripped with the weird thought that one day, those children would be standing outside a hotel or a church, having just married, and he wondered if the way he was feeling then is how those children would feel on their wedding days, and if that was the way they imagined it would be now.

He'd looked at her a little pleadingly and she'd met his eyes, a little exasperated, and then put her mouth up to his quickly, just pushing them slightly together for a moment, and then pulled back before they'd both turned to the cameras, Ed wondering if that was it, that was enough, what they wanted.

_Congratulations_, one of them had said and Ed's head had slumped forward with relief, even as he managed _Thank you very much_, Justine's calmer _Thank you _next to him a little quieter.

_All right-everyone happy-_ a woman had been saying, but even before she'd finished, Justine had said _Bye-bye-_and was turning away, tugging his hand as she did so, so he'd had to go too.

Ed wasn't sure why anger had suddenly sharpened inside him at her tugging him away. Perhaps it was the fact that the pictures were the whole sodding reason they'd walked outside, that they were here, standing outside this building that Justine had chosen, that her parents wanted, standing there awkwardly, the whole reason he'd had to-

_Why didn't you wave?_ had been the first words he'd jabbed out at her, that stupid smile still curving his mouth as they walked up the path, his hand loose in hers'.

Justine had stared up at him, still holding her smile, but bemusement creeping into her eyes. _I don't know-_

Ed had looked away, anger smarting higher in his chest, then looked back at her, unable to stop himself throwing one hand in the air, exasperated. _Why didn't you-for God's sake-_

Conscious of the cameras behind him, he'd fallen silent, but their hands had been looser in each other and they'd remained silent as they walked back up the path, a little further away from each other now, the distance wedging itself between them until the clicking of the shutters reached their ears and Justine, without tightening her grip or smiling, brought their shoulders closer together until they brushed, to give the cameras a better shot.

And he should have welcomed it, because this would make things work, make things better, make things look better-

Justine's hands are going lower now, across his stomach, which tautens automatically and _please, please, just be over, just be done-_

He'd had to smile when Justine had turned to him inside with that beam she's perfected for when people are watching and said, _Ed, you have been worth the wait_, and a chorus of _Awws_ and applause had broken out, and he'd just sat there, beaming and hoping he was beaming in the right way-the same way he'd patted at her shoulder nervously as she dabbed at her eyes following his speech-hastily prepared, put off every time he'd thought about doing it because of the sharp jab of fear that gripped his stomach, phrases like _you are my rock_ and _with all my heart_ grabbed off the Internet, because this was what you were meant to say, what was supposed to be, in these things-and he hadn't even been entirely certain if her tears were just _supposed to be_, too.

Justine's hands are at his waistband and she's tugging him towards her, so that his skin has nowhere to go but her skin, and there's nowhere else to turn-

_Oh God, oh God, stop-_

_Thomas Pelham-Holles, Thomas Pelham-Holles, Thomas Pelham-Holles-_

And it had been _supposed to be_ in that picture, too, the one that had been reprinted everywhere, of them and the boys right after the wedding, when Ed had just been relieved he'd got through the service and the boys had been squirming-Sam had been made to laugh by someone, his smile the only wide, happy one, but even he was looking away at whatever was more palatable off-camera-and Daniel had been wriggling, his arms having been pushed too roughly through the sleeves of that starched grey suit that Justine had insisted they wear, and he'd been looking away, wriggling and struggling the same way Ed felt like doing.

Justine had been holding him. Her arms wrapped too tightly, too rigidly. It must have hurt.

And she'd been smiling-tight-lipped, too hard.

_1754, 1754-1754-1756-_

Lips too tight, eyes too bright.

They've got that picture downstairs-they move it when there are photographers here, when it needs to look right-

_Replaced due to-replaced-_

Ed tells himself he likes it.

He must do.

Justine's hands are under his pyjamas. Ed's stomach is going wild, trying to crawl out of his body, his hands opening and closing, searching for something, anything to focus on-

_Replaced due to-_

Justine's fingers brush him. A whimpering sound comes out of his throat. He wants her fingers to stop, away from him, and he pulls himself back up into his head, pushing down all his feelings, pulling up into the dark and things he knows-

_Replaced-replaced due to poor performance-performance in the war-_

Justine's hand wraps around him.

It's warm and wrong and _no, no, stop, stop, stop, please-_

_"Stop-"_ and it comes out as a little gasp into her shoulder and her skin's too much and he needs to get _away, make it-_

"Stop, stop, stop-" and he's rolling away from her, hand fumbling for her wrist, dragging her hand up and out of his pants, _no, no, no-_

"Ed-" Justine's stopped, but he's still shaking. He stays still, cheek pressed into the pillow, pushing at the nausea curling in his stomach, gasping for breath.

He doesn't even remember if they said anything to each other or not-

"Ed-" Justine's hand is on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

She sounds the way she does when she's talking about one of her cases. Controlled. Clear. Calm.

For some reason, that makes Ed feel even worse.

He fights not to cringe away from her. He manages to stay still. He takes a deep breath.

"I'm fine" he manages, in a voice that doesn't sound like his own. "I just-I'm not feeling up to-"

A part of him wants suddenly to have to answer a question. He's not sure how he'd answer or what he'd be asked, but a part-the thought of _being _asked-

Justine doesn't ask. She just pats his shoulder warily and Ed's shoulders sink with relief, his thoughts slowing a little when she finally pulls her hand away.

* * *

Nancy's favourite place to listen when she wakes up is right against the wall outside her parents' room.

Now, having woken up very abruptly several minutes ago and crept through the hallways, she tugs her nightie down over her knees, turns her head to the side and presses her cheek to the wood.

Nancy knows her parents' routine by heart; she can hear the creak of the bed as Dad climbs in, the unscrewing of the bottle as her mother rubs lotion into her hands, the bristling of a hairbrush tugging through hair.

"We don't have to make a decision tonight-" Her father's voice is gentle, careful, the way it was earlier.

"I know we don't." Her mother's brushing her hair-Nancy can picture it swishing over her shoulders, dark and glossy-Nancy once tried to stroke it, to see if the lights that gleamed in her hair would slide between her fingers.

"It's that-" Dad had started to say something, but Mum's already speaking. "But I don't want their faces shown."

"No-"

There's the sound of the hairbrush being lain on the dressing table. "Really, Dave. That's non-negotiable."

"No, I agree." A pause, then "Last time it was different."

Nancy thinks back to the cameras, to Dad picking her up, cradling her into his chest, keeping her safe.

There's another pause. Then "The picture-"

"Not the picture." Although his voice isn't raised, Nancy tenses somehow at the sound. "Not his-"

Nancy wracks her brain for a moment before she hears "I want them protected." A creak as her mother sits on the bed. "The kids. They can't-"

"Well, we have kept them-we've kept them safe. They're not going to have to be-well, we'll be asking them first. And as long as we don't push their faces out there-"

"We asked them last time." Mum's voice is quieter, now and Nancy only catches "-didn't ask-" among the next words.

"Well, we couldn't." Dad's voice is much quieter now. "None of-we would never have let anyone-"

"I know, it's just-it doesn't feel-" Mum's voice trails off. "That we couldn't ask-"

There's a silence from inside the room. Nancy wraps her arms around her knees, her heart thudding.

After Ivan went away, Nancy had started listening at doors more often. Before that, she'd only listened when people cried and the air crumpled with wet, sad sounds, and after, she listened, curled up in her nightie, cheek lying on her knees, for the rough sounds of words crashing into each other lettered with sharp, angry sounds, and when their voices were gentle and low, rolling together like the waves in Cornwall. Either way, they were still there.

Then "I don't want the kids' faces out there. I mean, you see what it's like for Bea and Will-"

"And no one even knows-"

"No one knows what they look like. And that's the last thing-especially with Nancy going into Year 7-"

Nancy remembers, with a rueful grin, Bea's sharp blue eyes glittering as she swung round and brought her pencil case crashing into the face of a boy from the year above who'd said her dad ruined kids' lives, scrambling onto his chest and bringing the pencil case down again and again on his head, until Mr Forward and a couple of other teachers had grabbed her, prizing her off, and then Mrs Doyle had been there, taking Nancy's hand, and leading her away, even as she tried to get up to Bea to calm her down, because she knew Bea wouldn't listen to any of the teachers right then-

"True. And then you get-well-"

Nancy frowns, wriggling closer to the door.

"Ed's kids?"

Nancy listens hard. If Bea was here, she'd be elbowing her. If Libbie was here, she'd be shushing her.

"Daniel-he-" Mum's voice trips over itself. "He's angry."

Nancy will only realise later that she had already known this herself.

"Angry-"

"The way he looks-" The bed shifts a little. "Some of the things he says-it just, it makes me wonder-"

There's a pause. Then, "There are a lot of pictures of them. Not just on Christmas cards. Conferences, videos-"

"And not with their faces-"

"Nope. No identity-no pixelations. Poor things."

Mum's voice, slowly. "I mean-" The bed shifts and Nancy doesn't hear the names-except that one ends in _eee-_ but "-were a bit like that, weren't they?"

Dad snorts. "Yeah-yes, and look what-

A pause.

Then Mum, softly. "Kathryn."

Just the name. Nancy blinks, the name ringing familiar in her head, trying to grasp the girl pulling out of reach with the name.

She gets a glimpse of being small, much smaller, of a curtain of long red hair. She isn't sure if she remembers a smile darting behind the girl's hair, whether the girl was smiling at all.

Kathryn.

But Nancy doesn't have time to dwell on the memories of Kathryn, whoever she may be, because then "But her dad-I mean, her dad meant-"

"We still don't know if he meant well or not." Dad laughs, rougher than usual. "No one knows that."

A pause, then "God, I don't even know if _Miliband_ means well half the time.

"You wouldn't notice." Mum's smile is in her voice-a little, anyway.

"Why wouldn't I-"

"Well, he practically spent the weekend-

"Yes, but-you invited him." Dad's words are jerking a little more rapidly than usual.

"Would you have if you'd been-"

"I-I don't-I mean, maybe, I-" Dad clears his throat. "That doesn't mean I know whether he's particularly-"

Silence.

"Particularly what?"

"Not sure. Thinking."

Dad's voice, again. "He's hard to figure out, sometimes. He's damn near inscrutable-I don't know. Every time I've-I feel like I've got one angle-"

He trails off. Then, "He's a bloody puzzle."

"You're interested in him, Dave."

"What?" Nancy feels a little jump in the words.

"You're interested in figuring him out."

A hand closes over Nancy's shoulder.

She nearly jumps but then another's on her arm and it's Gita, raising an eyebrow at her through her mess of dark hair.

Nancy doesn't bother lying-it's pretty much pointless, anyway-so she just returns the stare steadily. Gita raps on the door and, at the summons from within, pushes it open.

Nancy, peering round, glimpses both her parents' eyes falling to her at the same moment that Gita announces drily "You have a visitor."

* * *

It's Dad who says "It's all right, I'll take her back", swinging himself out of bed with a grin. So it's Dad who asks, brushing her hair back over her forehead as he tucks her into bed, "OK?"

Nancy nods and they both glance at the lump secreted under the duvet next to her. Dad peels back the duvet slowly to reveal Florence's chubby cheek pressed into the pillow, where she has clearly ensconced herself during Nancy's absence.

Dad tucks the duvet over her carefully, brushing the strands of hair off her cheek.

He perches on the edge of her bed, his thumb stroking Nancy's cheek. "Did you have a good birthday?"

Nancy, considering this, props herself up on her elbow. "Yeah." She puts her hand up to Dad's cheek, which he lets her rub, before she pulls her hands through his hair. "Your hair's greyer than it used to be."

"Is it?" Dad laughs a little, while Nancy rubs her hands on either side of his temples. "That's not true-"

"It is true, Dad-" Nancy, in deference to Florence's slumber, keeps her voice at a very loud whisper.

"There was a poll in Cornwall that said women-women like _your mum-_were comparing me to _Poldark-"_

Nancy sticks her finger into her throat. "Were they all blind?"

Dad tickles her under the chin.

"I mean, Poldark has a six-pack-" Nancy leans back on her pillow. "And you have-Elwen and I, saying-we thought you have, like, a one-pack when you take your shirt off-"

"Keep talking about one-packs and you won't get your birthday present."

"What present-"

"Well, it might not beat Lynton's rather thoughtful gift-" Nancy had been a little more impressed with the gift than she might have been had she known that Lynton had taken the chance to off-load another koala-"but-here."

Dad reaches into his dressing gown pocket and hands over two small parcels.

"Now, before you get excited-" Dad says warningly, as Nancy fumbles happily with the first. "It's the same present-it's just, one was made by me-"

"Made by you?" Nancy tears the two parcels open and, squinting in the dim light from the doorway, manages to make out her own name, picked out in five gold letters, on two separate little blocks of wood. One is considerably wonkier than the other.

"There you are. Take a guess which one's mine" Dad tells her, with a kiss to the cheek. "You can put them on a necklace if you want, they gave me some threads-or on your door-"

Nancy inspects both names with interest and then expresses her thanks by planting a kiss on his cheek and wrapping her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Daddy."

Dad hugs her tightly and then says "What did you hear?"

Nancy debates whether or not to ask about Kathryn-thinking harder, she can remember the red hair, and something sadder too, somehow-just a sense of grown-upness about her name, something sad and important-

But then she thinks of Mr Crosby talking earlier and she says "Da-ad-"

"Ye-es-"

"You know the election?"

"Yes, I know the election-" Dad leans back against her headboard. "What about the election?"

Nancy struggles to shape words around the thoughts that have been breathing there ever since they were crouched on the stairs earlier, listening.

"Are you worried about it?"

Dad looks thoughtful and then tucks Nancy's head into his shoulder. "Well. I'm concerned about it, Nance. But that's my job."

Nancy nestles into him, breathing in his familiar smell. "To worry-"

"Well. Yes. But the thing is-" Dad presses a kiss into her hair-"the thing about being Prime Minister, Nance, is that it's not you you worry about more than anything. It's your country."

Nancy chews this over for a moment-almost literally, until Dad taps her bottom lip to stop her pulling it between her teeth. "You mean-you're worried about you-but you're worried because you think Mr Ed Miliband wouldn't be any good in charge?"

Nancy can't make out her father's expression; his face has fallen into shadow.

"Well-" He pauses, and then-"I don't think he's the best person to run the country. But it worries me-what would happen to the country if he was in charge. So I'm worried for me. But I'm more worried about the country, if you see what I mean."

Nancy can see, but-"So Mr Ed Miliband's worried, too?"

"Well. Yes. I suppose he is. We just-disagree on what to be worried about."

"But you like him?"

Dad's head jerks, as if trying to shake off a fly. "Yes."

"But you don't think he could run the country very well."

She can't see his eyes, but she can tell they're on hers', and he doesn't look away. "I don't think he could run the country at all well. I think his ideas are wrong."

Nancy nods, thinking this over. "And he thinks the same about you."

It looks as though Dad's cheek lift a little. "Oh, yes. For different reasons, but yes. He thinks I'm thoroughly unfit to lead the country."

"So you think the same thing." Nancy feels slightly less fond of Mr Ed Miliband now, if she was beforehand. "But for different things."

"Well." Dad sounds a little more confused and something else, too, that Nancy can't quite grasp. "I wouldn't say we think the same thing, Nance."

_"No,_ neither would _I"_ she tells him, innocently despairing of her father's denseness. "But it's like-" She rubs one hand through her hair and, though she doesn't know it, her father notices the familiar gesture and smiles-"You think the same _way _about different things."

He's silent, and then Nancy says "Mr Ed Miliband's all right-" She feels she's being charitable, there. "But-"

"But-"

Nancy tugs at her nightie, trying to put it into words. "He always thinks _he's_ right, doesn't he?"

Dad laughs, tucking an arm around her shoulders. "That's a very good description of him, yeah."

"Whenever he's on telly and things-he always thinks he's right and that anyone else is just stupid." Nancy settles her chin on her knees. "Why does he think that?"

Dad, next to her, has gone quiet.

"Well" he says slowly. "I don't know. He's very...all-or-nothing, Nance. And I suppose-"

"But you like him?"

This time, Dad is very quiet for a moment. Then he says "Yes, I like him, Nance."

But his voice is more careful than before.

Nancy tries to make out his expression in the dark. "That's strange, isn't it?" she says, examining the gold lettering her father carved for her. "That you're similar?"

A silence, then "Do you think we're similar?"

Nancy, stroking the lettering, shrugs. "Sometimes. Other times, you're really different."

Dad opens his mouth as if about to say something, but then remains silent. Nancy, for her part, is feeling tired and lies down, Flo providing a solid warmth next to her. Dad brushes the hair off her forehead as she places the two names side by side on the bedside table.

"You don't have to keep the wonky one" he tells her, with a kiss to her forehead.

Nancy, who's already closing her eyes, Flo's feet brushing hers', says "I like it."

She's curled up tight when Dad goes out, leaving the door open to let some light in, but even as Nancy reaches out and adjusts the names a little, and then lies there, watching the gold lettering shine in the dark, waiting for sleep, her thoughts curl around the name_ Kathryn_ and hold it there, somewhere at the top of her mind.

* * *

Ed's lying, staring up at the ceiling and thinking hotly about Cameron when he becomes aware of how fast his heart is beating.

He hasn't been able to fall asleep-partly now that he's a little calmer and Justine's asleep, through fretting about all the work he could be getting done if Justine hadn't insisted he come to bed.

Then, his thoughts had wandered to Cameron as they often do, trying to push away that-

That-

(Cameron's skin, warm and wet and his thumb against Ed's-)

(Against Ed's-)

So he'd focused again on how _annoying_ Cameron is, how much he grates under Ed's skin, how much he-

Ed had thought so hard about Cameron that he'd found his hands gripping the bedsheets tightly, his jaw clenched, and it had just been because Cameron's so-

_Aggravating._

And _cocky,_ and-

Ed squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip.

But thinking about that smug, cocky look on Cameron's face every week-

Ed bites his lip. His toes curl a little.

And just how_ smooth_ his voice is, that curl of his lip when he knows he's _winning_-and Ed dwells on it masochistically, because it's so _unfair_, and he's-

His hands twist a little tighter into the sheets-and he feels something-

Ed freezes.

Oh God.

He bites his lip, trying not to think about it, but Cameron's in his head now-

He's_ there_, and he's-

He's-

Ed feels himself twitch again, that ache below his-

It sends a little ripple of a shudder through him, thinking about Cameron with that impatient look he gets sometimes and that dismissive, bored look, and that smoothness of his voice, and that-

Ed slaps a hand over his mouth. He crosses his legs tightly under the bedclothes. He wriggles, desperately trying to get himself some friction between his legs, even as he tries to ignore the sensation. He closes his eyes, biting his lip.

Oh God.

He can't.

He _can't._

He casts Justine an anxious glance and then quietly wriggles out from under the sheets, padding quietly to the bathroom.

He doesn't allow himself to feel again, until he pushes the door shut behind him. Then he bites his lip.

Lets his hand wander further down.

He's not even entirely sure what he's doing.

Because this...

This...

This doesn't...

This _can't_ be...

It's got to be frustration (Ed wouldn't appreciate the irony that, unbeknownst to him, Cameron's thoughts on this are exactly the same as his own.)

It's got to be something that...that...

It's _Cameron._ Bloody _Cameron._

It's got to be something-some kind of-

_Reaction-_

He gets a sudden jolting image of Cameron just-

By the pool. Tugging his shirt off.

Grinning.

Tugging his-

Ed's hand brushes himself, tantalisingly, once, sending a rush of sensation through him that's-

_Oh._

Ed's hand explores, darting to his waistband once, then again.

He's not done this often-he's never _needed_ to, really, and even when he _has-_

His fingers are just brushing under. Just brushing.

And even when he has, he's wanted to get it over with, just get it _done-_

His fingers brush at the-

At the-

An aching little shudder goes through Ed. He gasps, slapping one hand over his mouth to muffle the sounds.

Oh _God._

Just a few. Just a few-

He sees that crinkle of Cameron's blue eyes again and at that exact moment, somehow his hand touches just _perfectly-_

Ed groans, the sound spilling out against his fingers. He doesn't mean to-it just happens, the same way his hips jerk happily, just wriggling-

He can feel Cameron's fingers against his cheek, and the sensation tingles through him, down to his-

Ed whimpers, very differently from earlier.

He can't help it. His hand is moving. And he gasps. He can't stop himself. He can't. He's-he's-he's-

Cameron's skin-all his skin-and how it felt-

Cameron's arms wrapped around him. Their skin pushed wet and warm together. The way Cameron's breath had felt, rapid and warm against Ed's neck.

Ed's hips are wriggling and he remembers all too late that this was meant to be only a few-but he can't stop, little sounds coming out of his mouth as he teeters on the edge of something, but he-he-

He doesn't know why but he just thinks about Cameron's smile.

The way he leans over the dispatch box when they argue.

The way his mouth looks, soft and smooth-

That smug little curl of his lip around whatever he's-

Whatever-

Ed pictures it before he can stop himself.

Cameron's hand guiding his chin up and his mouth just barely whispering against-warm and soft and-

His hand strokes. He twitches as a huge shudder rolls through him, sending him rigid.

Oh God.

He hangs there for barely a second, breathless, tilting slowly over the edge.

Oh _God-_

Another ripple of pleasure rises through him and then he shudders over the edge.

A moaning sound peals out of his mouth-"_Cam-eron-"_ and his fingers tighten, muffling the sound as much as possible, before a high note of release just pulls tight through his body, his thoughts dissolving as he just lets _go_, a wave of pleasure squeezing his eyes shut, pulling groans from his mouth as a last shudder wrings him out, his legs weak, and he falls back against the wall, his lungs taking in great, shaky gulps of air, his body pleasantly aching with relief.

For a moment, he just leans against the wall, enjoying the warmth soaking into his body. It feels like finally scratching an itch that's been driving him mad all evening.

He slumps back, revelling in the warmth of it, the utter limpness of his body, his toes still curling every few moments as a few last little shudders of pleasure go through him.

It's slowly, as he opens his eyes, coming back to himself, that he starts to realise.

Oh God.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror. His cheeks are flushed, sweat sticking his hair to his brow. There's a slight smile on his face that disappears even as he watches.

Oh God.

Oh _God-_

_What-_

Ed dives for the toilet paper and scrabbles at it, swiping at the stickiness on his hands and his-his-

Oh _God._

He tries not to panic. Focus. _Focus-_

Just get on with. Just get on with-just get _on _with-

He gets it done somehow and then-then he sinks down onto the closed lid of the toilet and breathes hard.

What.

_What._

What was that-

Last time didn't count.

Last time was a dream.

That was a _dream_, nothing means anything in a _dream-_

But this-

He was just thinking about Cameron and-

And somehow-

Somehow, he'd ended up-

Oh _God._

Ed pushes his face into his hands, breathing rapid, urgent in his chest.

What had he been _thinking?_ Why hadn't he just ignored it?

This has never been a problem before and-

Now-

And he's so pathetic he can't even stop-

He's so-

But why's it over _Cameron?_

Ed veers away from the thought as suddenly as if it's burnt him, because _no-_

_No._

It _can't _be.

_He_ can't-

He dwells on Cameron's arm round his back for a moment, stroking his shirt-

No.

_No._

Ed gives his head a firm shake.

This is ridiculous.

How-why-

He's not even-he's never been-

Ed almost laughs. Nearly laughs, because the idea that he's even _thinking _these things about _Cameron-_

_Cameron._

They're meant to _hate _each other.

Ed remembers Paris.

Well.

Not _hate._

Strongly dislike.

Ed remembers where he was, yesterday.

Be ambivalent towards.

Ed presses his face into his hands until he can see little lights exploding behind his eyes. Oh _God._

It's got be a-

A mistake.

Maybe-maybe he was just worked up from earlier-and those-

Those thoughts about Cameron-somehow-somehow _combined-_

And then-

Ed shakes his head, because that's what it _must_ be. Of _course._

It _must_ be. (Conveniently forgetting he wasn't worked up at all earlier, in fact, despite all his best efforts.)

He has to-

He-

Ed lifts his head slowly. clasping his hands together. OK.

He takes a deep breath. OK. It's all right. It's all right.

In the future, he just-

Needs to be more careful, that's all.

It will probably calm down when the election's over, and yes-

Ed seizes on this gratefully. Of course it will.

He just needs to not think about Cameron. That's all.

At least alone.

Or in bed.

Ed feels the colour creep to his cheeks.

It takes him a long time to leave the bathroom.

* * *

When David wakes up abruptly, he does his usual night routine.

He checks Elwen's room first, only to find him curled up on his pillow, one foot sticking out from under the duvet. David studies his face, freckles cast into faint relief by the light from the doorway, and touches his hair.

In Nancy's room, he gently pulls the duvet back from Florence's face, to see her eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she sleeps, her little hands curled into chubby fists, and then studies his eldest daughter carefully.

Nancy sleeps on her side, her dark hair tangling with her sister's comparatively lighter strands on the pillow. Her eyes are closed, her breathing slow and steady, her eyelids fluttering occasionally as she dreams.

David watches her and then glances at her bedside table. He smiles.

Her name, the lettering uneven and wonky, has been placed in pride of place, in between two family photos. In one of them, Ivan smiles out from next to Nancy, who's got her head tilted towards his, as though she's whispering him a secret.

_What happened with-_

_Kathryn._

David looks back at Nancy, fast asleep, blissfully unaware.

He stands there a while longer, one hand on his eldest daughter's cheek, watching her sleep, as safe as it's possible to be in London, and hopes that for his children, here will remain safe enough.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Someone Great-LCD Soundsystem-"I wish that we could talk about it/But there, that's the problem/With someone new I couldn't start it/Too late for beginnings/The little things that made me nervous/Are gone in a moment/I miss the way we used to argue/Locked in your basement...You're smaller than my wife imagined/Surprised, you were human/There shouldn't be this ring of silence/But then what are the options"_

_Commercial For Levi-Placebo-"You're the one who's always choking Trojan/You're the one who's always bruised and broken/Sleep may be the enemy/But so's another line....I understand the fascination/The dream that comes alive at night/But if you don't change your situation/Then you'll die, you'll die, don't die, don't die/Please don't die"-_

_Love Lost-The Temper Trap-"Your walls are up/Too cold to touch it/Your walls are up/Too high to climb/I know it's hard/But I can still hear it beating/So if you flash your heart/I won't mistreat it/I promise"_

_ Waves-Mattia Cuppelli _

_Cath-Death Cab for Cutie-"Cath, she stands with a well-intentioned man/But she can't relax/With his hand on the small of her back/And as the flashbulbs burst/She holds a smile/Like someone would hold a crying child"_

_Wonder-Lauren Aquilina-"I can't control my feelings/I can't control my thoughts/I'm staring at the ceiling/Wondering how I got so caught/You're completely off limits/For more reasons than just one/But I can't stop...My mind is blind to everything but you/And I wonder if you wonder about me too"_

_The 1975-The 1975-"Step into your skin? I'd rather jump in your bones/Taking up your mouth, so you breathe through your nose"_

* * *

_This was the £373,000 loan that Geoffrey Robinson had given to Mandelson, before the (1997) election, and before they moved into warring camps, to purchase his £475,000 house in west London...Mandelson's secret loan from Robinson was hugely threatening to him, not least because it was not a secret to several of his enemies...The secret loan was becoming less secret, at least within the inner, incestuous circles of New Labour...Extraordinarily, the one person who had been kept in complete ignorance was the Prime Minister. The most culpable failure to confide in Blair was clearly Mandelson's. He should have told the Prime Minister when Blair made him Secretary of State for the department investigating the allegations into Robinson's financial affairs...Recklessly, he encouraged media interest in 6 Northumberland Place...Campbell occasionally ragged Mandelson about how exactly he had afforded a house worth ten times an MP's salary. **"Where did you get the money then, Peter?"** Campbell baited him. Mandelson never gave a straight answer, but implied to Campbell, as he did to others, that the money had come from his mother. Various explanations were later advanced for why the great strategist had placed himself in the perilous position of concealing this lethal loan from his friends when it was known to his enemies. Was he socially embarrassed? Did he genuinely think it was not anyone else's business?..Sometimes the simple explanation is the correct answer. According to one of his closest friends, Mandelson concealed the loan because, **"Peter knew what he had done was wrong." **Another person who has known Mandelson for many years says: **"He was ashamed to admit it to Tony."**-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Unable to face telling Blair, Mandelson got (Ben) Wegg-Prosser to ring Alastair Campbell to tell Downing Street about the loan and that it would shortly become public. Tony Blair was in his study that Thursday lunchtime working on the statement he would give to the Commons that afternoon about military action against Iraq. He had less than two hours to find the appropriate words to announce his first act of war as Prime Minister. Campbell knew that Blair did not want to be interrupted. But what he had just learned from Wegg-Prosser was dynamite which would produce far more explosive headlines than the munitions raining on Saddam Hussein. The press secretary rushed to the Prime Minister to give him the bones of what Campbell would later characterise as this **"big, bad story."** At first, Blair struggled to muster coherent sentences to express his shock. Then, anger at Mandelson's stupidity transferred itself to fury with the messenger.** "Why the fuck are you landing this on me now?"** he demanded of Campbell. **"Because it can't fucking wait"** retorted his press secretary. **"We have to decide what we are going to do, how we are going to handle it."** As the awfulness of the implications began to sink in, Blair turned to wondering who else had been concealing this timebomb at the heart of New Labour. Did Anji Hunter know? Her personal assistant was on friendly terms with Robinson. She was also a pal of Wegg-Prosser. Blair called her in. She could immediately tell something was badly wrong. Blair looked terrible. **"Did you know?"** he demanded aggressively. **"What?"** said Hunter. ** "That Peter took a loan from Geoffrey for his house."** She felt faint and sat down. **"No, honestly, Tony. Christ! If I'd known, I would have told you."** How big, she asked, was the loan? **"Oh God" **Blair shook his head in despair. **"Hundreds of thousands of pounds."** Hunter phoned Wegg-Prosser to berate him for not confiding in her about the loan. **"Why did you never tell us?" ** she shouted. **"I couldn't. He swore me to secrecy. I kept telling Peter" **replied a tremulous Wegg-Prosser. **"I kept telling him he couldn't keep it a secret. He wouldn't listen."** The Cabinet Secretary would have to be involved.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Peter M, out of nowhere, asked me if Geoffrey Robinson was being sacked. At lunchtime, it became clear why he was asking. Ben (Wegg-Prosser) called me and said (Paul) Routledge's book on Peter was going to reveal that Robinson had given him a £300k loan to help buy his place in Notting Hill. Peter felt they should get it out through e.g. (Tony) Bevins as part of a story about dirt being dug on Peter. I said hold fire. There was no way the story would be anything other than the existence of a loan that most people would find very good. **"Do you think it is a problem?"** asked Ben, knowing the answer. I do, I said. A big problem? Well, it sounds like it. I went round to see TB, who was in the look. I took Jonathan (Powell) into TB's room and waited for him to come back. He was in upbeat mood, which I was about to deflate. I told him the facts as I knew them, and he was horrified. First, what on earth was Peter doing taking out that kind of loan from Geoffrey, who was not an uncontroversial figure? Second, we were immediately on to the angle that Peter was ultimately in charge of the DTI investigation into Geoffrey. Third, it was bound to be-or certainly seen to be-part of the ongoing GB/Peter M nonsense. We assumed Geoffrey had told GB's lot, and someone had fed it to Routledge as a way of doing in Peter if Geoffrey was going to go down anyway. And all in the middle of a bloody difficult international situation which required us to keep our eye on a very different kind of ball. TB was not best pleased, but quickly calmed down and went into his usual **"we need the facts" ** mode. I found it astonishing Peter wanted to brief pre-emptively, which would never work on this. He (TB) wavered between anger and exasperation. **"I hate this. I cannot believe it. The Tories will murder us for it."** Yet when I spoke to Peter, he couldn't see it, or at least pretended not to. It was a loan between old friends who go back a long way. What about the DTI angle? I would not be making the decisions. Charlie F(alconer) came to see me, and asked me what was wrong with Geoffrey lending him money? Possibly nothing, but the politics are fairly obvious and you can't just ignore them...In between Iraq, we were beginning to think through the Peter M situation, which had the makings of a disaster area.-"Thursday 17th December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_We left Number 10 through the underground tunnel from the Cabinet Office and through to the MoD, met by GR (George Robertson) and Oona. On the way, bent halfway forward because the roof was so low, TB told me he had spoken to Peter and warned him his instinct was that the Geoffrey Robinson loan story was potentially very dangerous. We had asked Charlie F to do a report on the facts, and when I spoke to him later, he seemed to think it was pretty serious. Peter was still of a mind to brief on his terms, and later Ben W-P told me Tom Baldwin knew about it. Then (Richard) Wilson came to see me, said Michael Scholar (DTI permanent secretary) had only been informed of the loan once Peter knew the book was going to divulge it. So there would definitely be questions about non-declaration as well. I felt it was a no-hope situation for him. It could easily be seen as bad as anything the Tories did, and it showed poor judgement, first to get involved, and then not to be up-front when there was the possibility of a conflict of interest re the DTI investigating Geoffrey...-"Friday 18th December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_It is a tribute to Blair's ability to mentally compartmentalise that he could confidently pronounce on Iraq in the Commons that afternoon while the loan crisis was consuming his mind. It was an illustration of how angry, aghast and anxious he was that, even while heavily engaged in presenting and presiding over the action against Iraq, he devoted attention to Mandelson. He slipped into Number 10 under darkness at the end of the week to face a bleakly furious Blair. **"Jesus Christ, Peter! What a misjudgement"** Blair raged at the ally and confidant he had so esteemed. The man who was supposed to be so well-equipped with political savvy had shown a catastrophic lack of it. Worse, complained Blair, Mandelson had treated him, his friend and Prime Minister, as a dupe. Mandelson pleaded that he did not believe he had done anything** "fundamentally wrong." **This was not Blair's angriest grievance. Mandelson's selfishness and vanity had betrayed him and their project. Everything they had worked for was imperilled. For not only was Blair shocked, he was also fearful. He and those closest to him were already mentally writing the headlines which would be used against New Labour by its enemies within and without. The Prime Minister's press secretary vented his personal rage at Mandelson even more fiercely. The full heat of Campbell's flame-thrower temper was turned on him. To his face, Campbell told Mandelson that he had been a **"stupid cunt."** The violence of these reactions is understandable. Everyone feels it most acutely when they are let down by their friends.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_I had a long chat with Peter M, who claimed not to see what the problem was re the loan. He said what is wrong with a friend lending money to someone. I said it had the potential to be a big bad story and surely he could see that. He said I was overreacting, I had always been a bit of a Calvinist, and it was all a bit **"Alastair and Fiona-ish."** He was adamant it would not be much of a story. I said it had the potential to be the worst thing to hit us yet. **"Would it be the same if it was (Lord) Sainsbury?"** he said. Probably not, I said, but politics is not science. So it is a Geoffrey problem, he said. I said it is a Geoffrey problem, but it is also a Peter Grand Panjandrum problem, and it is a GB/Peter M self-destruct at the heart of government problem. He was adamant I was overreacting. I began to wonder if I was and checked out how the others who knew about it saw it. John H(olmes), whose judgement was pretty solid, thought it was indefensible. Wilson, Charlie Falconer, Jonathan and most important TB all saw it as a major problem, and very hard to defend. John said to me he had noted in politicians that no matter how talented they were, they tended to be useless as their own advisers on their own personal affairs...Peter M called, said he was worried the Guardian were about to do the Geoffrey loan story and he felt it important to get on record that he was removed from any responsibility in the inquiry into Robinson. He was still refusing to accept it would be an enormous story. TB said if (Charlie) Whelan had given the info to Routledge, he intended to have it out with GB when he got back from the States. Peter felt he could tough it out. TB called around 10, as I was going to bed, and said he was now really worried about it. He thought it was possible, but unlikely, that we could tough this out. I could barely bring myself to think about the next few days if this was to land on us.-"Saturday 19th December 1998-Sunday 20th December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_Then, the other problem was upon us. The Guardian put a series of questions to Ben W-P re Peter's loan. Charlie F and Lance (Price) went to see Peter, and then Geoffrey, and came back with a draft Peter statement, while I worked on a Number 10 line. TB was angry at the bad judgement as much as anything, but also the way the thing had clearly been used in the Peter M/GB battle. Charlie said that when he went to see Robinson, Ed Balls came in in the middle and went through what CF was sure was a great charade of not knowing anything about it. Charlie, Lance and Ben came over to my office, where we were joined by Jonathan. I sent the draft line round to Richard Wilson and spoke to (Michael) Scholar. Our only real point of defence was that Peter was not directly involved in the Geoffrey Robinson inquiry at the DTI, and had insulated himself from it. Apart from that, we didn't have much ground to stake out. The Guardian was asking about breaches of the code, and registration rules, and would doubtless get hold of Tories, and some of our own, to fuel it along. Derry (Irvine) joined us, and like the rest of us thought it was going to be difficult. Both he and Charlie F felt our major vulnerability was that Peter did not tell the permanent secretary (Scholar) about the loan when he was appointed to the job. I said you could also make the argument he should have told TB prior to accepting the appointment. The press and the Tories would be on to that angle in no time as well. Wilson's view was that it would be better if Peter were to admit he should have declared it earlier, and also to announce that he would pay back the loan. Peter was going to say that his mother would help him do that. He was dreading her being dragged into it, also dreading the press hanging round the house and trying to get pictures of Reinaldo._

_We all kind of felt he was not going to survive, but also felt we owed it to him to see if we could fight it out. That was going to mean him leading the fight, explaining himself, and seeing how party and public reacted. His problem was there would be a few enemies out to sort him. I told him I felt it was rocky but we would support him in a fight. We took an hour or so to sort the final statement, then heard the Mirror were on to it too, presumably via Routledge. I had a number of calls with Peter to go over the tricky questions. He was a curious mix of nervous and steely. We were agreed it was going to be awful. The question was how awful. I fixed for him to go and do the Millbank rounds and given how sticky the wicket, he did OK. But (David) Yelland and (Piers) Morgan were both straight on, saying it was a political and presentational disaster, which of course it was. All we could do was set out the facts, say it was a private loan, and emphasise the insulation from the Robinson inquiry. TB said either he goes, or we defend him robustly, there can be no in between. But he accepted it was likely to end in him going. I called Whelan and said I did not want to hear of a single Treasury comment, and I intended to ask every single journalist whether he was briefing on it. Needless to say he denied having anything to do with Routledge getting hold of the story in the first place. I persuaded Peter to say that with hindsight, he wished he had declared it earlier, but that did not change the fundamentals. He was in for an almighty kicking, and the next twenty-four hours would be crucial. Richard Wilson was making it clear he did not want to be set up as a kind of judge on this-ministerial conduct was a matter for the PM, Sebastian Wood (Richard Wilson's private secretary) reminded me-while Michael Scholar was equally not prepared to say he had **"cleared"** it. The truth is he did not know until the press were on to it, and only then did Peter declare it to him. It was a very weak point and Peter knew it. I was beginning to lose the will to live, first days and nights on Iraq, and now this when I was hoping to wind down pre-Christmas.-"Monday 21st December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_A strangely unperturbed Mandelson convinced himself that he could walk through the fire. Blair was instinctively and immediately doubtful that he could possibly survive what he and Campbell both knew would be an inferno...Blair's initial prognosis that Mandelson was not to be saved was hardening by Tuesday morning into a certainty that he had to be severed. This was a cancerous growth, eating into New Labour's integrity, that could only be stopped from spreading by the rapid amputation of Mandelson from the government. Alastair Campbell, thinking that the media would never let go until Mandelson resigned, and Anji Hunter, protective of Blair's reputation, were both urging the Prime Minister to dispatch the Trade and Industry Secretary....The Prime Minister had retired to Chequers when, at ten on the evening of Tuesday 22 December (1998), he talked again to the man whose skills had once so mesmerised him. Blair was not good at breaking bad news. He particularly did not relish telling a friend as old and as close as Mandelson that he wanted him gone. He allowed the other man to lead the conversation, asking for his own assessment. Mandelson still believed himself to be the victim of a **"stitch-up"** by the Brownites. The press were **"completely hysterical" **and **"out of control." **He had made a mistake, he was prepared to admit that now. Yet he clung to the belief that he could and must remain in the Cabinet....Mandelson did float the idea that he might have to resign. By describing this as **"very painful"**, he evidently hoped that Blair would respond by dismissing the idea...How Blair replied was therefore a crushing disappointment. He told Mandelson that they should **"sleep on it."** Such an expert reader of the codes of political conversation grasped what Blair was semaphoring. The Prime Minister and those advising him wanted to see the following morning's newspapers before they made a final decision. The press was savage, though not unanimously so.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_How complicit was Gordon Brown in the immolation of his fellow Cabinet minister and founder of New Labour? The Chancellor had multiple motives for bringing down the man who rivalled him for influence over the Prime Minister, whom he had never forgiven for switching affections from Brown to Blair in the leadership contest, and with whom he had since pursued a fratricidal feud. Another member of New Labour's innermost circle, who has known Brown for more than a decade, says: **"Gordon is absolutely capable of it."** Even if the Chancellor did not pull the trigger, he knew it was being squeezed. Whether or not he gave the precise instruction to strike against Mandelson, Brown willed the act...Mandelson also talked twice to Gordon Brown. It is an example of the weird convolutions of their relationship that, at his hour of extraordinary personal crisis, Mandelson turned to the man whom he suspected to have played a large role in precipitating the most traumatic moment of his career. In their first conversation, Brown expressed the view that he should apologise but not resign. Guilt may have been speaking. Mandelson would later come to the view that, while Brown intended to damage, the Chancellor did not expect to destroy him. Anxiety was also informing Brown's reaction. He had reason to fear that, if Mandelson went, all the heat would concentrate on whether he and his coterie had connived to demolish a fellow Cabinet minister to the detriment of the government. An exiled Mandelson would thirst for revenge..-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The Iraq fallout was bad enough but the Peter M situation was a wall-to-wall disaster area. Every paper led on it in later editions, and it was grim. Though Peter did OK on his broadcast interviews, as the day wore on the thing felt worse and worse. I went to see TB in the flat. Should we cancel the end-of-term meetings with editors? No. TB had seen GB last night who was on, finally, both for Geoffrey Robinson's dismissal and Whelan too. But Robinson was fighting hard, saying it was absurd if he was to be dismissed for being generous, and was angry with GB every bit as much as TB now. Whelan was saying he would go if we could get him a job at the FA. TB said his antennae were twitching, the damage to be done was real, and he could not see a way through it. He felt the line to hold was the avoidance of conflict of interest and that maybe Peter himself should ask for the registrar of Members' interests to look into it. I spoke to Peter and Charlie F to go through the tricky questions again. Though the press scented blood, I felt the briefing went fine, I knew the ground to stand on and just stood there, and let them make their own judgement about everything else. I agreed Peter had made an error in not being open about it, but he had moved to avoid a conflict of interest._

_After the lunchtimes, which were pretty ghastly, I went to see TB in the flat, where he was making lunch for the kids. He said he sensed the Tories and the media would not let up, and there was enough here to drive Peter out. I felt the Tories were missing the point-they were so mesmerised by Peter, but that story was taking care of itself. They would have been better going on the notion that Geoffrey survived everything because he provided TB with holidays, GB with funding and Peter with a loan to buy a swanky place to live. The party would hate it. I went to see GB and he asked what I thought was the worst part of it. I said choose any angle you want-Robinson problem; Peter M liability; TB/GBery; cronyism; sleaze; no better than Tories. There were a lot of hits in one go. He knew I would be gunning for Whelan again and was being very nice and charming, saying we had a problem, what did I suggest for getting out of it? I asked if there were any other ministers Geoffrey had given money to, also whether he had paid Balls' and Whelan's wages at any time. He said most of Geoffrey's money went into the leader's office and campaigns, in opposition. I said it would be better all round if Geoffrey resigned. GB said he had already put that to him, not saying it was what TB wanted, and he got very difficult about it. He felt he had done nothing wrong and was not prepared to be sacrificed.-"Tuesday 22nd December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_I got a call to go back to Number 10 and TB asked me to go and see him, upstairs in the flat. He said wouldn't it be better if we asked both to go? I said you could make the case for that. Geoffrey had become more and more of a problem for the government, Peter had shown bad judgement, this had brought it all to a head. They could always come back at some point, he said. He then put the counter-argument as though he were now trying to talk himself out of it-Robinson had merely loaned a friend some money. It did not add to the difficulties he was already in, over which we had consistently defended him. Peter's judgement may be called into question but he had avoided a conflict-of-interest situation. And so on, then the other side, circular-conversation time. Charlie F joined us and thought it was a bad idea, felt it was better to see if we could hold the line, not give in to hysteria. He was against Geoffrey going because that would make it much harder to keep Peter. I called JP (John Prescott). He said Peter's weaknesses were vanity and arrogance and they were the cause of his downfall. He used the word downfall, which suggested he felt he was a goner. I asked if he thought that. He said on balance I don't think TB should sack him, but it is bad and it could get worse. DB (David Blunkett) and Mo (Mawlam) both called in, both appalled and clearly on the tough end of the market. JC (Jack Cunningham) agreed to do interviews but even he found it a tough wicket. He said the party would be appalled. He would defend him because he was a loyal team member, he said, **"but I find it very hard to defend at all."** It was interesting, however, how few of the hacks were saying he should resign. Little did they know that TB was getting to that point before them...TB saw a few editors, then headed to Chequers. I sensed he was going to wake up tomorrow and feel he had made a mistake in not following his instincts on Peter. TB said, **"I blame myself for this. We should have got rid of Geoffrey earlier."** I felt TB would wake up and decide he (Mandelson) should go.-"Tuesday 22nd December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_Even now, a large percentage of Mandelson believed he could yet save his place in the Cabinet. At seven on Wednesday morning he phoned Wegg-Prosser to tell him to organise a "fight-back" meeting...The fight-back meeting never happened. At shortly after ten, Campbell and the others from Number 10 arrived in Mandelson's ministerial suite on the seventh floor of the DTI tower in Victoria Street with its panoramic view of Westminster Abbey. Almost immediately, Campbell ordered everyone else out of the room and into the next door private office so that Mandelson could be put through to Blair. The Prime Minister effectively decided the day before that Mandelson had to go. Any remaining doubt about that was settled by the ferocity of the media that morning. Blair was now explicit. The longer Mandelson tried to cling on, the more Mandelson and the government would be damaged. Mandelson repeatedly asked Blair if that was really his opinion, in an effort to seek out a chink of weakness. That was his view, Blair flatly confirmed, offering the consolation that the quicker he left the Cabinet, the better chance there would be of a reasonably rapid return. By the end of the conversation, tears were trickling down Mandelson's sepulchral white cheeks. A dark-eyed Campbell, himself blubbing, gave Mandelson a hug. _

_Recovering from this lachrymose moment with professional speed, Campbell then wrote a resignation letter for Mandelson and a reply for Blair. Campbell took his compositions out to the Private Office, and handed them to Wegg-Prosser to type up. The wretched Mandelson signed Campbell's draft virtually unaltered, though he first faxed it over to Gordon Brown for him to see. He wanted the Chancellor to taste some of the grief that had been inflicted on him. Blair faxed back Campbell's draft of the Prime Minister's reply with some added personal touches...The announcement actually came slightly later, just before the lunchtime news bulletins. Soon after, Robinson was gone as well. Mandelson's resignation missive began: **"I can scarcely believe I am writing this letter..." **which was scarcely surprising to those who knew that it had been composed by Alastair Campbell.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The papers were absolutely ghastly for Peter, massive coverage and relentlessly negative. Sadly-and it was never going to be any other way-people's basic reaction was the same as ours had been, and with the usual venom on top. Yet despite all that the balance of opinion was that he should stay, which was a surprise. But I had dreadful vibes about the next day or so. I had a doctor's appointment, came back and Fiona said Ben W-P had been on the phone, there was some problem re an aspect to the mortgage that Peter thought could be a resigning issue. Could I go to a meeting at 10.30? I spoke to TB who, as I thought he would, had pretty much made his mind up. **"I'm worried what this is all doing to the public, never mind the press"** he said. He said in the end it was the concealment that was the main problem. Everything else would was secondary but they would pick away. I said if Peter went, Geoffrey would have to go too. I know, he said. We had a conference call with GB, who was still asking if Geoffrey could stay. Re Peter, somewhat disingenuously I felt, he was saying maybe an apology and a reprimand would be enough. TB said that didn't do enough. He felt Peter could only rebuild from a fresh start. He had spoken to Peter late last night, and he sensed Peter was coming to the same view. Peter had spoken to GB this morning, too, and one of the odder aspects of this was that as it got worse, he turned to GB for advice and support, despite being pretty sure he had been instrumental in setting the whole thing up._

_I got a lift in with Fiona, feeling pretty stressed and depressed. I met up with Jonathan and Lance and we went to the DTI. Jonathan was scruffily dressed as he was due to go to the Lake District. Lance was due to be heading to Chile for a break. We were driven into the underground car park, met by a very pretty girl who took us upstairs to an outer office that was deathlike in its atmosphere and then in to see Peter, who was at his desk, reading the papers. He had done the office very much to his taste, modern and brightly coloured furniture, a minimalist desk, nice pictures. A Christmas card from Prince Charles had pride of place on his desk. I asked everyone else to wait outside and told him TB wanted to talk to him. I didn't listen in so only heard Peter's side of the call, that he knew he had made a mistake, wished he had handled it differently, but was it really a hanging offence? I could tell from the vibe coming back that TB was in steely mode, and saying that it was. His argument was that an apology would just be seen as a piece of spin. There had been a deception, or at least a concealment that could be construed as such. Added to which neither party nor public could really grasp the scale of it. I was pacing up and down by the window and after a while Peter's tone changed, became one of resignation. He said **"You have clearly made up your mind and I have to accept your judgement, which of course I do. I'm obviously very sorry."** The call ended, he looked at me, shrugged and then went out to see Ben.-"Wednesday 23rd December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_I spoke to TB and began drafting resignation letters. I told Lance to put out a line that the PM was looking at the detail. I called Jack C, who was still manfully doing bids on it, and warned him it may end with his resignation, so change the tone. I spoke again to TB who said we now just had to put sentiment to one side, and deal with it. He wanted it made clear that we were not the Tories, and never would slide to standards as low as theirs. He, Jonathan and I worked out the reshuffle and agreed the sooner it was done the better. I felt desperately sad for Peter, who came back in looking wretched. I said this is not going to be easy, but we are just going to have to do it, and be professional about it. I know, he said. I know. He had clearly been crying. He collected himself and then amazed me by saying he felt he ought to call Gordon. Again, I only heard his side, but it sounded as though sympathetic noises were coming from the other end. Peter said he had been foolish, he was desperately sorry it was ending like this, and he hoped they would maintain some kind of relationship. It was extraordinary considering all that had gone on. GB was clearly saying he could trust him because Peter said on more than one occasion **"Yes, I know I can trust you, I know that."**_

_I wanted the letters done and dusted and out by the lunchtimes, and started to read the draft of Peter's letter to TB. The first line was **"I can scarcely believe I am writing this."** We were both quite emotional by now. I went over to him, said this is all absolutely dreadful but we just have to get through it. He kept saying why, why, why, but I was unsure whether he meant why did he do what he did or why was he being forced to go. He felt if it was anyone else, we could have fought on. He made a few small changes, I got Lance to type it up outside, and then spoke to TB re his reply. Again, Peter startled me re GB. **"It's important Gordon sees them before they go out"** he said. He saw my surprise. I sat alongside him as he read through the letters, tears cascading down his face, and I gripped his shoulder and told him he had to be strong, and just get through the next ghastly few hours. I watched the news with Peter, who was calmer now, more focused, but still regularly bursting into tears. **"Please do your best"** he said. **"Don't let them portray me as some kind of felon."**-"Wednesday 23rd December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_Michael Scholar popped in to say he was sorry, and seemed genuinely moved. Peter was fine when someone else came in like that but when it was the two of us, he kept breaking down. **"You don't deserve this Peter, you really don't."** Yes, I do. **"Well"** I said, **"even if you do, you don't really, if you see what I mean."** How many times had I warned him that what I called his **"lifestyle ambitions"** would do for him? His desire to be famous and mingle with the rich and the great and the good. What the fuck was Charles' card doing there like it was the biggest thing in the mailbag? I really felt for him though, and felt wretched that I was having to act like some kind of undertaker to his ministerial career, doing the letters, shaping the media, telling them it was all over and soon he would be gone. We had had so many moments, good and bad, but when push came to shove, he was still one of the best, and it was a dreadful fucking waste. I'd done Ron Davies' letters and others, and it was just a job really, just helping sort things tidily, but I really felt this, and felt dreadful for Peter, for whom politics was wrapped up in everything he had._

_As we left, I took him to one side and hugged him, and he me, and my mobile phone went off inside my jacket. We laughed. Be strong, I said. Do not let those bastards take any joy in seeing you broken. Stand tall and give every sense that one day you'll be back. I left feeling absolutely drained. TB called to go over the lines we should be pushing. It's grim, I said. Yes, he said, but we just have to get on with it now. I was back in the office and did a full briefing at 2, gave out the letters, took all their predictable questions. I felt OK, apart from when pressed on whether it was a breach of the ministerial code, and also why he hadn't moved on it earlier. I had a bit of a flare-up with (Adam) Boulton because he quoted on air my **"fuck off"** response to his bid for a TB interview yesterday, as though it were part of a briefing, and also gave the impression it was today. I paged Peter M and said don't do Sky which I regretted because it was petulant on my part, and I allowed that to affect Peter's efforts to get things in a better place. I told Nick Pollard (head of news, Sky) that if Adam called to apologise-which later he did-it would be forgotten. I spoke to Peter again, who said he felt better. He said, **"I've done the right thing so I feel better about it."** TB called as I was going to bed.** "How's the BDA (battle damage assessment)?"** It wasn't good, but it could have been a lot worse if we had kept hanging on.-"Wednesday 23rd December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_The notion that this was a graceless, selfless sacrifice was deceptive. Peter Mandelson did not fall on his sword. Tony Blair gently, firmly, and ruthlessly thrust Mandelson on to the blade...At around noon on the day of his resignation, the Prime Minister asked Mandelson to Chequers, a characteristically kindly, but also calculating, gesture. It is a sign of the froideur between them that Cherie initiated the call. **"You will always be part of the family"** she told Mandelson. Only when his wife had broken the ice did Blair himself come on the line to say: **"We want you to be with us."** Mandelson and his partner, Reinaldo Avila da Silva, joined the Blairs' family supper and spent the night. Mandelson was now contrite. **"I know I've done a terrible thing" **he confessed to Blair. **"I've hurt you, and I've hurt the government."...**An ocean of bad blood had been spilt. To the poisonous feud between Brown and Mandelson, and the destabilising rivalry between Blair and Brown, there had now been added a twist to the relationship between Blair and Mandelson. Blair could never again invest quite the same level of trust in Mandelson's judgement...Mandelson was confused and conflicted. Looked at impassively, he would have advised Blair to excise with extreme prejudice any member of the Cabinet who wreaked so much damage on the government. On the day of his resignation, he sent a second, private handwritten note to Blair, praising him as a strong and decisive leader. Dwelling upon the wreckage of his Cabinet career, as time passed, Mandelson became quite recriminatory towards Blair. Six months later, he would be talking of his resignation as if it were a bereavement, telling an audience of trade unionists: **"I have only just got out of the habit of jumping into the back of cars and wondering why they don't move off."** He confided to a senior peer close to both the Prime Minister and the fallen minister that he, Mandelson, felt **"cross and bitter with Tony."** The Prime Minister should and could-so reckoned Mandelson in more self-pitying moods-have fought to save him.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_I was feeling pretty low, really tired after a hellish period and reckoning I would be lucky to get anything near a rest in the next few days. I went for a swim. Peter called a couple of times **"to see how you are."** TB was of the view that it would blow over quickly, but that there would be an effort to say it tilted politics against New Labour. PH (Peter Hyman) did a note on the same theme. I felt what was more worrying was the sense all Labour MPs were into big money and fancy houses when in truth most of them work hard for not much reward. JP was poor on Today and sounded tired. I got to the afternoon not having bought a single Christmas present and went shopping with Grace to get Fiona's presents...I managed to avoid work most of the day apart from a couple of calls re bits of Peter fallout. The Kinnocks had been given the use of (theatre and film director) Richard Eyre's house and we went there for Christmas dinner which was fine, but I was tired. We basically just avoided politics as much as we could. I spent most of the time playing with the kids...Amid the fallout, some of the papers were saying Peter M would lead the euro campaign, or go for London mayor. We were due to go to Chequers for their Boxing Day do. TB was trying to calculate whether we had been really damaged or whether this was a one-off quickly forgotten. I felt there was a cumulative effect building at the moment re out-of-touchness and this was a part of that. He felt Peter personally was badly damaged but if he learned the right lessons, and changed his ways, he could emerge stronger from it. I didn't like these friends and family social dos, because truth be told you were never really off duty, and I didn't like the atmosphere at Chequers anyway. I think we were both glad to have a** "proper excuse" ** to go into Tb's study and prepare for his BBC interview and talk things over. He played tennis for a bit then we went up to their bedroom to talk over the interview. He was in the bath, and CB (Cherie Blair) was lying in the bed throwing out lines of argument, until he said it wasn't helping him and could she be quiet._

_It went fine, short fairly factual questions, pressing mainly on why he didn't sack Geoffrey earlier. He managed to get some big-picture message into it and was reasonably happy. The top line was Peter had done something wrong and now we had to move on. That was a bit inconsistent with Peter's resignation letter which TB had not actually read, but had had read to him by me. Peter was changing tack a bit. He was clearly being told by some that he should have toughed it out. He told TB he was getting lots of supportive letters and the feeling was we had allowed the media to force him out. TB told him he could only rebuild if he accepted he had made a big mistake and learned from it. He had to be more honest with himself. He said afterwards he was worried. Peter had gone from contrite to feeling somehow we had wronged him. I suspected it was just the after-effect. He had been hit by a truck and was now feeling the bruises. JP was very down on him, said he was pretty much a busted flush and had shown poor judgement. Little friendship and loyalty at the top. Peter was discovering that TB could be pretty ruthless when he had to be. Indeed, his (Tony's) only worry after the interview was whether he had been too obviously too ruthless. Then he did his jokey northern accent bit: _**_"Right you are, Ali, what a triumph eh_?"**-_"Thursday 24th December 1998-Friday 25th December 1998-Saturday 26th December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell _

_The press were refusing to let go, keeping going on every detail. The Sundays didn't have much new but they were gorging on every spit and fart so the overall impression was bad. Also it was clear some ministers, including JP, were using it to diddle on the political front, saying it would herald a change in direction, less New Labour. TB called JP and asked him to stop the briefing, told him it was not a sensible response. TB was now adamant we had to be dismissive of all the soap stuff, but I said there would never be a better time to get rid of Whelan and he should seize the chance. TB said he would definitely be going, but surely today it would just become another huge story as this was dying down. Peter was also of the view not to do it today, presumably because he did not want to be too linked to Whelan in the public mind. TB, who was due to leave for the Seychelles, said the most important thing was we all got a bit of a rest, and the last thing we needed was another great drama. I said fine, but he must not let him stay indefinitely. TB felt the public had absorbed the facts and now the media were just wallowing in it, but to little further effect. That was probably right. Our problem in the media was that the left-wing media mostly thought we were too right-wing and the right-wing media thought we were too left-wing, and no paper or group had the intellect or self-confidence to develop themselves as New Labour. They were all trapped in the old prisms. TB set off in more upbeat mood than a few days ago, but we had a fair few problems lined up for the New Year...I had spoken to one or two people re Whelan yesterday and the Sun were going for him today, while the Mirror, no doubt organised by Routledge, were starting what looked like a mini campaign to save him. I sent a note through to TB saying the problem here was weakness. Everyone knew we wanted him out, and yet we appeared unable to shift him. That was a very weakening position. TB called on receipt and said the difference now was that GB accepted he had to go, but we had to get the timing right. If we did it now, it would keep the Peter M story running and look like a minor form of disintegration. We had to calm things down. TB had sent JP a short fax reiterating the point about the need not to brief a change in direction and on the couple of occasions I spoke to JP today he joked about **"my fax telling off."** I spoke to Peter a couple of times and he was now moving to my view that we should get rid of Whelan quickly. He sent a note to TB to that effect, saying it was becoming a TB/GB problem area and had to be resolved. He was worrying about the building-society angle on his mortgage and was due to speak to them tomorrow. But I sensed real concern. He also felt TB was being very **"wily"** with him, that he was saying he could one day make a comeback, but actually hoping he might disappear. I said TB was being genuine, but he did need to heed the advice....._

_I took Rory and Calum to Chelsea vs Man U and saw Alex F(erguson) for a chat. He felt we'd handled the Peter M thing fine and people were not talking about it any more. Then Clive Soley called and said the Indy were doing a story about how JP and GB have forged an alliance to push for more Old Labour approaches to PFI and spending. I called JP who said it was not about that; it was about core values. But it was going to be troublesome and the last thing we needed right now. I resisted the temptation to call GB again. Peter said even if I wasn't threatening, GB would take it as such and it would just feed his angst and paranoia....RC (Robin Cook) called from Chevening (Foreign Secretary's country residence), asked whether there really was a new alliance between JP and GB. I suspected not, but JP was diddling post-Peter and had been loose with his words. I spoke to Joe Irvin (Prescott's special adviser) and said we now had to ensure JP's New Year message to his party was very New Labour. Joe was on for helping and I think realised John had gone a bit far. World At One was priceless. MPs welcome JP shift of strategy. Audrey (Fiona's mother) called and said what on earth was JP up to? She said past Labour governments were always destroyed by themselves, by ego leading to division...The JP problem was worse. Lots of big page leads, lots of deliberate mis-and-over-interpretation, and a silly story, in part fuelled by that tick Nick Jones (BBC) that we had rushed out the New Year message to take attention away from JP. I spoke to JP at 10.15 and he realised it had got a bit out of hand, said he would do whatever we needed to rectify it. We were entering a very febrile stage and we had to get off personality and on to substance and policy. I was worried that anything we did at the moment, unless of real substance, would just fuel the rubbish. Both RC and DB came on offering to do interviews on articles but if we were not careful they would just be seen as more evidence of division. JP had apologised to GB, saying he had not intended to push it as far as it went. But he said there was no point denying Peter leaving the Cabinet meant there would not be a change. I said the problem now was that when TB came back on the scene, with all the press with us, in South Africa, they would be desperate to write a **"Blair stamps his authority"** line, and it would then be seen as a slap down to JP. GB called. He felt we could only get back on the front foot through major policy, but it may be the climate would not take it and we just had to let this period pass. He then raised Whelan. He said where are we with the Charlie situation? I said **"You tell me." **He said that Charlie would not accept responsibility for the Peter loan story and if he was forced out on those grounds, he would put up a real fight and cause us real trouble. He said he had told him that when a press officer becomes the story, he ceases to be effective. I pointed out that a day earlier a survey showed I got more coverage than virtually every member of the Cabinet. He laughed and said I was in a different position, but got the point. GB was in his warm and friendly, almost pleading mode-you have to understand I am with you on this, he said, but we have to be careful how we handle it. He felt we should try to help get him a job, though of course he was getting a pretty bad press which was unlikely to help. It was ridiculous that he and I were dealing with this on the day of the launch of the euro....My sense of the papers was that they knew a lot of this stuff was rubbish, but it didn't stop them._

_The Sundays were all calling for one-on-one briefings and were clearly going to be doing big numbers on Peter M, euro, looking ahead etc. We had to get back on to serious stuff, and the public to realise there was a media agenda-which is why they could not let go of the Peter story-and a government agenda actually focused on their concerns. I was feeling very down about the job-too much work, too much pressure, too many incompetents I was having to support or cover for, too much things others ought to be doing, too many people looking to me for their answers. Today was meant to be something close to a day off and I would reckon I dealt with more calls than most people would deal with in a busy day. Neither Fiona nor I felt much like going out. We stayed in and watched Gone With The Wind with the kids.-"Sunday 27th December 1998-Monday 28th December 1998-Tuesday 29th December 1998-Wednesday 30th December 1998-Thursday 31st December 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_There was nothing to suggest that Mandelson acted corruptly, but it was far short of honouring Blair's description of a government that was **"purer than pure."** It grated terribly with the Prime Minister's claim that New Labour was on the side of **"ordinary people against privilege."** The kingpin of spin, the Merlin of image, this master of perception had behaved, as though he were blind to how this would look printed in the largest type on the front page of every newspaper. In a breakfast-time interview on Tuesday morning, Mandelson illustrated why he was his own worst advocate by describing himself and Robinson as **"fairly exotic personalities." **This was the peacockery that had made enemies and alienated so many people in his own party. **"It's the size of it"** was Blair's private verdict to aides and officials about why the loan was so devastating. For the price of Mandelson's house in an elite enclave of west London could be bought a street of homes in his constituency of Hartlepool.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed did return home from his honeymoon alone:https://bit.ly/3934s8O  
Some of Ed's advisers stated his wedding was politically-motivated:https://bit.ly/3a2kTn7  
The wedding flashback and dialogue is here:https://bit.ly/2wiCbO9  
https://bit.ly/2xchvHx  
https://bit.ly/2QrIjul  
https://bit.ly/2xVsDZZ  
The photo mentioned:http://dailym.ai/3b50Jc8  
George and Peter do have a very unusual friendship/bond-even after getting into a hilariously dramatic scandal on a holiday to Corfu in 2008:http://dailym.ai/3a3mgSu  
https://bit.ly/3b9rgVS  
https://bit.ly/3a3Z7z9  
https://bit.ly/33ymYVh  
https://bit.ly/2Wo6Tjy  
https://bit.ly/391h00f  
You can see some hilarious scenes of George and Peter together in this documentary, Mandelson: The Real PM, filmed over the 2010 election (the account has the other parts linked) :https://bit.ly/3ddpipl  
David's visit to Lisa Angel:https://bit.ly/3bb1qkn  
https://bit.ly/3b6Kw6d  
Peter's appearance on Newsnight:https://bit.ly/2IYIBog  
Nick's appearance on Marr:https://bit.ly/2Qt5GDH  
The reports of the George and Peter Corfu incident:https://bit.ly/2WsUgDP  
https://bit.ly/2Wue2yE  
https://bit.ly/33xxcoU  
https://bit.ly/2UipoTQ  
https://bit.ly/2UkWmTI  
https://bit.ly/2vFRobS  
https://bit.ly/39bjh9v  
https://bit.ly/3a740HM  
https://bit.ly/394UK5N  
https://bit.ly/3ba1S21  
Them at the Spectator awards:https://bit.ly/2U2iZ05  
You can see Justine in the scarf here, on a march with Ed in 2009:https://shutr.bz/3daPhh1  
https://bit.ly/3b4Qu7J  
The dialogue in Ed's flashback to visiting Sarah in Israel:https://bbc.in/2wiUsuI  
Ed lighting a candle:https://bit.ly/393fJpo  
https://bit.ly/2WrVsHw  
https://bit.ly/3a3DnDD  
The flashback Samantha has to the only time they let the kids be filmed in 2008:https://bit.ly/2U1PYSo  
https://bit.ly/2xIwlG2  
David and Samantha struggled to get a place for Ivan in a special needs school because the policy of the then-government was for children to be mainstream-educated when possible:https://bit.ly/2U03A0a  
https://bbc.in/38WpXbe  
http://dailym.ai/395LZrX  
Florence's chair is one of three chairs the Cameron children were given by the Obamas:https://bbc.in/3bbeF4z  
Peter did nickname Daniel "Daniel Peter":https://bit.ly/2U2JX7G  
Bea does have dyslexia:http://dailym.ai/2U1wEVe  
Her mother did describe her biting when she was younger:https://bit.ly/33r8jLI  
David used to joke about the tube to ease children who weren't familiar with seeing the tube in Ivan's stomach-tapping his head repeatedly was a signal to warn Ivan he was about to have his mouth opened:https://bit.ly/2WB2jyH  
https://bbc.in/2vB86Jo  
Ed making potato latkes:https://bit.ly/2x9bzPw  
Ed's written plans to tell stories to the kids:https://bit.ly/2vxk3zD  
Ed's trip to Israel:https://bit.ly/2TZEVJa  
https://bit.ly/3a16EPf  
Alastair & Peter were behind the attempted coup against Ed's leadership in November 2014:https://bit.ly/2QsP4fp  
David's famous "hugging huskies" photoshoot:https://bit.ly/2U1RHqT  
Ed's "I don't love David Cameron" line:https://bit.ly/2QrAF2V  
Alastair's mental health refers to when he had a breakdown in the late '80s working as a journalist and was arrested for his own safety:https://bit.ly/3a8bkDi  
Alastair has made a documentary about his depression with his daughter Grace which you can see here: https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x78z6fe  
He also has a book coming out dealing with his experiences with mental illness:https://bit.ly/2TYxTEy  
Tom Baldwin was a close friend of Alastair's and was briefed by him:http://dailym.ai/33tPirS  
The poll David mentions is real, as are Nancy and Elwen's reactions:https://bit.ly/33raGOA  
Lola is the Osbornes' dog:https://bbc.in/2xaABhb  
Liberty does learn Mandarin:https://bit.ly/2wlDeg9  
Ed did declare New Labour "dead": https://bit.ly/33v8oOq  
Peter was forced to resign in 1998 after taking a loan from Robertson (under investigation by the department he was a minister for) to pay for his house:https://bbc.in/33rYxsy  
Bea and Will were bullied at school over their father's job:https://bit.ly/2xatENu  
https://bit.ly/2x3X4wH  
Ed intended to bring in the mansion tax, which was hugely unpopular:https://bit.ly/2UlOam7  
https://bit.ly/394A9ym  
Liz Lloyd was Ed's first girlfriend:https://bit.ly/2WpIPgg  
https://bit.ly/2Wo6Tjy


	11. Inspiring Interludes, A Deferral Of Decisions And The Diplomacies Of Dance Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Lynton thinks breaks should be musical and David might have been a dance teacher in another life."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
The reference quotes deal with the Tories' election war-room and Lynton giving people koalas.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_A five-minute walk from Parliament lies the Conservative Campaign Headquarters-known to all inside the party as "CCHQ." Arranged over the basement and ground floor of No.4 Matthew Parker Street, Westminster, this was the nerve centre from which Lynton Crosby ran the election campaign. Crosby's** "war room"** itself was an open-plan office at street level, where work was conducted in a high state of secrecy. The blinds were permanently drawn to keep out prying eyes of photographers with long lenses, and any Labour spies. In the middle of the room was** "the power pod"** at which sat Crosby and the heads of the Tory ground campaign, communications, digital and research departments. There was never any question of who was in charge. With David Cameron often hundreds of miles away, touring the country, Crosby's reign inside the war room was absolute. **"He could have had his own office, but he sat in the middle"** one insider says. Crosby was always available and accessible to his staff and senior colleagues. **"He would talk to anyone, from the intern to the Prime Minister, and he'll call everyone "mate.""**_

_The location of the party's new offices also helped. Previously, the Conservatives had been headquartered at the Millbank Tower complex. Although this was where New Labour was born as an election-winning machine, and an address that propelled Tony Blair into office on the back of a landslide, Millbank was just far enough from Parliament to be awkward. A 10-15 minute walk was enough distance for gaps to open up between the party's full-time election operation and its MPs and ministers in Westminster and Whitehall. The move in February 2014 to Matthew Parker Street, just five minutes from Parliament, contributed to smooth party relations. **"Psychologically, having an office in the heart of Westminster, in the centre as opposed to Millbank, was good for MPs"** a senior CCHQ staff member says. **"We had a flow of MPs coming in and we could get to Parliament more quickly and No.10 more quickly."**-Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_Inside the war room, work went on around the clock. The day began early. Crosby called the first meeting of his senior team in the Thatcher Room-which contained a large portrait of the late former Prime Minister-for 5.45 a.m. each day. Although painful to some, the early starts would give the Tories an important advantage over Labour. One senior staff member says: **"It made a real difference to how the day ran because by 6.15 a.m. any problems were ironed out."** In terms of the day's media schedule, key **"lines"**-the slogans and arguments the party was putting forward that day-would be agreed before the main run of morning broadcast interviews began, on BBC Radio 4, 5 Live and the sofas of the breakfast television studios. **"It just made everything easier. There was no panic"** according to one of Crosby's senior team. At the meetings, Crosby would be given summaries of the campaign activities in target seats from Stephen Gilbert, the campaigns director; Team 2015 activities from Paul Abbott, the chief of staff to Grant Shapps; media coverage and plans for the day from the head of communications, Giles Kenningham; the **"grid" **of forthcoming announcements and events from Adam Atashzai, a No. 10 aide; and an update on digital campaigning from the creative and digital directors, Tom Edmonds and Craig Elder._

_At 6.30 a.m., Crosby would convene a second meeting, at which the team would be joined by Craig Oliver, the No. 10 communications director, and Ed Llewellyn, Cameron's friend and chief of staff. Coffee and fruit would be served with the occasional croissant for variety as the senior strategists firmed up their plans for the day over breakfast. A more substantial meal was available in the basement kitchen area, where some early risers would compete to arrive first in order to claim the freshest porridge. Then, at 7.30 a.m., the third meeting of the morning took place, at which Crosby's team would be joined by David Cameron and George Osborne, either in person or by telephone when they were away on the campaign trail. The Prime Minister and the Chancellor would listen to the proposals, make their own contributions and formally agree to Crosby's plan. _

_A few hundred yards up the road, at Labour's headquarters in Brewer's Green, Ed Miliband's team had not yet turned up for work. The first meeting of the day did not start until 7.45 a.m., two hours after Crosby had begun setting his team's priorities for the day. One Labour insider says the explanation is simple: Miliband was not much of **"a morning person."**-Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_The Chief Whip warned that he'd recently had a private meeting with the Speaker, John Bercow, whom the Conservatives absolutely hate. The Prime Minister in particularly clearly detests Bercow and cannot disguise this....Sir Bob referred to the Treasury's enthusiasm, which he acknowledged seemed to be based very heavily on George Osborne's desire to impose large garden cities in two particular constituencies-one of which is the constituency of Nadine Dorries, the Conservative MP, who referred to David Cameron and George Osborne as **"two posh boys who don't know the price of milk."** George's other proposal is to put a large, sprawling garden city in the constituency of John Bercow, the Speaker, who is absolutely despised by both Cameron and Osborne!-"Monday 12th November 2012-"Monday 18th February 2013" The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_The Conservatives switched to a 1-10 scale and asked individual voters to say how likely they were to vote in a particular way. This enabled the party to build up a far more detailed picture of voters' states of mind about the election. Someone might be a 7 out of 10 Tory voter, a 9 out of 10 UKIP voter, but a 1 out of 10 Labour voter. This person would be regarded as a UKIP voter who could potentially be persuaded to vote Tory because they hated the idea of a Labour government above anything else. The Tories would then bombard this individual with leaflets and messages warning that Ed Miliband would walk into No.10 if they did not vote Conservative. This is known, in Tory circles, as a **"squeeze message." **During the campaign, David Cameron spoke privately of the need to **"squeeze"** these UKIP voters, and Lib Dem voters, using messages that would appeal to individuals in different areas.** "What we were able to do was take this much more sophisticated data collection and send squeeze messages to the people who wouldn't normally vote for us"** one senior figure says._

_All the data collected by the surveys, over a period of years, was fed back into the Conservatives' central election canvassing database, a system built for the party called VoteSource. **"We ran algorithms that said if someone is a 7 likely to vote Tory, but 9 likely to vote UKIP, it looks like they might be a UKIP voter, but if they hate Labour more, then the squeeze message is "vote UKIP and you'll let Labour in" and we can shape the message like that. The algorithms were produced by VoteSource. It gave us the ability to then do the squeeze messages."**-Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_In order to cheer up his team, the music-loving Crosby adopted an unofficial campaign song. He chose "One Vision" by Queen and would frequently release the tension of the day by turning up the volume and playing it out across the room from the speakers on his computer. One colleague recalls: **"Suddenly this song would erupt in the middle of the afternoon. You'd just have to end your phone call and sit back as you couldn't do any work with this deafening music going on. People were working incredibly long hours, slogging our guts out-on six-or-seven day weeks-and it all helped keep morale up."** Later, Crosby would play the role of entertainer of his own troops on election night, bringing in a bugle to blow as a hunting horn whenever the Tories claimed a particularly prized scalp._

_Crosby also recognised that joking around, while good for morale, would not be enough on its own. Just as he had instigated the **"pink cardigan"** awards for heroic work by staffers on Boris Johnson's mayoral campaigns, Crosby made sure that every day at the 5.p.m. meeting of all staff in the war room, he would praise individuals for their outstanding efforts. This time, troops were awarded a cuddly koala or a furry toy kangaroo. **"Koalas and kangaroos were flying all over the place in the final week"** one member of staff recalls. **"We were trying to work out where he got them all from. Maybe he got a massive box when he went back (to Australia) at Christmas."** Crosby liked to keep his colleagues on their toes and was ready to use a variety of means to do so. **"You never knew when you were going to get hit on the head by a blue stress ball"** one CCHQ insider says.** "He loved throwing those things about and he was quite a good shot."**-Why The Tories Won: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election, Tim Ross_

_Home (for David Cameron as a child) was decidedly old-fashioned if not notably bookish ("**They are very country"** explains one friend.) Dinner was served upon the return of Ian Cameron at 7:45pm. His children (Alex, Tania, David, and Clare), once old enough to graduate from tea with their nanny, were expected to display immaculate manners. It was a house, recalls a guest, that still played parlour games. After dinner parties "the ladies" would withdraw to another room. But the Old Rectory was also hospitable, its swimming pool-the result of a big win on the horses-and tennis court always at the disposal of the children's friends (if not of other villagers, a cause of resentment among some.)...After school, he (David), Alex and Tania would run around in the fields or feed Mary's (their mother) bantams. As they got older, they would go further afield, encouraging one of their Jack Russells to hunt down rabbit holes. Airguns would be in evidence too, but despite a profusion of rooks, rabbits and pigeons around the Old Rectory, shooting was carried out-or meant to be-in a controlled environment. As the boys grew up, they would accompany their father on shoots, often at Wooley Park, the estate of Philip Loughton, later Lord Lieutenant of Berkshire. Early on the boys developed an interest in tennis, playing frequently and with some elam...The annual cricket games, captained by the brothers and played either at Wasing or on the Peasemore village pitch, would be equally hard fought..._

_The brothers, who shared a room, always got on well, teasing one another and fighting playfully enough. Their sister Tania, sandwiched in between, had to be something of a tomboy if she was to join in the fun or else she played with Clare, six years her junior. An exception to this was horse riding, which Alex and Tania took to with enthusiasm, but which David, at that stage at least, didn't enjoy to the same degree. The prevailing mood seems to have been one of contentment, rarely broken by parental displeasure. The boys went away to school from the age of seven, where a more explicit discipline would be taught, and the school holidays were something of a refuge from the pettiness of school. In any event, growing up with a large garden in a secluded part of Berkshire ensured that parental strictness would be minimal.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

* * *

_"They were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other. If they had been two little street boys, they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble fight. As it was, they did the next thing to it."-The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett_

_ _

_""I don't want to be your friend" Cath said as sternly as she could. "I like that we're not friends."_

_"Me too " Reagan said. "I'm sorry you ruined it by being so pathetic.""-Fangirl, Rainbow Rowell_

_ _

_"Things I now hate:_

_His stupid smiles he makes me work for..._

_The fact that I probably won't be mad at him in a few hours because he's so fucking shiny, he's like this star in my head and I can't get him out, and he's shining all bright and he's keeping me awake and I keep thinking about him but I don't think he's any more ready for me than I am for him, even though he probably thinks he is because he probably thinks he's all fixed up and shit, and he's not, and I'm not ready, I'm not, because I don't know how to be ready, but in a few hours I won't be mad at him anymore and that sucks. I don't know what to do with that."-Gone, Gone, Gone, Hannah Moskowitz_

* * *

"If we win" Lynton tells them, over his shoulder. "This is the lot you need to thank."

"I was pretty much surplus to requirements, then?" David says with a grin, while George gives him a nudge in the ribs.

But the fact Lynton's even _mentioned_ winning tells David that he must be fairly proud of the campaign-usually if the word _winning _is so much as _breathed_ around Lynton, they're treated to a swelling of Lynton's chest and a lecture on the number of campaigns that have been destroyed by overconfidence.

"This-" Lynton says, gesturing around the basement room of Matthew Parker Street-full of faces, slowly turning towards them. The younger ones are digging elbows into chests, some pulling out phones-others are rising to their feet uncertainly.

"Is where the magic happens" Lynton finishes with a beam.

Several minutes later, David has met a lot of the people who he might, according to Lynton, owe his gratitude to in the next few months. Two of them in particular, Craig and Tom, are pulled forward by Lynton. "They're tracking the Facebook likes we get-plus, they've helped with a new type of survey-Grant helped with that, too. They're pioneers in their field. Not just them, of course-we've got eighteen working on social media monitoring-"

"There's VoteSource" Craig had said eagerly, Lynton disappearing to chat to Grant briefly. "That lets us know-basically, it's a more sophisticated version of collecting data on voters. Because these days, it's so much more complicated, with more political parties-

"Right-"

"So basically, instead of letters, we now rate voters out of 10-" Tom says, pointing to a computer screen. "And we can rate them-6/10 likely to vote Conservative, 9/10 likely to vote UKIP-that sort of thing-"

"I see-"

"So we know how best to target the voters. For example-just take someone likely to vote UKIP, for example-we'd know to give them the message that voting UKIP could put Miliband in Downing Street. And so the only way to keep that from happening is to vote Conservative-"

Something explodes, or that's what it sounds like. Sound bashes through the room, and nearly takes David's head off.

He slaps one hand to his chest and the other over his ear, ramming the other into George's shoulder.

_"HEY, ONE MAN, ONE GOAL, ONE MISSION" _blasts across the room. George swears-or David would guess he does, since it's too noisy to do anything else.

"What the _hell_ is that?" David manages to shout, looking around for Lynton and noticing that none of the Tory HQ workers seem as shocked as he feels.

Lynton appears to be doing something resembling a dance, as the guitars rip through the air. "Way to calm people down!" he half-bellows at David, who can't remember when he last felt less calm. "Gives them a break in the middle of the day, you know-"

"Oh, fantastic!" George yells, it being too loud for Lynton to detect the sarcasm, before he half-shouts down David's ear "Should only be about another hour before my _heart_ stops fibrillating-"

Lynton is still dancing, as are several of the workers in their seats. Being calm's all very well but, looking at George, who appears to be concerned that one of his eardrums has burst, David has to reflect that at the moment, a break wouldn't be his most pressing concern.

* * *

The Thatcher Room is warmer and David shrugs off his suit, pulling his sleeves up. Lynton offers them some fruit and David busies himself slicing an orange into four quarters. George does the same, both helping themselves to a plum.

"Must be nerve-wracking" Dave remarks, nodding up at the portrait of Lady Thatcher, staring down at them as though deciding whether or not to approve.

"What?" Lynton turns and glances up at the picture. "Oh, her. Nah, Mrs T can be a mascot-"

George's eyes widen slightly. David briefly wonders just how fortunate Lynton is that Mrs T didn't hear that statement.

"Now-" Lynton beckons them round to a computer screen. "You asked about everyone watching videos of the Scottish bloody Nationalist Party-"

George snorts. David allows himself a quick grin but says, more seriously, "You really think the SNP could be what-"

Lynton nods with a grin. "All the evidence is there. From that bloody referendum they've been drumming up support. They're appealing more and more-"

"Goes one of two ways" Grant chips in, tossing a plum from hand to hand. "Either they wipe out Labour in Scotland. Or they try and wrangle their way into power through a deal with Labour."

"What? A coalition?"

Lynton shrugs. George glances at David. "Either that, or a confidence-and-supply arrangement. Either way, it's good news for us."

"People in England mistrust the SNP" Lynton explains, off George's look. "Even if they're not entirely conscious of it, it's there. A little bit of mistrust. It was there after the referendum and it's there the more popular Sturgeon grows in Scotland. And people already don't trust Miliband-they see him as a bloody wimp. If we combine those two together-"

"Miliband's doomed" says George succinctly, only to receive a stamp of the foot from Lynton. "Oi. No saying Miliband's fucking doomed. If you start thinking like that,_ we're_ fucking doomed. We've got to treat Miliband like he's a bloody serious competitor. No matter how bloody difficult it might be." Lynton glances at David. "Remember the likeliest outcome here is a hung parliament. And we need to have everything ready to convince people that Miliband would bargain the UK away with the SNP if that was the case."

Lynton turns to the laptop which is facing away from them. "And so we've got to hammer the message through people's heads. So we've got a preview here of a poster we'll be unveiling on Friday. Need to just get your approval on it-"

David nods. "Fire away."

Lynton claps his hands with a grin. He spins the laptop round to face them.

George bursts out laughing. David, staring at the screen, is caught between the hysterical amusement that rises immediately in his chest and the small jabbing that pricks him at the same time. Something like guilt.

The poster is great. David can tell that much. On the left, a photo of Ed beams out from outside Number 10.

His teeth are sticking out. He's beaming. It's Ed at his goofiest.

David tries not to wince.

To the right, Alex Salmond beams smugly from outside Downing Street, but his arm's shoved around Ed's shoulders. Ed's returning the gesture, nervous smile in place, his arm positioned slightly awkwardly, in a way that's somehow been caught perfectly by whoever Photoshopped the pictures.

Emblazoned over their heads is the simple slogan:

_Your worst nightmare.....just got worse._

It's effective. There's no doubt about that.

It's also-

David bites his lip.

Of course it's cutting. It has to be.

And Miliband wouldn't hesitate to do this to him.

It's really this that decides David, though he isn't aware of it. He nods, forcing down any guilt, focusing his eyes on that sneer that curls Miliband's mouth across the dispatch box every week.

"Yep. You can sign off on that." He inspects the poster more closely, waiting for the usual thrill, the jab of triumph of getting one over on Miliband.

"It's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant." He makes his voice a little more vehement this time, and George casts him a curious look.

Lynton grins. "Thought you'd like it. Now, if you go hard at him on PMQs-make sure you mention that article. That, combined with this-" Lynton grins. "It's an image in people's minds. Weak. Defenceless. And with what they think of Miliband already, it won't be too hard."

He claps his hands and leans over, folding them over the top of the laptop screen "Speaking of hard. Decision time."

David glances up, conscious again of George's gaze. Lynton's watching him, making no attempt to disguise the look. "Clegg's seat."

David focuses very carefully on biting into his orange. "Yes."

"Did you?"

"What?"

"Reach a decision?" Lynton can't disguise the bite of impatience in his voice.

David stares at the orange quarter for a moment. "Yes I did."

"And?"

David can feel George's gaze, sharp, watchful. He raises his eyes slowly to meet Lynton's gaze.

David tells him his decision. George's eyes don't leave his face the whole time.

* * *

"So, the _Times_ have been on again-"

"What for this time?" Michael's steps are quick at his side as they head through the carpeted corridors, surrounded by advisers, towards the Chamber.

"Nancy's secondary placement. As if we needed that on the same day bloody Chilcot's delayed-"

Michael grimaces. "Fuck. Are you sure the ones earlier-"

"I don't know-" David shoves the Plastic Fantastic further under his arm. "I mean, we were pretty certain she'd get Grey Coat-we just put Lady Margaret first because they basically shove you off the list if you don't put them first-blasted cheek-"

"And for some reason, you wanted her to go there."

"Brilliant school" David points out. "Even if you do practically have to know the Queen to get in." He snorts. "In our case, literally. But we wanted that and Grey Coat about equally, so we just put Lady Margaret down first. Grey Coat takes you if you put them second."

"So do you suppose it's true, then? That she's got Grey Coat Hospital?" Michael looks at him over his glasses.

David sighs. "I'm not sure. God knows why the council would tell the school before us-"

"When you'd be the ones arranging the security and everything-"

"Yes. I mean-" David shakes his head. "I don't know. I'm glad Nancy hasn't seen it." He shoots Michael a quick glance. "Could you make sure Bea doesn't mention it to her?"

Michael snorts. "Bea and Will are grounded at the moment. Not much danger in either of them mentioning anything-not currently-"

David frowns, but at that point, they turn towards the Commons and the rumble of noise coming from the room ahead that tells them PMQs is approaching.

* * *

"Mr Speaker-" David feels something go through him at that nasal twang in Miliband's voice, and he immediately busies himself looking at his notes. It's just a reaction.

Because he was-

_Do not think about that fucking pool._

"Mr Speaker, let me start by saying, first of all on the Iraq inquiry, for my part-"

Miliband's got one finger pointing and he's got that perturbed little crease between his eyebrows. He looks so thin in that suit. The navy goes well with the olive of his skin, though, and-

"That it was published six years ago-"

God, Miliband's voice is so nasal. Why doesn't he deal with that?

(David would quite like to like it less.)

"And I agree with the Prime Minister it should be published as soon as possible-"

And now it's psychosomatic because of _course _David's now focusing on every cadence in Miliband's voice. It's ridiculous.

"Now-now on the economy, as the election approaches-" The jeers are already rising behind David, so that Ed has to raise his voice to be heard.

"Can the Prime Minister confirm that we now know that this will be the first government since the 1920s-"

David shouldn't be noticing how Miliband's lingered on the word _first_, trying to avoid his lisp.

"To leave office with living standards lower at the end of the parliament than they were at the beginning?"

Miliband gives him that wide-eyed look as he sits down_. Th-see?_ David can practically hear him thinking.

He really shouldn't know Miliband's voice so well.

"First of all-" he says, leaning against the dispatch box, in the way that always makes Miliband watch him-

(-and since when did he notice _that?)_

"Let me _agree_ with the Leader of the Opposition that we want to see this Iraq inquiry published properly, but let me make_ this_ point-"

_Can't hurt to remind everyone of Iraq,_ Dan had said. _One of Labour's greatest hits, along with fucking up the economy._

"If everyone in this House, including members opposite, had voted to set up the Iraq Inquiry when we proposed, it would have been published years ago-"

The tidal wave of noise is rising around him again.

"So perhaps-perhaps he could _start _by recognizing his _own_ regret at voting against the establishment of the Inquiry."

* * *

Ed launches into his sentence too quickly.

(Because his mind's dwelling on the way Cameron says the word _properly_ and that, plus the way his voice is curled, with that accent he has around the words _years ago, _has left Ed feeling oddly uncomfortable and a little too warm in his suit.)

"Mr-Speaker-Mr Speaker-" He tries to lean on the dispatch box, looking unaffected, the same way Cameron does.

"The Inquiry-" He winces at the noise from the Tory benches. "The Inquiry was established six-" His lisp's rearing up again.

"The Inquiry was established six years ago, after our combat operations had ended-"

_You've got to distance yourself from Iraq_, Bob had said (out of Alastair's hearing, naturally.) _It's still a pretty big bone to pick for voters._

"And frankly, my views on the Iraq war are well-known, and I want this Inquiry published."

He glances down, only to see a list of questions about living standards staring back up at him.

"Now, I notice he didn't-" He looks up, a sudden excitement seizing him, because Cameron _never_-"I notice he didn't answer on the economy-"

He stares at Cameron, waiting for a reaction. Something. Anything, to show he's got _through,_ that he's dented that-that smooth-

Smooth-

Cameron just gives him a disinterested look-a casual glance, his eyes flicking up and down as though Ed is a fly, or some other small creature of no importance-which just makes Ed raise his voice all the louder.

"He didn't answer on the economy-" The lisp's rearing again. "Families are £1600 a year worse off-he said in his 2010 manifeth-sto living standards would rise-can we therefore agree that Tory manifeth-sto promises on living standards aren't worth the paper they're written on?"

He sits down too quickly, because he's been looking at Cameron for too long and he's starting to notice the different shades of brown in his hair, the greying at his temples.

"Well-well, first of all-let's be clear-he voted again and again and again-" Cameron brings his finger down with each repetition. "Against establishing the Inquiry, but as ever-"

Ed shakes his head with a look he hopes is pitying. (Of course he had to vote against establishing the bloody Inquiry-it was practically expected of Labour.)

"Absolutely no apology. Now, let me deal very directly with living standards and what is happening in the economy of our country-"

_Look at me_, Ed thinks with a jab of annoyance.

"The news out today shows a record number of people in work-"

Harriet's shouting something. Cameron's still not looking at him.

"A record number of _women_ in work-" Another wave of cheers. "We are seeing wages growing ahead of inflation, and we're also seeing disposable income now higher than any year it was under the last Labour government-"

Ed grits his teeth. Jeers are rising louder from the opposite bench. Next to him, he can sense Balls seething silently.

"As for his figure of £1600-" Cameron pauses just slightly, but long enough for dread to sink into Ed's chest.

"It doesn't include any of the tax reductions that we have put in place again and again under this government-"

Oddly enough, the first thing that strikes Ed then is that Cameron's still not looking at him.

"That is the truth-and the fact of the matter is, Mr Speaker-" Cameron's voice is rising higher now, smugly certain. "He told us there'd be no growth-we had growth. He told us there'd be no jobs-we've had jobs-"

_Look at me._

"He told us there'd be a cost-of-living crisis-we've got inflation at 0.5%-" Cameron leans over the box. He's still not looking at him. "He's _wrong about everything."_

Ed seethes, almost scrambling up at the sneer curling in Cameron's voice. His heart's rapid. His eyes search for Cameron's across the dispatch box.

"Mr Th-Speaker-he's _raised_ taxes on ordinary families, he's _raised_ VAT, he's _cut_ tax credits-"

He's aware of Balls nodding furiously behind him, of the shouts rising, louder and louder from the Tories, but his eyes go again and again to Cameron, burning into his forehead.

_Look at me. You smug-you-you-_

_Look at me._

"The reality is that people are worth-s off on wages and they're worse off on taxes under this Prime Minister-"

But.

But.

Cameron's scuppered the £1600 figure-

And it's not bloody _fair-_

"Now, he thinks everything is hunky-dory-"

Cameron bursts out laughing, Crabb snorting at his side, and he's still not even looking at him.

"Did he even notice this week the report that came out that said half of all families where one person is in full-time work-" He's almost forgotten the tide of voices around them. Or not quite forgotten. He knows they're there, can hear them, glancing off his skin, but his eyes are trained now on Cameron. _Look at me. Look at me._

Nothing gets _through-_

"Can't make ends meet at the end of the month. You can work hard, play by the rules, but in Cameron's Britain, you still can't pay the bills, that's the reality-"

Bitterness twists the words a little because-

He doesn't care, Ed tells himself furiously as he throws himself down again. He doesn't care.

He's not sure if he wants to believe it or not.

_Wants _to believe it?

It's _true!_

"I-I studied every report that came out-"

Cameron sounds unruffled. Frustration gnarls into a tight knot in Ed's stomach.

"He's referring, of course, to the Rowentree Report-" Cameron's sliding his glasses off smoothly, glancing over them. "And the Rowentree Report says this-"

He's quoting it. Bastard.

_"The risk of falling below a socially acceptable living standard decreases as the amount of work in a household increases-"_

_"Ahh-"_

Ed stares at him, something snarling tight in his chest. _You-you-_

"And under this government-" Cameron's even clutching his glasses cockily.

Is it even possible to do that cockily?

Ed doesn't care. Cameron can, he's decided, and does.

"We've got over 30 million more people in work. We've got the lowest rate of young people claiming unemployment benefits since the 1970s-"

"Only because you'll starve them out" Harriet mutters.

Ed can't smile. He's too busy staring at Cameron.

"Long-term unemployment is down, womens' unemployment is down-we're getting the country back to work-and in terms of living standards, we've raised to £10,000 the amount of money people can earn before they start paying taxes, and people who are in work are seeing their pay go up by 4%-"

Cameron looks at him for the first time, briefly.

"But if we'd _listened_ to the Right Honourable Gentleman, _none_ of these things would have happened."

Ed shakes his head. He's got no idea what expression he's wearing-all he knows is that Cameron's bloody _analysed_ that report, exactly the way he was meant to, and Ed bloody hates him for it.

"If we listened to them, it would be more borrowing, more spending, more debt-_all_ the things that got us in a mess in the first place."

Cameron sits down. He doesn't look at Ed once.

That just makes it worse, somehow.

* * *

"M-th-Mr Th-Speaker-" Miliband's lisp is breaking through more now-a sure sign he's getting more het up. David wonders if he should know Miliband's voice so well.

"He ith-s the perth-son who has failed on the deficit-"

David could cringe for him. Most of his backbenchers don't share the feeling-a great wave of mirth breaks out and the laughter reaches almost hysterical levels.

"And thith-s Prime Minister-and this Prime Minister-and thith Prime Minith-ster said-this Prime Minith-ster-"

David keeps his head down, but he doesn't have to look to know the expression Miliband's wearing-the one that makes him look like an angry schoolboy.

"Order-" Bercow's calling out, but David keeps his head down. It's easier that way.

"Never had it so good-and he's totally wrong-now he doesn't notice-he doesn't notice what's going on, because life's good for those at the top-"

"He sounds like he's about to break" mutters William. David snorts. "He looks like a Jack-In-The-Box."

"Can he confirm that while everyday people are worse off-"

"And you're one of those everyday people, are you?" George mutters.

"Executive earnings have gone up 21% in the last year alone?"

David almost snorts with laughter.

"What's _that _got to do with anything?" exclaims Stephen, summing it up, as David gets to his feet.

"He criticises me on the deficit-"

Miliband really makes it too easy, sometimes.

"He's the man who couldn't even _remember _the deficit!"

Miliband shakes his head, but his lips press tightly together. David meets his eyes briefly, before he glances away again.

(Something about that big-eyed look on Miliband is always a little too raw.)

"And also, he's now had four questions-and not a _single word_ _of welcome_ for the unemployment figures out today-"

He keeps his gaze carefully away from Miliband.

"Behind every single one of those statistics is a family that-with someone who can go out to work-who can earn a wage-who can help give that family security-"

His heart is rapid, his fist clenched, hammering the words out, wanting them to sink into Miliband's skin.

"We're the party who are putting the country back to work-" His voice is rougher now. _"Labour_ are the party who would put it all at risk."

"Ed Miliband-"

Miliband lives up to his Jack-In-The-Box name.

"Total complath-cency about one month's figures-"

_Oh God, put your finger down._

"When he's had five years of failure under this government-"

David snorts.

"What does that even mean?" mutters Nick, speaking for the first time.

David shrugs, already focusing on what he knows he's going to bring up next-what he knows will pretty much win the argument.

(And which will bring that wide-eyed, shocked look to Miliband's face again.)

The Tories are all laughing now.

"Now under him, we're a country of food banks and bank bonuses-"

"So New Labour then" William manages, before promptly collapsing in laughter.

"A country of tax cuts for millionaires, while millions are paying more-" Miliband's finger seems to have come alive.

"Isn't his biggest broken promise of all that we're _all in it together?"_

"Prime Minister-"

David gets up slowly, knowing it'll rile Miliband all the more.

"Oh, dearie me-" He leans on the dispatch box for the same reason. "You can _see_ the problem that Labour have got-"

He doesn't look at Miliband.

"They can't talk about the deficit because it's coming down-they can't talk about unemployment 'cos it's going up-they can't talk about the economy because the IMF, the President of the United States-"

He pushes away the jab of guilt.

"All say the British economy is performing well-so what _are _they left with?"

_Don't look at him._

He steels himself.

"Well, I'll tell you, Mr Speaker-they've got an energy policy to keep prices _high_-"

Laughter.

"They've got a minimum wage policy that would _cut_ _the minimum wage-"_

More laughter.

"And they've got a _homes tax_ that has done the impossible to unite the Honourable Member for Hackney with Peter Mandelson!"

Laughter roars louder than ever around him.

"So to be fair-to be _fair_ to the Right Honourable Gentleman-"

Something in him jabs. He doesn't know why. And he swings round to meet Miliband's gaze.

Miliband's watching him, with big, dark eyes. They're far too wide.

Wide. And dark. And-

His lip trembles a little.

David yanks his gaze away.

Something squeezes tightly in his chest.

"We-we learnt at the weekend-we learnt at the weekend what he can achieve in one week in Doncaster-"

He doesn't look. He forces his voice louder. The words sharper. Crueller.

"Where he couldn't open the _door,_ he was bullied by _small children-"_

Laughter crackles and twists around them, growing every second.

"And he set the _carpet_ on fire-" David leans against the dispatch box, keeping his eyes away from Miliband. "Just _imagine_ what a _shambles_ he'd make of running the country!"

The cheers rise up as he sits down, loud and deafening. William's chuckling to himself, George is laughing. Stephen squeezes his arm.

David doesn't look at Miliband once.

* * *

"Where he couldn't open the _door,_ he was bullied by _small children_ and he set the _carpet_ on fire-just _imagine_ what a _shambles_ he'd make of running the country!"

Ed manages to keep his face straight, even as the hysteria rises from the government benches. Something trembles in his chest.

Something scared and hurt and-

Ed hates Cameron.

He _hates _him.

And it's stupid because Cameron _warned _him-

"Mr. Speaker-" The noise is drowning him out. "Mr. Speaker-this is a Prime Minister-denying-"

"O-o-order-o-order-"

Ed sits down and the majority of faces turn towards Bercow with the look of rebellious schoolchildren facing a headmaster. Ed catches Osborne's lips mouthing something that looks and sounds suspiciously like "Poison dwarf."

"It may well be the session will take a bit longer, but the questions and answers-"

Bercow's drowned out by the wave of cheers that surges up from behind Cameron-most of them aimed across the chamber at Ed.

Cameron doesn't look at him once.

"It's fine-that's fine by me-" Bercow's smirking, while the backebnchers continue expressing their feelings for a few more moments, then fall silent, apparently satisfied they've made their point.

"However long it takes-the questions and the answers will be heard. Ed Miliband?"

"I've got to say to the Prime Minister, if he's so confident about leadership, why's he _chickening_ out of the TV election debates?"

It's a weak point and he knows it and he knows Cameron knows it, too.

Cameron's laughing, his face flushed and creased, shoving his glasses back in his pocket. That and the sharp-edged laughter from the Tory benches makes something coil, hot and furious, in Ed's stomach.

"This is-this is the Prime Minister who will go down in history as the worst on living standards for working people-" He hates the sound of his own voice, more high-pitched with each second. "He tells people they're better off-they know they're worth-se off-"

And the lisp's back.

"Working families know they can't afford another five years of this government."

He throws himself down into his seat, fuming at everything, and more than anything at Cameron's grin.

(And those words, prickling in Ed's chest every time he tries to push them away.)

* * *

"Why don't we leave the last word, Mr Speaker, to the head of the IMF-"

David keeps his eyes on Bercow. On his own benches.

Away from Miliband.

"Often quoted by the Shadow Chancellor, who today seems to be having a quiet day, and I can see why-"

He manages to spare Balls a quick flicker of a glance from under his eyelashes.

"Because our economy is growing, people are getting back to work-she said this-_"The UK-where clearly growth is improving, the deficit has been reduced, unemployment is coming down-certainly, from a global perspective-"_

The slightest emphasis, there.

_"This is exactly the sort of result we'd like to see-more growth, less unemployment-a growth that is more inclusive, that is better shared-"_

There's a small jibe of noise at each one.

_"A growth that is sustainable and balanced-"_

He looks up. "That is the truth-every day this country is getting stronger and more secure-"

_Ram it home, stay on message._

"And every day, we see a Labour Party weaker and more divided, and more unfit for office!"

He sits down, the cheers rising hysterically around him. He doesn't trust himself to look at Miliband.

(He doesn't like to think about that.)

The cheers are there in his ears. A storm of noise. He's won that one.

He's won, and he shouldn't have to remind himself of that.

(He shouldn't be remembering Miliband's big, sad, dark eyes, locked on his own.)

* * *

Ed's fuming. He's fuming and angry and-

He's not _hurt._

He-of course he isn't _hurt._

He shakes his head furiously, wrapping his arms around himself as he walks. Balls isn't looking at him.

That's always a bad sign.

He hates Cameron.

He_ hates_ him.

Then there's a tap on his shoulder.

Ed looks up grumpily to see Chris. "The Prime Minister would like to see you."

Ed snorts before he can stop himself.

At the look on Chris's face, he catches himself. "Well-" Ed pulls himself together, or likes to think he does. "Tell him-could you tell him-"

He swallows, throat suddenly embarrassingly swollen with something. "That I don't think that-that I think-that'th-s a good idea."

Ed will never forgive himself if his voice quavers right now.

Chris's voice is far too kind. "I understand. But I don't think-I think the Prime Minister would really like to see you."

_Well, tough fucking titties._

"Well-" Ed's voice falters. Tom's heading towards him, an unlikely figure of salvation.

"I-I underth-stand it might be dith-ditha-"

He can't get out the word_ disappointing_. He doesn't trust himself to.

The angry, sad, shaking feelings are congealing into something miserable and sore in his chest.

"I-"

Christ's hand touches his arm then-touches, and then gives a gentle squeeze.

Ed keeps his gaze down. Tries not to blink too hard.

"He's got a present for you."

Ed looks up then, confusion rising in his chest. "W-what-"

"A present." Chris's hand is still on his arm. "For you."

Ed hates this, because now he's even more confused, and typical _Cameron._

Chris watches him. "It's up to you."

Ed bites his lip.

* * *

David hadn't known, admittedly, before PMQs, that he was going to ask to see Miliband.

But then Miliband hadn't met his gaze for the rest of the session, no matter how often David tried to find his eyes, and something about that-

He hadn't broken the bargain. He _had _told Miliband he'd use it.

So. He'd stuck to it.

Of course.

He _wouldn't_ have broken it.

But maybe he'd been a bit....harsh.

And then he'd remembered those presents-the ones that had somehow found a home in his desk at Downing Street, when he'd needed a place to stow them quickly before the start of yesterday's Cabinet meeting, and had felt oddly nervous calling Miliband and just _telling _him he had something for him.

And now he sees Chris walking towards him-his heart sinks, seeing no one beside him-and then he sees Miliband, following behind.

David isn't prepared for the way relief suddenly punches into his chest, the way he feels almost weak with it.

Chris delivers Miliband to his side. David grins, hoping to hide the sudden helplessness of relief in his chest. "Are you my present, then?"

Miliband scowls, but says nothing. Chris simply touches both their arms and walks off again, leaving them both standing there, trying not to look at each other.

"Well" David says, a little uncertain for once, and not entirely liking it. "Do you want to-um-"

Miliband is silent.

"I'd like to-ah-I've got something for you." David clears his throat. "Would you-ah-"

Miliband doesn't say anything.

"Would you come with me?" David guesses Miliband can't ignore a direct question.

There's a moment of silence. David wonders if Miliband will prove him wrong.

"Where?" Miliband grinds it out between his teeth.

"Downing Street. My office. I've got a present for you."

Miliband's brow furrows. David feels a strange, leaping triumph at the sight, the knowledge that he's got through somehow, after all.

He turns and, grinning to himself, heads off, knowing that Miliband will follow and determined not to be the first one to try to break the silence.

"Why?" Miliband almost spits out the word. David mentally congratulates himself.

"Why what?"

"Why did you get me a present?" Miliband sounds as though he's speaking through gritted teeth.

"Because-" David gives him a sunny look over his shoulder. "I wanted to."

Miliband blushes, but doesn't say another word until, a few corridors later, they're deeper in the House of Commons and David's leading him down a set of stone stairs. "Where are we going?"

David gives him another, sunnier look. "Downing Street."

"But thith isn't the way-"

"Well, no-" David concedes as he leads Ed round another corner. "But then I thought it might rather spoil your reputation to be seen driving out of Parliament with that evil Tory Prime Minister."

Miliband scowls fiercely. David grins all the more, and leads on.

It's when they get to the door David's been looking for that Miliband speaks again. "What?"

He turns to frown at David. David shakes his head. "Trust me."

The snort Miliband gives in return, David has to admit, is rather warranted.

"Look" David sighs. "I'll go in first. If you don't lock me in."

Miliband makes an impatient _"tuh"_ sound, but David, security ahead of him, makes his way into the passage carefully, feeling for the steps with his feet.

He's used the passage several times before, but he's always stuck by the way it seems to harken back to a different time-a time when bombs fell overhead and the floors shook with what could be the end of the world.

Miliband steps in a moment later, nose creasing sweetly,

_(Sweetly?)_

his eyes darting around. David can see them glitter in the faint light from the hallway.

He knows Miliband's curiosity and has a fair idea of his willpower, so he isn't too surprised when-after gingerly picking his way down the steps-Miliband spits out "What is thith-s place?"

"Passageway." David indicates the arches overhead, the stone steps they've just descended, courteously waiting for Miliband to reach his side. "It's between Parliament and Downing Street. It's what Churchill used to travel between them in the Second World War."

Ed looks up, interested, and then clearly remembers himself. He snaps his mouth shut, redoubling his scowl, and David grins.

They're silent for several more minutes, making their way along. With security far ahead and behind, they could be alone. The only sound is the echo of their shoes on the concrete, along with the rawer, warmer sound of their breathing. It could be years ago. There could be bombs falling overhead. The passage, brick laid and echoing with journeys made by too many people to count, stretches out ahead of them.

There's a sudden exclamation, and Miliband stumbles.

David's hand fumbles out, grabbing his arm. "Careful-"

Miliband jumps, his own hand fastening onto David's arm. "Ah-thank-th-"

"All right-" David steadies him carefully, and Miliband's hand is suddenly warm on his own. "Ah-have to be careful-"

He can't see Miliband's face-it's cast into shadow.

"You can get lost in here" he says, for some reason, and his voice is suddenly lower, quieter. "You know-it can be-it can be difficult to see-"

"Yeth-s." Miliband's voice is lower, too. For a moment, they stand there, lost somewhere under the buildings of the British Parliament and the streets of London, Ed's hand on David's.

Then David says "Shall we-" and Miliband remembers he's angry, and his hand falls away. And they carry on through the tunnel, both of them all-too-aware that their cheeks are a little warmer, and that their arms brush a little more often than they need to.

* * *

Ed keeps glancing down as he always does when they walk into Downing Street, down the corridors that could be his home in a few months. David tries not to meet his eyes. Once they reach his office, Ed looks up again, quickly, around the arched windows, taking in the red couch, the doors leading in and out to other rooms, the desk and the big-screen TV hanging on one wall, though he's been in here several times before, until they get into the next room, with the white fireplace, the chairs dotted around, which David moves out of the way automatically.

"Thinking of commandeering this already?"

Ed scowls, apparently not quite ready to forget yet.

David sighs. "All right." He leans against his desk, tilting his head back. "Listen, things got rather heated today."

Ed snorts.

"Look-" David hesitates, because-"I did warn you."

Ed looks up sharply.

"The deal" David says, a little too quickly. Ed's big dark eyes aren't helping. "I told you that I'd use it."

Ed's head gives an odd jerk, as if shaking off an irritable fly. "I know you did."

"Oh. So-"

David, for once, finds himself at a loss as to how to proceed.

"I-ah-"

Ed gives him a long look. "I'm not meant to like you, you know."

There's a flinch in his voice. David swallows.

"And I'm not meant to like you" he manages.

They watch each other. Then,

"Sometimes, I forget."

Ed's eyes are bigger and darker when David meets them.

"Do you like reminding me?" His own voice sounds a little too nervous.

Ed looks up sharply, then. Their eyes meet.

David can't stand it for some reason, so he turns quickly back to his desk, rooting around in a drawer, with unnecessary noise. "I bought you something."

Ed doesn't jump, but he can't hide his curious frown. David grins, handing the parcel over.

For a moment, he thinks Ed isn't going to open it, and his heart seems to squeeze very suddenly.

"It's-ah-it's all-"

Ed's eyes seem to be watching him, but when David looks, Ed drops his gaze quickly, fingers scrabbling at the wrapping paper.

For some reason, something swoops in David's chest, and he feels his smile spring back.

"Careful-" His hand darts out and somehow closes around Ed's. "Careful-there's three in there-"

"Oh-" Ed's hands slow a little.

"There-"

Ed leans against the desk next to David as he finally discards the wrapping paper.

Three nameplates lie in his hands.

Daniel. Sam. And Samuel.

"I was at a jewellery store last week" David finds himself beginning to explain, the words a little too rapid. "And I was getting something for the kids-and I thought-well-"

He feels far too nervous all of a sudden.

"I got Sam and Samuel because I wasn't sure which he'd prefer" he says, too quickly.

Miliband just stares at the nameplates.

"I-ah-it was just a quick-"

David clears his throat. "Well-"

Miliband turns away very quickly, clutching the nameplates tightly, blinking hard.

* * *

Ed stares down at the names. He swallows, his throat suddenly tight with something.

"These-" He has to clear his throat. "These are-"

He takes one breath. Then another.

"These are-" He swallows. "Lovely."

He traces the letters of Daniel's name and suddenly feels a horrifying prickling at his eyes.

"Thank you" he manages, his voice almost a whisper. "Cameron."

He can't speak for a few moments, squeezing his eyes shut.

There's another silence, then Cameron's voice, a little uncharacteristically uncertain-"I-ah-I really did think I'd managed to stick to it. The bargain, I mean. I did honestly think-"

Ed keeps his eyes shut. "Why?" he murmurs, almost without meaning to.

"Why what?"

Ed opens his eyes, turns around slowly. "Why do you-" He clears his throat. "Confuse me?"

Cameron's forehead creases. "Confuse-"

"We do that, and then we do _thith."_ Ed can't meet his eyes. "It's not-"

"Not what?"

Ed bites his lip, hating the feeling of mingled annoyance and guilt, niggling in his chest.

"Eath-easy" he insists, glancing up at Cameron's face. "It'th th-so easy for you. You know that-that-"

Cameron's still frowning. "But I-"

"I _know-"_ Ed doesn't mean to sound so exasperated. "It'th-juth-st-"

_You don't know what it's like. How could you know what it's like?_

"It'th easy for you with something like that-"

"What?"

"What-that _article."_ Ed snaps his mouth shut. "Well. You wouldn't-"

_You were never like that._

Cameron's watching him, head on one side. He speaks slowly. "I didn't mean to upset you. Or how you-how you-"

Ed shrugs and looks away-God, how stupid to_ tell_ Cameron that-as though Cameron would _care_, or-

"You were never like that."

Ed winces the moment the words are out of his mouth.

Cameron doesn't deny it. "No" he says slowly. "No, I wasn't."

Ed snorts, with little vehemence. He traces the letters of his sons' names.

"I suppose you think that was all trained out of us beastly posh kids" Cameron says, chortling a little.

Ed rolls his eyes, snatches a quick glimpse of Cameron, then looks away.

"Not juth-st that" he mutters, and under Cameron's curious gaze, looks away again.

It's just-

He and Cameron are just-

Cameron just-

"Though" Cameron says, with a laugh, as though it's only just occurred. "They did teach us ballroom dancing."

Ed sits silently for a moment, having somehow perched himself on the edge of the desk, before glancing up. _"You_ do ballroom dancing?"

Cameron nudges him. "_Did._ Cheek."

Ed resists the urge to nudge him back. "What doeth-s ballroom dancing have to do with it?"

"Oh, it was to do with etiquette. The art of society, and that sort of thing." David leans back against his desk, pulling himself up. "We had dancing lessons from when we were about seven, I think." He winks. "Tania didn't like it. She was a tomboy. Wanted to grow up to be a jockey."

Ed snorts. "I wanted to be a buth-s conductor."

Cameron laughs, but gently, higher with surprise. "Public service?"

Ed frowns. "No. I liked the ticket machines."

Cameron laughs harder. Ed glares."Juth-st because we didn't have danth-cing-"

Cameron laughs. "Can you not dance?"

Ed gives him an indignant look. (He can't.) (Cameron never needs to know that.)

"It'th-s not really relevant, ith-is it?"

Cameron smirks. "That means no."

Ed scowls furiously. And then Cameron's hand is on his arm, tugging gently, and he slides off the desk.

"Cameron!"

"Come on-"

And David's tugging Ed into his chest.

For a moment, Ed's head spins. Cameron smells good-his soap is far too familiar these days. His hands fumble for balance, and somehow end up on Cameron's shoulders.

"C-Cameron-" Ed moves to step away, but Cameron's hands are locked over his back.

"Now, now, Miliband." Cameron's voice is teasing. "If the worst should happen in May, imagine if you were to be completely humiliated when you had to dance with Clinton next year."

"You don't know that Clinton will-"

"Oh, of course she will. Who else is there?" David brushes this off easily. "Imagine if the worst should happen and you get in and the two of you have to try to live up to Thatcher and Reagan-"

"Truth-st you trying to idolise Thatcher-"

"Trust_ you_ to think you have a chance of getting in."

"Doth proteth-st too much-"

Ed doesn't get any further because Cameron's suddenly got hold of his hand, pulling the other further onto his shoulder.

"Here. Step like this-"

"Thith is ridiculouth-s-" Ed should disengage himself. He should. "I'm not doing thith-"

"And-step again, that's right-here-" Cameron tugs Ed's hand further onto his shoulder, and then-

His arm's round Ed's waist.

His arm's round-

_"C-Cameron!"_

"Here-and step-step back-"

"Thith-thith-s is ridiculouth-I don't need-"

"And forward-"

Ed's feet are falling over each other. And Cameron's.

"Would you-what on earth are you-"

"I'm teaching you to dance-" Cameron's blue eyes are far too close. "Come on. It's an important life skill. Labour's all about them-"

"Th-since when are we all about-"

"Are you saying Labour don't value life skills-here, move your foot back-"

"I th-said nothing of the-"

"I believe you did, actually, Miliband, and-"

"Cameron." Ed says his name quietly, almost before he realises he's going to.

Cameron's eyes find his. Ed's becoming aware of something; a half-painful pressing in his chest-almost a longing, a needing. It feels painfully sweet.

"And-right foot forward-" Cameron's voice is tickling his neck now. "And left foot back-and just keep your hands on my shoulders-"

Their feet bump into each other. Cameron just adjusts him slightly, and Ed's suddenly very, very conscious of Cameron's hand at his waist. It's warm, and he can feel it through his suit, through his shirt-as though the heat's tickling his skin, sending waves of warmth rippling out, tingling through Ed's whole body.

"I'll have to put your feet on top of mine at this rate" Cameron breathes, his voice a little unsteady, breathy. "Like two kids."

Ed's thoughts are disappearing. His heart is beating so fast it hurts, adding to the breathless pressing longing in his chest. His stomach is swooping, as though he's flying or falling.

"Oh, shut up" is all he manages. His voice is almost a whisper.

Cameron's eyes find his, and the light in them makes Ed's breath catch. His hands seem to be sliding over Cameron's shoulders. He can feel them, strong through his suit, and he remembers them suddenly, bare, shining with drops of water-

"You're dancing." The tickle of Cameron's voice sends the hairs on the back of Ed's neck standing up, a warm shiver through his whole body.

Cameron lifts his hand, then, their fingers intertwined. "Here, turn-"

Ed has no idea why he does as Cameron says-he tries to hold onto everything he said in PMQs, even as Cameron turns him awkwardly-this is _Cameron_, Cameron, who's complacent and doesn't care and-

"There-" Cameron almost pulls him back into his chest. For a moment, they're pressed together, a heat spreading through Ed's body from every place they touch. He can feel Cameron's heart beating hard against his own.

"You're dancing."

Ed nods. "R-right."

His hands have somehow ended up behind Cameron's collar.

"Here-" Cameron reaches out, fumbles for something on the desk.

A song starts playing-faintly at first, then louder as Cameron fiddles with the volume. The chords are slow, steady, dreamy.

_I haven't slept at all in days, it's been so long since we have talked-_

"I used to listen to this when it first came out" Cameron tells him, his voice almost a whisper.

"Who is it?" Ed's surprised to hear his own voice.

"The Corrs." Cameron's voice is soft. "Samantha used to have them on the radio a lot when we were first married. But this song was everywhere back in the '90s. I used to sing it to the kids as babies, too."

_What can I do to make you love me, what can I do to make you care-_

That subdued, pressing, almost painful feeling in his chest is making Ed's heart flutter and beat hard. "It'th nith-ce." For once, he barely notices the lisp.

"Yeah." Cameron steers him back and forth a little more. They've still got their arms around each other's shoulders, swaying slightly to the music.

Ed's heart's beating so fast.

Cameron's thumb brushes Ed's neck. Tingles rush out from the spot where he's touched. The music's filling Ed's ears, the gentle, fairytale sound of the song lulling him into Cameron's arms, into his chest.

"Cameron." He thinks he says his name. He thinks. He-

Cameron's looking at him with that smile that makes Ed exasperated and argumentative and something else, something irritatingly pleasant, all at once. His hand is pressing deeper into Ed's waist, almost rubbing circles there.

Cameron's looking at him and there's that light in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe. Ed can't look away from him. Cameron's forehead tilts towards his own. Ed's leaning up, very slowly, their skin almost brushing, his heart beating hard, something like light filling his body. Cameron's mouth is coming closer, warmer-

_What can I say to make you feel this, what can I do to get you there..._

The door opens.

"Sorry, Prime Minister-just urgent call about Chilcot, asking you to clarify-"

Craig's voice stops dead.

Ed's already moving, tearing himself back, out of Cameron's arms-

_(Oh God, no, no, no)_

-and Cameron's stepping back, too. "Craig-"

He's smiling, but his voice is a little too loud. It shakes a little. His hand scrambles for the control and the volume soars crazily for a moment, before cutting off abruptly, leaving a deafening silence in the room.

"I-" Craig's looking from one to the other.

Ed doesn't know where to look. Ed can't look.

"I was just-I can get a car for you, Miliband-"and Ed looks up at Cameron's voice.

Cameron's looking slightly past him, his eyes not meeting Ed's own. "To go back to Norman Shaw-"

"Norman Shaw Th-South-" Ed clears his throat. "Yeth. Ah. Yeth. That would be-"

_What was that? What was that?_

"Appreciated." Ed has no idea how he gets the word out. He's no idea how he's still standing, as Cameron reaches for the phone. His face is burning.

He and Cameron are looking at each other again. Craig's looking at them look at each other-

_Oh God. Oh God. Oh God._

"I'll wait-out-"

"Yeah-" Cameron's eyes dart. "Yeah-I suppose-"

Ed's already moving.

(He can't keep looking at Cameron. He can't.)

He gets the door and only then turns and manages to mumble something in Cameron's direction. "Thank you. Bye." Garbled. Mumbled.

He manages to nod at Craig and then he's out, half-running down the corridors of the place he could be living in in a few months time.

Oh God. Oh God.

Ed doesn't stop moving until he reaches the back entrance where a car's waiting and only there does he stop, icy air slapping him in the face, and press his hands to his too-warm cheeks and think _What what what-_

The car rumbles up, black and sleek and inviting in its' normality.

_Cameron-_

_What's happening to me?_

* * *

_Playlist_

_One Nation-Queen-the song Lyntom plays at party HQ._

_That's What You Get-Paramore-"Pain, make your way to me (to me)/And I'll always just be so inviting/If I ever start to think straight/This heart will start a riot in me/Why do we like to hurt so much?/Oh, why do we like to hurt so much?/That's what you get when you let your heart win/I can't trust myself with anything but this/That's what you get when you let your heart win"_

_Guilt (Hold Down)-Fingertight-"I went to sleep last night wondering how I'd feel/If I woke up tomorrow and you were almost healed/If you could use your hands what would you use them for?/Would it be to strangle me?/Because you just can't...I'll rest my head tonight, thoughts I can't reveal/The shame inside of me, the fate they've tried to seal/If you could use your hands, what would you use them for?/Would it be to strangle me, or just try to ignore?...Hold down, why don't you just be the wave that washes over me?/Hold down, why can't I just be the one that carries all of you?"_

_Face Like Thunder-The Japanese House-"Say sorry for what, for what, for what?/You know I didn't mean it/I said something terrible and I tried to redeem it/I can be so cruel but now I don't seem it"-_

_Daydream-Youth Lagoon-"As I walk through the wooded park by the lake/I can't turn the switch off causing my headache/So I'll daydream about you and I'll think happy thoughts/Before somebody sees me/Oh, please, help me God"_

_What Can I Do?-The Corrs-"I haven't slept at all in days/It's been so long since we have talked/And I have been here many times/I just don't know what I'm doing wrong/What can I do to make you love me?/What can I do to make you care?/What can I do to make you feel this?/What can I do to get you there?"-this is the song playing while David and Ed are dancing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tories' election war room tactics: https://bit.ly/2J3I0ls  
https://bit.ly/2Wt0mnH  
The poster:https://bit.ly/3a6cKOn  
Grey Coat Hospital is the school Nancy and Bea attend:https://bit.ly/2vFVhO0  
http://dailym.ai/2J36hry  
Dave and Sam were waiting to hear about Nancy's secondary school placement:https://bit.ly/2IXH0iG  
Their first choice was Lady Margaret:https://bit.ly/2x94ej6  
A story claimed that Dave and Sam had already been told Nancy had a place at Grey Coat, two months before everyone else:https://bit.ly/2xVzYJ1  
https://bit.ly/2xa6LcY  
It was confirmed Nancy had a place in March:https://bit.ly/33BNSLZ  
That week's PMQs:https://bit.ly/2J3uqyd  
The stories about Ed's misadventures:http://dailym.ai/3978Wv3  
http://dailym.ai/2U3Yikj  
http://dailym.ai/33xfhi3  
Some of the Tories' nicknames for Bercow:https://bit.ly/2Qssd3y  
Bercow would later be exposed as, and is currently under investigation for being, a repeated bully to his staff, reportedly driving some to mental breakdowns:https://bit.ly/2J3zouR  
http://dailym.ai/33xHghG  
David's office can be seen at 10:27:https://bit.ly/2Qxalo7  
Ed did want to be a bus conductor because he liked the ticket machines:https://bit.ly/3dfjXhi  
Reagan and Thatcher's dance:https://ab.co/392uokY


	12. Discerning Descents, Recollections Of Regret And Curriculum Catastrophes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Alastair crumples more Coke cans and the dumbwaiters and tarantulas are perils of Downing Street."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask%22) .   
The reference quotes in this chapter deal with Alastair hating private schools, David's schoolfriends, Dave and particularly George's odd friendship with Alastair, and the time Dave nearly got picked up in the Soviet Union.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_I took Rory to his cross-country race, one of the big ones, which was held at Stowe public school. It was freezing cold but a beautiful setting and I just got angrier and angrier at the facilities they had compared with state schools. It took an age from the entrance to the school grounds to where we had to park, past things like an all-weather hockey pitch, their own golf club, pitches galore, archery, fantastic changing rooms...Took Rory to Stowe private school where he was doing a cross-country race. Really brought out the class war in me. Unbelievable facilities.-"6th December 2003-11th December 2004" The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Five: Outside, Inside: 2003-2005, Alastair Campbell_

_The only hiccup was a political furore that erupted around the Daily Mail's revelation that Tony and Cherie had decided to send their son Euan to the London Oratory, a grant-maintained Catholic state school, rather than to a comprehensive. Tony was edgy, and Alastair, and especially Fiona, were fearful of the political ramifications. They were also personally outraged. For them, comprehensives-even what Alastair himself would later call **"bog-standard comprehensives"**_ _-were an ineradicable part of what it meant to be Labour. I happened to think it would all blow over. I also thought the Mail headline, though no doubt intended to injure, got it about right: **"Labour Leader Ignores Party Policy and Puts Family First."**_ _ I was confident that most people in Britain, certainly most parents, would understand this, however much Alastair and Fiona disapproved, and however openly they showed it.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_Half a century earlier the actor David Niven had been expelled following a misdemeanour with a marrow. In the 1970s the principal target was strawberries-or more particularly the strawberries grown by Bar Edwards. Determined groups of small boys, David Cameron prominent among them, repeatedly mounted midnight raids on her kitchen garden, with a view to devouring her produce back in the dorm. This classically jolly jape ensured hours of hilarity spiced with the fear of discovery. Deep into the night, formidable matrons with torches would patrol the sleeping quarters in the knowledge that those whose beds were empty would most likely be found whispering among the soft fruit. Cameron more than once felt the sting of the clothes brush. Simon Andreae recalls similar escapades: **"Dave and I used to creep out of our dormitory window to go midnight swimming in the school pool, which was freezing. Or we would have trysts with girls from nearby Heathfield School in the graveyard which lay in between the two."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_At weekends Heatherdown boys were allowed to roam the grounds wearing green boiler suits. Cameron's best friend at the school, Simon Andreae, now a television producer, has told how they **"built camps in the woods, staged elaborate battles with toy soldiers, and shot air rifles."** He recalled other adventures, some nocturnal, such as **"creeping out of our dormitory windows at night to go midnight swimming in the school pool, which was freezing."** He has claimed the boys would also have **"trysts" **with girls from Heathfield, a nearby girls' school, in a graveyard that lay between the two establishments...Cameron's closest friends at Eton included "Toppo" Todhunter, Simon Andreae (whose twin Giles also became a close friend at Oxford), James Learmond, James Fergusson, Tom Goff and Ben Weatheral, who remain in close contact with the Prime Minister and fiercely loyal to their friend. (Topphunter and Goff were joint best men at his wedding.)-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron_

_Notwithstanding the size of the school, in Cameron's first term (at Eton) a quick familiarity would have been achieved among those he encountered. It might not have been apparent at the time, but many of these boys were to become friends for decades (quite a few he knew already, from Heatherdown and elsewhere.) In F year in Faulkner's house, for example, there were just nine other boys, at least half of whom can call themselves good friends of Cameron to this day. The names James Learmond, Simon Andreae, Roland Watson, Tom Goff and "Toppo" Todhunter crop up throughout Cameron's life, as does that of Pete Czernin, in the same house, but the year above.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_For Giles Andreae, whose mother had been a debutante with the young Mary Mount and who is one of David's lifelong friends, there is something almost intimidating about the Camerons' partnership: **"****That couple, they're both so self-assured and magnanimous. They have so many friends. It's almost quite scary if you're not very confident yourself."** While the parents wanted their children to be aware of how privileged they were, it must have been difficult for a playful, popular little boy to imagine how different "real life" was for the majority of the population. In this Eden of cricket matches and gambolling through fields, it would have been understandable if the Cameron children had taken it for granted that the world is a pretty happy place. **"It is a very natural age"** says Giles Andreae, now a writer of children's books. **"Obviously you are aware that some people have big houses and some people have small houses, and that not everyone spends their time swimming and playing tennis. Privilege in itself is not a bad thing, it is how you deal with it that matters."**....Having spent his second year (at Oxford) living in college, with a big, panelled sitting room, and tiny, cold bedroom, Cameron's third and final year was spent living at 69 Cowley Road, sharing with Giles Andreae, his friend from earliest times, Sarah Hamilton (a product of St Paul's Girls' School, who was studying law) and David Granger, a popular sportsman, now in television. While the pressure was on for the keen student anxious to get a First, Cameron continued to enjoy himself. The house had a laid-back flavour, and benefited from his enthusiastic efforts in the kitchen, often to cook the odd Peasemore pheasant for an informal dinner party. **"He would always be very concerned that you were enjoying yourself, and then if you were he would be full of self-mocking praise for himself"** remembers a friend. **"There was a fair amount of beer and wine about"** says Giles Andreae, **"but it certainly wasn't a house full of ravers."** They would use the local kebab van a good deal, as well as the Hi-Lo, a cheap Jamaican restaurant directly opposite their house patronised by generations of undergraduates. There, Cameron, Andreae and their friends would go once or twice a week-sometimes late at night-for goat curries, funky chicken and Red Stripe lager, served up by the Rastafarian chef-owner, Hugh Anderson, who is also remembered for his over-proof rum. **"He was a happy, easy-going character, quite pleasant"** remembers Andy, as the Rastafarian is known toe everyone. **"He was very modest and very orderly, not a wild guy at all." **So orderly were Cameron and Andreae that Andy would hand over his one-year-old son Daniel to the two undergraduates to look after. The little boy was known, a little distantly perhaps, as **"boy child."** Cameron and Andreae would bounce him on their knees as they watched daytime television while Andy was busy in the kitchen over the road. Cameron, for one, made a point of never missing Going For Gold, a programme presented by Henry Kelly, which he may have omitted to mention in his subsequent job interviews.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_While some of Cameron's friends were bemused to see the sociable redhead (Rebekah Brooks) at the party, she was evidently no less bemused by some of them. One, the affable Giles Andreae, whose formerly flowing red hair is now shorter and more dirty-brown in hue, sought to make conversation with her. Unfortunately the evening's consumption had taken its toll on him and he delivered a conversational coup de grace before they had even started, when, seeking gamely to find common ground late in a long evening, he asked her: **"Isn't it awful being a red-headed twat?"**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Cameron was not only well-mannered, he was also kind, perhaps unusually so for someone at what is typically a self-absorbed age. Giles Andreae, who developed Hodkin's disease in their last year at Oxford, has given a touching account of how Cameron helped care for him, even though they were in the middle of finals. Andreae was diagnosed late and his condition was life-threatening. Cameron used to drive him to Peasemore to recuperate after bouts of chemotherapy which would leave him very weak. **"Dave used to take me down in his car, tuck me up in bed, and give me some videos"** he has recalled. Andreae would stay in Peasemore for several days, watched over by Cameron's mother, while Cameron himself returned to Oxford to sit his exams....Andreae claims Cameron preferred playing pool to hanging out with the "Buller." **"What we tended to do at the end of the day was basically go to the pub and shoot pool. We weren't all dressing up in tails and prancing around drinking champagne by any means. And he's very good at pool."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_It is said that Cameron is notably loyal to his friends-one says his dependability is the best of his many assets-but in a milieu as privileged as his, where the going was pretty well always good, there might not be a great many opportunities to show it. Yet Giles Andreae was a beneficiary of his-and his parents'-steadfastness. During their last year at Oxford, he was found-after several wrong diagnoses-to have Hodgkins' disease. The delay in the diagnosing of the cancer required him to have intensive chemotherapy, sedatives and steroids, as well as a variety of experimental drugs. For each bout of chemotherapy, he had to undergo a general anaesthetic and was left debilitated and low. Andreae's survival was a matter of touch and go for some months. To help him recover his strength after the treatment, Cameron would drive his friend to his parents' house in a battered Volvo he owned as a student. **"Dave used to take me down in his car, tuck me up in bed and give me some videos"**_ _ says Andreae, who would then stay for two or three days until he was strong enough to go back to Oxford. **"Dave, despite it being the middle of finals, would pop by to say hello and managed to find some humour in a pretty grim situation. He was a very supportive friend, but it was typical of his family to do that."**_ _-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_When she feels as if she is in safe company, Samantha herself can be extraordinarily indiscreet, once regaling guests at a private party with a colourful account of how she and Cameron became so intoxicated on holiday in Morocco that they vomited.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Our courtship was a long one. Our first New Year was spent driving around Morocco in a battered Renault 5. The first night in Marrakesh was so cold and damp we slept with our clothes on. While there was a bit of an age gap, as well as the contrasts in our friends and our politics, there was something that kept bringing us together and helping us get to know and love each other more.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_I also bumped into George Osborne (shadow Chancellor) who was out with his family. They had been seeing friends on the other side of the Heath. His wife said she would love to live there. Osborne said it had been a crazy week, that (David) Davis just blew it. He made the oldest mistake in the book-believed his own propaganda, got complacent, got exposed as second rate, and Cameron moved in where the gaps were. He said DD had very little goodwill in the bank so when he slipped, the tendency of the majority was to help push him down rather than hold him up. Cameron had spoken well and he related more to the Tory grassroots than Davis realised. I said I was reading all the stuff saying Osborne was the brains of the operation and I was studying him closely so we could work out how to destroy him. He laughed, then said **"You should destroy GB-it'd be easier because he gives his destroyers so much help."** I said so how is it being his shadow? He rolled his eyes. We are lower than vermin, he said. It was a perfectly friendly talk, a mix of banter and serious chat. He warned me not to underestimate Cameron, said there was a lot more to him that the posh boy thing. Osborne's wife seemed very friendly as well. He was clearly very cocky, and I sensed they felt last week had been a big staging moment for them. He said they had learned an awful lot from watching how we did things, and reading anything they could, and he felt I was making a mistake if I thought Cameron lacked either the toughness or the strategic mind. He said they both talked and strategised all the time, and unlike TB-GB they were genuine friends not rivals. I said so were they once. He said yes, but I didn't think I should go for the leadership, because I know David will do it better.-"Sunday 9th October 2005" The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_Later to (public relations executive) Matthew Freud's party....George Osborne arrived and sought me out. We went to the landing and had a long chat, largely uninterrupted. He said their strategy was to talk up TB and present GB as being not just anti-reform but old-fashioned, of another age. He said he was sure that once TB went, Labour would be seen as the past and they could seize the future. He said the most powerful opposition message was always **"time for a change"** and their youth plus GB as old and tired was a very powerful message. He said their biggest fear was a switch to Hilary Benn or David Miliband. He said they didn't fear John Reid. They thought TB had something very special, Hilary and David had a bit of it.** "GB is our Labour candidate of choice."** He was very relaxed, calm and poised, clever without a doubt. The posh thing could grate with both him and Cameron but there was something quite authentic about him, and I sensed they had the measure of GB and would know how to get to him. I asked him if they were worried at all, or embarrassed, that (Angela) Merkel had written to Cameron as she had about their decision to take their MEPs out of the EPP. He said, No, they value the EPP grouping-we don't. But why make Europe such a big deal from the off?...Cameron arrived, Samantha clearly pregnant. There was a mild honeypot effect, though he didn't fill the room. Kate Garvey said she thought Osborne filled it more....I went upstairs and Kate pointed out Cameron on the arm of a sofa. His wife gave him a little nudge as I went over and he stood up, keen to talk. A bit of small talk then he said, **"Why do you keep attacking me?"** Nothing personal, I said. **"I know the problem is you do it rather well, can't you get some of your numpties to do** **it?"** He said he had been shitting himself pre-PMQs, felt he had been OK first time but TB got the measure of him this week. **"He really is quite formidable, isn't he?" "Yep."** **"That's why we need Gordon in there as soon as** **possible."** Then Osborne joined us. Cameron said (William) Hague had advised him to take tea with six sugars just before PMQs. He asked if TB had any rituals. Only that he wears the same shoes every time. GO said it was good to have Hague around because he had tried all sorts of different approaches and he was good on what would or wouldn't work. I said Hague had made a mistake in allowing us to stop him using humour because we kept attacking him as**"all jokes no judgement."** Once he stopped being funny, he stopped being effective. He should have stayed funny but worked on the judgement._

_It was pretty obvious to me they both totally rated TB in terms of his capacity. Cameron said even between this week and last, he noticed that TB had made subtle adaptations, and was definitely better.** "I couldn't believe how nerve-racking it was first time around. Even if you have been in there, and seen it so often, nothing prepares you."** I said TB had been the same. Even if you know what you are going to say, it is so much harder than people imagine. **"How long before he stopped being nervous?"** he asked.** "Never"** I said.** "Once you feel no nerves in there, you stop doing the things you need to do to get it right. He takes it very seriously."** He said he could not believe the noise. He also wanted to have a chat about his wife and kids. I suggested he make an approach to the PCC around the birth to sort some kind of deal. He said he had posed with his son for local media when writing to save a school and they kept using it. I said that is what they did, they found something that gave them a spurious justification for any intrusion in the future. He felt it was a bit open-season and I sensed he was a little worried. There was definitely a shift to them, no doubt, even though we were still the government. DC said something similar to what Osborne had said to me, that he was very proud to be seen as TB's successor and serious about helping get reforms through. He was amazingly young-looking but seemed very confident and assured. Lots of people were watching us talk, but leaving us to it. I said I would keep on whacking at him, but don't take any of it personally. I wanted to help TB cement his legacy, and I wanted GB to beat him (David) next time.** "Good luck with the first bit"** he said. Ben Wegg-Prosser (director of strategic communications, 10 Downing Street) arrived; he clearly knew both of them well....As we left, Cameron and Osborne were talking to Piers Morgan (former editor, Daily Mirror) and Celia Walden (Daily Telegraph journalist (and Morgan's wife.)) They said Morgan was the new AC and they were hiring him.-"Friday 16th December 2005" The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_I did a fair bit on Tory strategy, much of it based on what Osborne and DC had told me. Osborne was in full heckle mode.**"Eye-catching initiatives with which I can be associated"** he shouted out, and a fair few laughed, remembering the TB note he was quoting from when we were on our major reconnection strategy before the last election.-"Friday 20th January 2006", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_I arrived at (Manchester) Piccadilly and bumped into David Cameron as I was waiting in the taxi queue. He came over and we hook hands and had a little chat, mainly about TB's Middle East job and should he get a briefing before going to Israel? Introduced me to his team travelling with him, all women, three of them, all quite attractive in a Sloaney kind of way. It was all fairly light-hearted stuff. He said he felt a lot more confident taking on GB than he did TB at PMQs...Met Kate Garvey to go to Matthew Freud's party, which seems to get bigger every year....Cameron came over to JR (John Reid) and me and said **"Ah the A team the B team won't use."** Osborne said he read I was being drafted back. **"You must so want that given how much help GB gave you to make your life easier." **He said he loved my book, **"mainly for reading where it was obvious where you had made the cuts to protect Gordon."** Cameron was joking about our meeting at Manchester station cab rank. I told him the reaction of the guy behind me in the queue who, after they had left, said he had to admire a man who could travel with such attractive women. He was much more relaxed than last year, which suggested he was more confident, and both he and Osborne were talking fairly dismissively of GB. I told them I seemed to be following in (former Tory leader William) Hague's footsteps everywhere I went, doing loads of speeches at events where **"we had William Hague last year....he was very funny."** TB arrived as I was talking to Andy Coulson (Tories' communications director) who said he couldn't believe how I got away with the editing of the book. He said he saw one interview where I said it was a historical document alongside another saying I had kept out stuff damaging to GB. **"Can't be both." "But the other stuff will follow." "This is the one that counts thought." **TB just back from Bethlehem, said we needed to talk but we didn't talk properly there. Nice enough do. Home half eleven.-"Thursday 8th November 2007-Friday 13th December 2007", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_George Osborne, who won "Opposition Politician Of The Year", was saying (as he did last time I saw him) that he loved reading my diaries to spot where GB disappeared when the going got tough, and guessing where I had edited him out to protect him. He had a real glint in his eye, and a ruthless streak in him, I think. **"He must have made your life hell. But don't worry. We're killing him."**-"Wednesday 23rd January 2008", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_We set off cross-country for Chipping Norton for Rebekah Wade's wedding. TB had decided he was urgently needed in the Middle East. I called him, and said if he could get out of it, so could I. Too late, he said, only one of us could pull out without it appearing rude. Both GB and Cameron were due to go...The ceremony was by a lake at the foot of a hill on the Sarsden House estate which, DC told me at the reception, used to be owned by Shaun Woodward. We had gone from old establishment to new in one niney-minute drive....Murdoch and Wendi Deng (then wife) down by the lake. (Paul) Dacre talking to Jack Straw. I had a brief chat with Osborne who said **"Bad week for the Blairites."** I started to say there was no such thing any more, just Labour, but he rather cleverly cut me off at **"No such thing..." "Exactly, they've had it. At least (James) Purnelly showed some balls (resigning from the Cabinet.)**...Fiona and I were talking to Kirsty Young and Nick (Jones) her husband when DC came over. I asked him if he thought the general election was in the bag. No, he said, the swing we need is big and in electoral terms it is still a mountain. He said you guys achieved it when you didn't need to. We need to achieve the same sort of swing to win. Things can still go wrong. He said the expenses thing had reduced Parliament to a state of shock. These were people who had been minor celebs locally, never got much national attention and now they were going around being accused of being crooks. It was hard and lots more would decide to move on._

_I said he appeared depressingly non-complacent. He asked if I was back in harness? No, he is not, Fiona chipped in. Good, he said. **"Keep him there. He is too good."** He seemed to have more presence than the last time I saw him. Also later, when the two of us were alone talking about the media-I had said if he won I would help him do something about them and he agreed things were getting worse not better-Murdoch and Gail came over to join us. **"What are you two cooking** up?" asked RM. **"Just talking about the future of The Independent"** lied DC. I sensed he was not that keen to engage with RM. I wondered if in fact he might do something. We talked about spending and investment. At the NHS Confederation, (Andrew) Lansley had suggested 10 per cent of cuts and GB had really gone for it on Wednesday at PMQs. I said I would be surprised not to see you come out with specific cuts and he said yes, they would. Osborne joined us and at one point RM said to DC** "When you're in power..." "Did you say "When"?"** I asked. **"Yes, I did."** DC said the deficit was now so huge it was impossible not to think in terms of cuts and he was clearly confident it could be a plus. Murdoch said the cuts would have to go on for years. Dacre hovering, Straw as well. Fiona very chilly with him...Long chat with (Jeremy) Clarkson. He was so right-wing as to be off the scale, but it was easy to see why he was so popular, because he had a charm and sense of mischief that went with it.-"Saturday 13th June 2009", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Blair To Brown: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_Over to the media centre. Did Sky and Beeb and a general chat. Kay Burley (Sky presenter) said it was all about body language. I took the mick mercilessly on that which she took in good nature. I was pushing substance. Had to be man v boys tonight. Had a little chat with Osborne downstairs. The guys with me said he was shaking when I went over to him. I quite liked Osborne actually. Yes a Tory toff but he was very political and he really knew what he thought whereas I'm not sure that Cameron did......Did ITV then got surrounded. Did maybe eight interviews then had a little chat with George Osborne and headed home with Rayan.-"Thursday 22nd April 2010-Thursday 29th April 2010", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_His journey back from the colony was rather more adventurous. In early June (1985), he sailed (via a few days in Japan) to Nakhodka in what was then still the Soviet Union, before moving on to Khabarovsk, where he joined the Trans Siberian Railway and travelled to Moscow to meet a schoolfriend, Anthony Griffith. Although the reforming Mikhail Gorbachev had just become the Soviet leader, the country was still gripped by Stalinist illiberalism. For two young men to venture there without a guide was unusual. The pair travelled to what is now called St. Petersburg, from where they flew down to Yalta on the Black Sea, scene of Winston Churchill's famous 1945 encounter with Stalin and Franklin D. Roosevelt. While there, lying blamelessly on an Intourist (state-sanctioned tourist) beach, they encountered two men, rather older than them. One spoke perfect English, the other perfect French. They were normally dressed, extremely friendly and evidently well-off. Cameron and Griffith were not going to look this gift horse in the mouth and gratefully accepted their invitation to dinner. They were treated to vast amounts of caviar, sturgeon and so on, while being asked lots of questions about life in the UK. They sensed they were being encouraged to make disobliging remarks about Britain, but, patriotic even in the face of a caviar bribe, they resisted. The Russians were not to be put off. At the end of the meal, they suggested meeting again the following night, to which the Old Etonians agreed. In the event, the Brits, by now a bit concerned and wondering whether their new friends' motive was political, or possibly homosexual, failed to turn up at the chosen restaurant. Back in England, Cameron told friends this story, idly wondering if this was possibly a KGB attempt to recruit them and-James Bond fan that he is-is tempted to believe it was. Had things gone differently, he and Griffith might have become the Burgess and Maclean de nos jours. As it turned out, their flit was westwards. From Yalta they headed for Kiev and thence, by now armed with Interrail passes, on to Romania, Hungary and western Europe, where Cameron dropped in to see his step-grandmother Marielen Schlumberger at her lakeside family home on Attersee, in Austria.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Cameron was lounging on a beach after a 6,000-mile odyssey across Siberia when he had one of the strangest encounters of his life. It was 1985...He has talked about a strange incident afterwards when he and an old school friend, Anthony Griffith, were in Crimea. As they sunbathed on a beach in Yalta reserved for foreign tourists, they were surprised to be approached by two Russians rather older than themselves who spoke perfect English. The men were normally dressed, extremely friendly and clearly well off, and proceeded to engage them in conversation, before inviting them for lunch and dinner. Over caviar and sturgeon, Cameron and Griffith found themselves being **"interrogated in a very friendly way about life in England and politics."** Surprised, they became guarded, and turned down an offer to meet their new friends again the following evening. The identity of the Russians was a mystery-as it remains, tantalisingly so. Cameron himself has speculated that they were KGB spies looking to recruit him....The incident first came to light in 2006 when Cameron appeared on BBC Radio 4's Desert Island Discs. During the programme he talked about the encounter on the beach, speculating that the men were KGB agents. He revealed that MI5 showed considerable interest in his trip to Russia when he later applied for security clearance to become a special adviser at the Treasury. He said he discussed the encounter with Vernon Bogdanor, his politics tutor at Oxford, who also interpreted it as an attempt by the KGB to recruit him. He repeated the claim after he became Prime Minister, mentioning it during a speech at Moscow State University on an official trip to Russia in 2011. Afterwards, Dmitry Medvedev, now Prime Minister, was asked by journalists if he thought Cameron would have made a good KGB agent. The British Prime Minister immediately interjected, saying **"No."** In good humour, Medvedev disagreed. **"I am sure that David would have been a very good KGB agent, but then he would never have become Prime Minister of Great Britain" **he replied. Evidently, the exchange unsettled the Kremlin. It has emerged that spy chiefs were ordered to get to the bottom of it. According to a highly placed secret service source in Russia: ** "Checks were made and the definite conclusion was that there was no attempt to recruit him. Nothing like that happened, it wasn't true."** So anxious was the Kremlin to quash the story that shortly before this book was published, in July 2015, a rambling article appeared in...a pet newspaper of the (Russian) regime, suggesting that the two men who approached Cameron and his friend were notorious local gays and that Cameron's Russia trip was in fact sponsored by MI6. As we shall see, this does not stack up...Our research suggests Cameron attracted attention from the Soviet authorities long before he reached Crimea, not least because of his high-level family connections. As a British teenager a few months out of Eton, with connections to both the Conservative Part and the royal family (his godmother, Fiona Aird, was a lady-in-waiting to Princess Margaret, and her husband, Sir Alastair Aird, was at the time Comptroller of the Queen Mother's Household), travelling alone across Russia **"the wrong way" **from the Pacific coast to Moscow, he was always going to stand out. It is likely he came under special scrutiny front eh moment he applied for his visa...**"Let's look at the facts here, starting with his background...Of course, no one could know about his future career then, but there were some interesting elements about him which might have begun to show up after he made his booking and provided information for his visa application for what was a most unusual trip. Being an Etonian on his way to Oxford University was one factor, but other aspects about him too might have shown on checks."** Sokolov lists Ian Cameron's work for Panmure Gordon, a company that dealt with the foreign debt of various countries, and his position as chairman of White's, as well as the Camerons' proximity to the Tory establishment and links with the royal family. **"A close family friend and neighbour of the Cameron family was Sir Brian McGrath, who, in 1985, the year of David's trip, was private secretary and treasurer to Prince Philip. So this was a very well-connected young man"** he says._

_How much of this would Russian intelligence agents have known, though? KGB veteran Igor Prelin...said that even before the age of super-fast computers **"we had a good system of databases and a simple check of the name could have brought amazing results."...**When he finally arrived in Moscow, Cameron met up with Griffith, an old friend from Eton. It is not know what the other old Etonian, son of a well-connected Welsh farmer and landowner, was doing in Russia, but the pair travelled to Leningrad and then by plane to Simferopol, the capital of Crimea, and on to Yalta. On the southern coastline of the Crimean peninsula, Yalta was the Soviet Union's premier summer playground. Dubbed the Russian Riviera, it had a subtropical climate and pebbly beaches beneath a craggy mountain ridge thick with pine and juniper forests...However, there were plenty of beachside cafes and some better restaurants where it could be very difficult to get a table. This does not seem to have been a problem for the two men who took a shine to Cameron and Griffith on the beach and invited them to lunch and dinner. They claimed to work at one of the local hotels. Griffith has told how they were plied with large quantities of vodka and **"may have been a little intoxicated when they began hitting us with questions. It all seemed rather strange."** After a while the Old Etonians began feeling uneasy. The men appeared to be encouraging them to criticise Britain and the Thatcher regime. It seems to have been Cameron who began wondering how the pair could afford such extravagant food and drink if they only had fairly menial jobs. **"How can he afford to pay for this lunch on his meagre salary?"** he is said to have whispered, before taking the lead in opting not to meet the Russians for a second night.-Call Me Dave: An Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_Sokolov suggests that so far from attempting to recruit Cameron and his friend the KGB may have feared the Old Etonians were actually MI6 assets...It sounds far-fetched-after all, Cameron was only eighteen-but at the time, the Russians were convinced young travellers were used in this way...The suggestion in Pravda that the approach was homosexual-a consideration that also occurred to Cameron and Griffith-was rubbished by our sources. Gay sex was illegal in Russia at the time, and the men would have been taking an extraordinary risk. Furthermore, it seems unlikely they would have attempted to engage their targets in hostile political questioning. **"It doesn't make sense" **says a former Yalta tourist guide. **"If these men wanted to get them into bed, why did they annoy them so much by leading them into a political discussion that made the young Brits so uneasy? The other point is that for two Soviet citizens to openly try and pick up these foreigners on the beach with a sexual motive-knowing that these foreigners could have been closely watched by the KGB-would mean that the two men were extremely powerful and had very high-level protection indeed."...**So if the pair were KGB officers from Moscow, what did they hope to achieve? Igor Prelin believes it may simply have been a fishing exercise. **"I can believe it was a generous meeting with good food-we always knew how to please our guests. I would not necessarily call it "recruiting" but it might have been a meeting aimed at making friends."** He agrees that Cameron may have aroused interest as he applied to enter Russia, or on the Trans-Siberian, or perhaps because of some contacts the pair had in Moscow. He adds that it could have been the KGB just ticking boxes: agents were encouraged to file reports, however trivial...Retired General Yuri Kobaladze was regarded as one of the ablest KGB spies of his generation during his seven years working undercover in Britain. Posing as a Soviet radio journalist, he targeted mainly Labour and trade union figures, winning a reputation for being able to drink Fleet Street's finest hacks under the table. He is unsure how to interpret what happened. He says cryptically: **"One needs to be very cautious here, since we are talking about the country's Prime Minister. I can tell you one thing for sure-I was not that young man who fed David Cameron with caviar. Though, I can tell you another: if I had been that man, I would not admit it."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_There is a final curious twist to the tale. Just before this book went to press, we were alerted to an old article buried in a Russian weekly newspaper, Argumenti Nedeli. It was published in 2011, shortly after Cameron's comments at Moscow State University, and went unnoticed by Western media. The author of the article, a reporter called Alexander Kondrashov, claimed to have tracked down one of the two men who wined and dined Cameron and Griffith. He identified the individual as Igor Kuznetsov, a former KGB colonel. The reporter met the retired spy, who gave him a highly colourful account of his supposed encounter with the future Prime Minister, claiming that it was indeed a recruitment attempt, and involved a **"swallow"**-a busty female agent-in whom the two Englishmen showed no interest. Kuznetsov further claimed that during the evening, Cameron asked his new Russian friends for drugs. **"I remember David was so surprised when for the dinner with black caviar we paid just ten roubles per person, fifty roubles altogether"** he told the reporter.** "At first there were only men. And after the fifth glass of wine a girl of fantastic beauty joined us. Her operational nickname was Oksa-just a short version of her real name. She was the best "swallow" of the Yalta KGB office. We drank a lot that day. The black caviar was very much appreciated by the young aristocrats. And provocative Oksana with her large breasts did not attract them. The nineteen-year-old boys were more interested in a slim figure called Valery, a local Intourist interpreter who was in the KGB."** Asked how the evening ended, the retired KGB officer told the reporter: **"Oksana was the first to leave-she felt offended with the lack of male attention. Then we carried deadly drunk Griffith to his room. David Cameron kept going, but asked us to find some "grass" for him or maybe even something stronger. We promised to do it next day."** He claimed KGB bosses refused to let him supply any narcotics, and decided to abandon any recruitment attempt._

_ **"In London, it is said, the Soviet resident considered Cameron to have no prospects. Young man, likes drugs, he won't go too far in his career....As we see now, the resident of Soviet intelligence made a serious mistake."** _

_Our attempts to substantiate this tantalising tale drew a blank. We could not find any record of an Igor Kuznetsov in the KGB in Yalta at that time. Then again, he may have used a different name back then. He died two years ago, perhaps carrying the key to what really happened in Yalta to his grave.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott _

_ **Do you, or will you, limit the amount of time your kids spend on computers or watch TV?** _

_Yes, definitely. We try and be quite strict even now with DVDs because the kids love watching them and we try and make sure that maybe if it's a little bit before bedtime, or a little bit after lunch, but only for twenty minutes or half an hour. We try never to have the television on in the morning. If we're in the constituency, or in London, the morning should be about going out for a walk, or to the park. But I'm sure my parents were probably stricter about how much TV we watched. In those days there really wasn't much television until Jackanory at five o'clock or whatever. I think it's important not to let your children endlessly fester in front of the box, and I think the same goes for the computer, but we're not at that stage yet. And sometimes, I admit, when you're knackered and the kids are playing up a bit, it is very tempting to get out Makka Pakka and just slip it on and have five minutes' peace and quiet. We've all done that. But it's like all these things; you've got to work at it.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

* * *

_When, in summer 2001, Sarah announced she was pregnant and expecting our first child the next spring, we were overjoyed...For the next few months we continued our lives as normal: spending weekdays in London and then flying up to Scotland for weekends in Fife. Suddenly, just after Christmas, when Sarah went to our local maternity hospital-Forth Park in Kirkcaldy-the routine twenty-six week scan indicated a high heartbeat and low levels of amniotic fluid that could inhibit growth in the final seven weeks of pregnancy. That was the Thursday. On the Friday, Sarah and I drove back to the hospital, and after a thirty-minute Caesarean section, which seemed to go well, Jennifer was born at 12.16 p.m. on 28 December. Our consultant obstetrician, Dr Tahir Mahmood, who carried out the delivery, said the baby was **"crying healthily."** Naturally, there were some problems with a baby born seven weeks prematurely: Jennifer weighed only 2 lb 4oz. The doctors told us she was doing well. Yes, she looked incredibly small and fragile in her incubator, but we were surrounded in the children's unit by other small babies in incubators. I assumed everything would work out fine, though I was concerned that Sarah herself was unwell. Outside Forth Park, the cameras had gathered and I gave an interview saying just how happy I was. Politics, I said, suddenly seemed less important, and, not normally prone to such statements, I declared Jennifer **"the most beautiful baby in the world."** Congratulations, toys and clothes were all arriving. It is difficult to describe the joy that comes from seeing your first child, even in fraught circumstances. It took some days before I realised that there was something wrong.-My Life, Our Times, Gordon Brown_

_First, we were told that Jennifer would be treated with phototherapy lamps for jaundice, which is common in premature babies, and fed through an intravenous drip. Nevertheless, we still believed that, though very tiny, she would grow-and grow up. Sarah was producing milk for her. Even when we were told that Jennifer would need to stay in the incubator unit for six weeks until mid-February, and even though six days later Sarah came home without our baby, we still did not fear the worst. Then doctors and nurses told us that she was not responding properly, and that she had to be moved from the hospital in Kirkcaldy to the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh to be treated by specialists. She still seemed able to respond when we held her and talked to her._

_But by the Friday night, exactly a week after her birth, I started to draw my own conclusion that there was little hope-and not because of anything anyone said. I just began to realise she was not responding to treatment. Finding yourself looking at your beautiful baby, who looks untouched by illness but with whom something is so fundamentally wrong that nothing can be done, is almost impossible to bear. That was the most terrible, terrible moment.-My Life, Our Times, Gordon Brown_

_I called my friend Dr Colin Currie and asked for his advice. His medical expertise was a great source of wisdom, while his writing skills proved invaluable when I arrived in No. 10, and he took time off from his important medical research to work with me. He said I would have to talk to the consultant the next day, but warned me that I might have to face up to the worst. So, that Saturday we had a private meeting with Dr Ian Laing, who had come in specially to see us. An ultrasound scan, he explained, had shown that our beautiful daughter had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage. He told us gently that there was absolutely no hope whatsoever; all we could do was sit with her-which we did for twenty-four hours a day, sleeping at the hospital-as gradually the life support she had was withdrawn. Even then we did not realise how short the time we would have with her was. Although we knew that she would not live, we hoped that maybe she had more days. She was baptised on the Sunday at her cot in the Royal Infirmary ward. Sheila Munro came in to perform the baptism and I held Jennifer in my arms-her beautiful face still unaffected, untouched by the scale of the tragedy that had befallen her. Sarah and I took our vows as parents to do everything to bring her up **"in the nurture and admonition of the Lord."** The baptism was not for just a comfort or a ritual: it was a recognition that every single life, even the shortest one, had a purpose and every person is irreplaceable. _

_The Saturday, Sunday and Monday were essentially a vigil. We spent Jennifer's last nights taking it in turns to be at her bedside and sleeping next door in a room set aside for the parents of critically ill children. There was nursing help to ensure Jennifer had no pain or suffering. We were with her all Monday afternoon as her life ebbed away. We held her in our arms as she died at 5.p.m. .-My Life, Our Times, Gordon Brown_

_It was unspeakable to come home without her. We actually did not want to leave the hospital. We could not bear to be away from her. But we had to leave. Some photographers snapped a photograph of us right after we got in the car. _

_I had to call my mother-she never saw our baby alive-who was now frail. My older brother John and his wife Angela had visited regularly. But my younger brother Andrew, who had come to visit, sadly arrived just too late. Sarah's parents, Pauline and Patrick, were-as they always have been-towers of strength and support, both then and in the months and years to come...In the past when a baby died at ten days old, there was usually no funeral, but we thought it right to have one. And I wanted something to be said about her life. My brother John agreed to speak, but I spent hours writing the notes for his remarks: that was one way I grieved. John spoke about the ten days we had with Jennifer and how they had changed our lives-that **"never to see our baby grow up, take her first steps, talk her first words, have her first day at school, carve out her first friendships, was almost too much to bear...Jennifer brought great joy: joy so deep, a love so immediate and intense, that the anxiety, the loss that followed, are almost unbearable. So for Sarah and Gordon, their lives were transformed twice over: first as they wept tears of happiness and then of sorrow."** To this day, I draw strength as well as solace from rereading these words spoken in the Kirkcaldy church where my father was the minister.-My Life, Our Times, Gordon Brown_

_Jennifer had died on 7 January (2002) and her funeral took place on 11 January. After this, I could not think of returning to London. Sarah was not well and I wanted to be with her. Life seemed empty. Westminster was the last place I wanted to be. Sarah and I resolved that we had to do something that gave meaning to our loss. In Jennifer's memory, we would create a charity to find treatments that would prevent what we had suffered. The Jennifer Brown Research Laboratory at Edinburgh University has in its first fifteen years facilitated breakthrough in a number of areas, such as the level of oxygen that is needed in an incubator if a premature baby is to survive and flourish. At the time of writing it is conducting a major new longitudinal study that will track some of the most serious problems that arise in pregnancy, including brain damage..._

_But just as Jennifer's birth and my becoming a father gave a sense of completeness to my life, so the sense of emptiness that came with her loss would not leave me. I was brought up to keep private emotions to myself-that was called for at all times. Never talk about your sorrows, I was taught, nor your innermost feelings. But even at the time, I noticed how it changed me. The day-to-day things that occupy so much of our lives seemed trivial and irrelevant. I had been accused of hardly ever smiling anyway, but I doubt if I smiled even once for months after Jennifer's death. I could not listen to music for more than a year.-My Life, Our Times, Gordon Brown_

_I was having breakfast when David Muir called to ask for help re PMQs. They were expecting a real tanking because of Fred Goodwin's pension. I sent over a bit of a half-hearted email. Then he phoned again to say DC's son Ivan (six, suffering from cerebral palsy and epilepsy) had died. It had not been announced yet but could I give some thought as to what GB should say. They sent over a three-line statement which was lacking in any real depth or emotion. I suggested making it much more emotionally charged. They had already said that GB would not do PMQs but later decided not to have PMQs at all. I was blogging then did a note to GB re his statement on Cameron. He was pretty good in the House. Real sadness for DC.-"Wednesday 25th February 2009", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_After he (Tony) had spoken his final words from the despatch box, the Labour benches stood and applauded. I too stood up, and gestured to my own side to join in. They did. Cherie Blair came and thanked me afterwards. She is another person who is quite unlike her public caricature. I'll never forget, when I took Ivan to the premiere of the children's film Ben 10, Cherie bending down to his wheelchair, looking him in the eye and speaking to him with great kindness and compassion.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Nancy and Elwen were alone with their babysitter when I arrived. They were young and clearly confused about what was going on. Soon after, David and Samantha returned. Shattered, they collapsed into chairs in the sitting room. After tears, hugs, and a lot of tea, we drafted some words for the press and I set off back to the office. I found George, Michael Gove and William Hague working on a statement in David's office. They were visibly upset but trying to be professional. Gordon Brown cancelled PMQs; he would pay tribute to Ivan instead, reflecting of course on his own terrible ordeal after the death of his baby daughter, Jennifer Jane, years before. It fell to William, as David's deputy, to respond. No one was more skilled for such a sad task than the great orator and scribe who is William. Gordon began movingly: **"The death of a child is an unbearable sorrow that no parents should ever have to endure."** Michael and George, seated on either side of William, looked close to tears.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No.10, Kate Fall_

_A close aide remembers the shock among colleagues (at Ivan's death.) **"When Ivan was alive we were all terribly conscious of the sort of sadness about the whole thing and how much David adored him. He was absolutely devoted to him. There was nothing to indicate that he was about to die. I remember the whole office was absolutely shell-shocked. There were people in tears; everyone was heartbroken, really." **_

_Letters of condolence flooded in. Among the many thousands they received was a particularly warm and moving note from Gordon Brown, who could relate to their devastation, having himself lost a baby daughter, Jennifer Jane._

_Ivan was laid to rest after a private funeral in Chadlington, the nearest village to Dean. His old friend Giles Andreae has described the service as **"extraordinary". "It was incredibly moving and emotive...I just remember David looking back halfway through the service and seeing all his friends and welling up in tears. He (Ivan) meant so much to them and I think he taught them a great deal about compassion and patience and the joy of family."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Sam and I were left holding him as the team, visibly moved, backed away to give us some space. We had always known this might happen but nothing, absolutely nothing, can prepare you for the reality of losing your darling boy in this way. It was as if the world stopped turning._

_Explaining what had happened to the children was so hard, because they were so young. And I had to call Gita, who was visiting her family in Nepal; she was desperate to be there with the child she loved so deeply. I called Ed Llewellyn and told him what had happened and that I would be staying at home. I was leader of the opposition at this point and, as it was a Wednesday morning, I was meant to be at Prime Minister's Questions. What happened later, when Gordon Brown led tributes, and the House adjourned for the day, meant a lot to us. It was much more than I had expected, and it showed the real warmth and humanity of Gordon Brown, who had of course suffered in a similar way with his daughter, Jennifer Jane, who died shortly after she was born._

_The next few days before the funeral were a blur. At least we had to focus on the songs and poems we wanted to remember him by. A friend of Sam's called Damian Katkhuda, who had a band called Obi, sung and played his guitar in St Nicholas Church, Chadlington. It was a beautiful service, with our closest friends and family around us. But there was nothing but darkness for us.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_How could I explain to Rosie what those visits meant to me? That they weren't just for Suzanne's benefit, but mine too? And that somehow Suzanne knew that because she knew me?-Beautiful Broken Things, Sara Barnard_

_In the gold light of the fire she looks demonic._

_"Why are you like this?" I ask her._

_"I want.." She has a drink in her hand; where did that come from? This isn't really happening. This didn't really happen. "I just want somebody to listen to me."_

_I don't remember when she left or anything else she said, apart from two minutes later when she stood up and said "Nobody listens to me."-Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_ _

_ from its' effects_

_ on others._

_I can only infer_

_ that love exists_

_ -A Softer World_

* * *

David reflects that the thud the door makes as Craig slams it shut is really far too ominous.

"What was that?" Craig's arms are folded. He's staring at David, shoulders tensed, as if he's about to run.

David tries to laugh. The sound dredges up drily-almost scratchily-from the back of his throat. "What was what-"

Craig shakes his head. "David-"

Oh God.

David isn't sure why the words send such a thrill of foreboding through him.

"What?"

Craig meets his eyes, then. "What's going on?"

David's mouth is suddenly very dry.

He tries for a laugh. "What do you-if you mean, how did I just flatten him at PMQs, well, that isn't exactly a ch-"

"Stop it, David" Craig says, so quietly that David trails off in the middle of his sentence.

Craig doesn't say anything for another moment, and then "What's going on?"

David isn't sure why his stomach plunges, the same way it did when he was eight years old, crouched with Simon in the gardens of Heatherdown, an adult's voice dropping through the air like a brick, mouth smeared sticky with strawberry juice, and his heart beating to _OhGodohGodohGod._

He clears his throat, meets Craig's eyes. "What do you mean?" His voice is a little quieter. His heart is thudding.

"He's your opponent-"

"I think he's aware of that." David tries to speak too quickly, too lightly. "Didn't you see PMQs?"

"I'm more interested in what I just saw _here."_

David stares at him. Craig stares back.

"What do you-"

"You had your arms around each other." Craig's voice is quiet. But very certain.

David hears himself laugh. Or he thinks he hears himself laugh. "You-you've got to be joking."

Craig's eyes look anything but humorous. "David-"

"I was showing him how to _dance."_ The last word bursts out of David's mouth a little too loudly. "That's all-we were talking about Thatcher and Reagan and I don't know-the conversation circled-circled around to how he can't bloody dance, and I was showing him-"

"What was he even doing up here?" Craig's voice is still quiet, but it just makes David even louder.

"I don't know. I invited him-"

He sees the flicker pass across Craig's face and rolls his eyes.

"David-"

"I'm not a child." David's voice is firmer, now. "I think I'm a little past the stage of needing someone to check who I want to have visit my office-"

"But why?"

"Why what? There's a process called _ageing-"_

"No" Craig says, more quietly still. "Why did you want him here?"

The question is deceptively easy.

David swallows. "It had been a harsh PMQs" he says, a little too quickly, needing his tone to be light. Needing _this_ to be light. "I wanted to check-it hadn't hit too hard-"

Craig's voice, when it comes, is a little slower. "Like in Paris?"

David feels the heat rise slowly to his cheeks.

"I've explained about this" he says, slowly, carefully. "It was ill-advised. It was an accident. We've forgotten about it."

"We've?" Craig raises an eyebrow.

David stares back at him, refusing to look away. "Everyone."

Craig watches him-and then suddenly, sighs, unfolds his arms, drops them to his sides and folds them again. "David-"

"What?"

"Is there something going on?"

David's heart seems to stop. His hands go cold, so he puts them in his pockets, not too quickly. He keeps very still.

The silence stretches out longer than it should.

"Why-" David tries for a laugh. It seems to stick in his throat. "Why the hell would you ask me that?"

He holds Craig's gaze-_Don't look away. Don't look away._

Craig looks. Blinks. And then looks away.

"Yeah, I-" He shakes his head. "Look, I don't know what I meant by that, forget it-"

Relief punches in David's chest.

"But-it's just-" Craig meets his eyes. "You know how it looks if-"

"Well, it's not going to _look"_ David says, too quickly, heart pounding a drumbeat over his words. "Because no one knows. And nothing's-" He clears his throat. "Nothing's going to happen that people would know. Or would matter. At all. OK?" He looks straight at Craig, silently daring him to question it. "I was just showing him how to dance."

Craig looks back. The silence stretches, thick and taut and trembling.

Then Craig says "OK."

His voice is far too quiet.

"Just-"

David swallows.

"Be careful." Craig doesn't look away. "That it doesn't affect either of you. At all-"

"Affect?"

Craig takes a deep breath.

David forces out a laugh. It wavers a little, sounding vaguely unreal, as if it's not a sound either of them made.

"Well-" His voice is only a little too bright. "You saw PMQs. I don't think it's affecting my performance there."

He manages to smile. "I don't speak for his. Though the country probably will."

Craig laughs. A little too late. And a little too quickly. But he laughs. "Yes, well-"

Another silence, short and yet too long.

"Let's just keep it that way" Craig says finally.

David nods. In spite of his earlier denials, which they both choose not to notice.

David tries not to wonder if Miliband's being asked the same thing.

* * *

_"What_ were you _FUCKING _thinking?"

A half-crumpled can flies across the room. Ed would duck, but it hasn't come from Alastair's hands, but from Peter's, who's seized it from Alastair and flung it across the room, eyeing Alastair's hands and the already present array of crumpled cans.

"Alastair-" Peter's voice is soft. Alastair ignores him, his eyes on Ed.

"Just running off to his fucking office?" Alastair slumps onto the edge of his desk. "Like he's your best-" His head sinks into his hands. "What the _fuck_ does that look like?"

"He wanted to have a discussion. And it was Chris who came and told-"

"Chris-"

"Chris Martin. So if I get a meth-sage from the Prime Minith-ster's Private Th-Secretary, I'm th-supposed to ignore it?"

Ed isn't entirely sure where the words come from. But that feeling-tight and taut and something nearly furious-that's been there since he half-ran out of Cameron's office is still there, and the words snap out.

Alastair blinks. Ed stares back at him, feeling oddly reckless and liking the feeling.

It's Peter who says, too smoothly "Of course not. Under usual circumstances. But that's not what we're concerned about."

Alastair's eyes flicker to Peter's. Peter gives him an almost imperceptible warning look.

"Then what-"

Ed tries not to thread his fingers together. "Why would you be conth-cerned-"

_"Because-"_ and Alastair's head shoots up, then. "You went to Cameron's fucking daughter's birthday party,_ that's_ why."

There's a ringing silence in the room. Peter closes his eyes very briefly, the thinnest sigh escaping him.

When Ed says it, it surprises all of them-"Don't talk about her like that."

There's another shorter silence, during which Ed notices something that he won't remember noticing until later on, and even then he won't really understand it. But Peter watches him, just for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, and his gaze is bright with something knowing.

Then Alastair says _"What?"_ and Ed forgets about the moment until later.

He looks at Alastair, trying to keep his gaze steady, his heart pounding. "Don't th-speak about her like that" he says, more quietly, through his teeth. "Nancy. She-Cameron's children are nothing to do with thith-s."

Alastair blinks at him. "You are fucking _joking."_

"Alastair-" Peter puts a hand on Alastair's arm.

"It's nothing to do with Cameron's _kids"_ Alastair spits out, shaking Peter's hand off. "You went to fucking _Chequers _for a kid's birthday party. _His _kid's party. How does that fucking look?"

"Because Tony never threw his kids parties at Chequers."

Ed isn't even sure he's said it at first.

Peter's eyebrow arches silently, before Alastair says "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

Peter sighs, eyeing the exchange with interest. Alastair just eyeballs Ed, who tries to look calm, even as his heart thumps.

"It just gives them a better reason to call you a champagne fucking socialist, for God's sake-"

"The-" Ed swallows. "The kids were invited. They wanted to go-"

"Was Justine there?" Alastair asks suddenly.

Ed shoves his hands under his legs. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"So she wasn't."

Peter leans forward very slightly, eyes flickering between them.

Ed looks away sharply.

"What does that have to do with anything-"

"Ed." It's Peter who speaks this time. "The fact is, it looks odd."

"What? Going to a _birthday party?"_ Ed's voice breaks out a little too loudly.

Alastair makes a furious, inarticulate sound and half-leaps off the desk, pacing the room. It's Peter who leans forward, eyes fixed on Ed's now.

"It's not just a birthday party, though." Peter's tone doesn't change at all. "That's the problem, isn't it?"

Ed's insides clench.

"What are you-" He swallows, eyes falling to the floor. "What-"

"You're _fond_ of him." Alastair whirls around, spitting out the word _fond _as though it's some disgusting swear word. "And it's distracting you."

The words hang in the air, jagged and sharp.

Ed takes a deep breath, folds his hands together. "He's not distracting me."

Alastair makes an explosive sound.

"It'th not-"

"Maybe _distract_ is the wrong word." Peter's voice is quieter. "But it means-well. You're not-"

_"What?"_

Ed's not sure why he snaps the word out, when he doesn't want to hear the answer.

"Inclined to him" Peter says quietly.

Ed becomes aware his shirt is sticking to his back.

"If-" He laughs. The sound's a little hoarse. "I don't think like him. I don't-th-see things the way-"

It boils up suddenly. "I'm not _like_ him."

Alastair turns round. Ed becomes aware he's standing up, his fists clenching.

"Just because-because I th-spend time with him-" Ed tries to breathe through his voice. "Doeth-sn't mean I fucking _agree_ with him."

His voice is shaking.

"No. Not that you _agree-"_ Peter's holding his hands up.

"But you find it fucking harder to disagree." Alastair almost spits the words out.

Ed blinks. "No" he says, and then again, louder, as he realises how true the words are. "No, I don't." That's one thing he doesn't have a problem with.

Alastair looks like he might strangle him. "For fuck's _sake-"_

"Alastair-"

"It's hardly the fucking _point-"_ Alastair makes a throttling gesture at the air. "You're not meant to be Cameron's fucking best _friend. _It's not fucking good for either of you."

Ed laughs, then. He's not sure why, but he's saying it. "I'm not a child." His voice cracks.

"He's fucking _using_ you-"

It feels like a slap.

"You don't have to tell me who's_ good_ for me." Ed's fists are clenched. "I'm not a bloody _child._ You're hardly my-"

He trails off, the words hanging in the air.

But then, what would-

What would he-

Alastair snorts. "Thank God."

That stings, which maybe quickens Ed's voice. "I'm perfectly capable of keeping my dith-stance-"

Alastair turns away, the words tumbling furiously out of his mouth. "Well, maybe your dear old dad wouldn't fucking love it-"

_"Alastair-"_ The name rips out of Peter's mouth.

Ed feels his throat swell. Absolutely swell. He stares at Alastair.

Alastair looks a tad shamefaced, but he stands still, gripping the back of a chair.

"It'th-s nothing to do with my father-" Ed's voice is quieter now. "Nothing. I'm not-"

For some reason, the words quaver, and throb in his chest.

"I'm not like him" he says and then he turns around and heads for the door. "And Cameron'th-s got nothing to do with it."

He thinks he hears Alastair's voice, angry and rough around _Ed_, but by then he's gone, the door slamming shut behind him, his eyes prickling.

* * *

"You didn't have to say that" Peter observes quietly, after the ringing silence that follows Ed's slamming of the door.

Alastair just fumes silently, looking at the desk as if he might like to kick it.

"About his father. You know how that-" Peter examines his nails. "Affects him."

Alastair rolls his eyes. "Yes, I know how it bloody _affects _him." He does kick the desk this time. "He stormed out of his own office, for God's sake."

Peter waits a moment before risking it. "Always knew you were more Old Labour-"

Alastair spins round then, as Peter knew he would. "I don't agree with his fucking dad. His dad was a fucking Communist-"

"Marxist" Peter can't help pointing out.

Alastair leaves this aside. "But this is the same fucking _thing._ He can't see New Labour is what won three bloody elections. Or that he looks exactly the same as Cameron, hanging out at fucking Chequers _parties_ with him-"

"Working-class boy" Peter murmurs.

He knows he's made a mistake when Alastair shoots him a furious look. "Yeah. And I'm fucking proud of it-"

Peter holds up a hand. "I never said you shouldn't be."

"Cameron's probably bloody using him." Alastair almost springs off the desk, marching back and forth. "Trying to fucking distract him-"

"That's a little paranoid."

Alastair snorts then, whirling round. "You're calling _me _paranoid? After you over Tony-"

"That was nearly twenty years ago." Peter's voice is carefully, delicately precise-a warning tone.

Alastair snorts, and then Peter says "And I seem to remember _you_ being friendly with Cameron from time to time."

Alastair nearly throws his arms up in the air. "That was before he was leading the fucking _Tories-"_

"Before he forced Gordon out, you mean."

Alastair snorts. "It's not the same for you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Alastair shoots him a contemptuous look. "You're not the bloody _same._ Neither was Tony. It doesn't impact you the-neither of you have ever fucking _struggled-"_

"A_-ha."_ Peter lets the silence stretch, thin and delicate, like a web. "Ed hasn't, either."

"You think I don't fucking know that?" Alastair, having apparently tired of pacing, throws himself down on the couch next to Peter. "And everyone else does, as well. That's the fucking _point."_

Peter hesitates, then says "I thought you didn't have anything against Cameron's children."

"Of course I don't have anything against his fucking kids." Alastair lifts his head to glare. "I like his kids. And his wife. It's just Ed's getting fucking-" Alastair waves a hand. "Close to them. More than he is to his own" he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Peter lets that hang, but adds quietly "You were outraged about that article-the Monroe thing-"

"Well, of fucking-_anyone_ fucking would be." Alastair glares at him. "Don't tell me _you_ bloody weren't."

"You know I was."

Alastair wraps his hands together. "Cherie was fucking devastated" he mutters. "She adored Ivan."

There's another silence, the question pressing in Peter's chest, and then "But you said-in the campaign-"

He'd wondered if Alastair would remember, but Alastair snaps it out almost immediately. "Yes, I know what I fucking said in the fucking _campaign."_ His eyes glitter dangerously. "And I fucking _apologised_ for it. I didn't say it to the fucking _press."_

"But Gordon had-"

"Yeah, and I apologised to _him."_ Alastair's jaw is tense. "We were losing. I was half out of my mind. I barely fucking remember saying it."

"You wouldn't have stood for just an apology, though." Peter hesitates, then "If it was about Ell-"

Alastair's hand fastens in his collar. His eyes are wild. He holds Peter firmly, almost dragging him up.

"Do not-" Alastair's voice is low, shaking. His knuckles are white. "Say a fucking word about Ellie."

Peter stays very still. He nods once, his eyes fixed on Alastair.

Alastair's hands twist, gripping him tighter for a moment, then let go. He almost throws himself away, leans forward, chest rising and falling rapidly-

Peter's voice, when it comes, is hoarse. "I'm sorry-"

Alastair's breathing through his nose.

"Alastair. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

Alastair, if it had been anyone else, would, in all probability, have thrown them from the room. But it's Peter.

He doesn't look at him. But he raises his head slowly, breathing gradually calming, and when Peter lays a hand on his arm, Alastair doesn't pull away.

* * *

Nancy waits until she and Elwen are in one of the upstairs rooms before she says "Have you ever heard of someone called Kathryn?"

Elwen, who's trying to climb up a cupboard, drops down again. "No. Why?" he says with characteristic directness, before, in silent agreement, the two children head out of the room and dart down the maze of corridors.

"Larry-" Nancy sees the cat's tail whisk out of sight round the corner ahead of them.

Elwen's staring up at a portrait, one of the ones that's come to serve as an indicator round the warren-like twists and turns of the upper floors of Downing Street. "Anyway, who's Kathryn?"

"Someone Dad mentioned." Nancy shrugs, yanking her ponytail loose out of its' school-required tightness, and shakes it free, yanking the few pins out with distaste. "Anyway, want to get the dumbwaiter?"

Exploring Downing Street is one of Nancy and Elwen's favourite activities-Florence's too, when she joins them. A part of the childrens' fascination probably stems from the fact that when they'd first moved in, they'd been told over and over again to be careful where they wandered, being only six and four at the time and therefore liable to get lost or become trapped in some small space. While both children had, as children do, dismissed these warnings as grown-ups' logic, both had managed to go some way towards confirming the need for them. Elwen had proved the point at the age of five, by managing to, upon their first discovery of the dumbwaiter, get himself stuck, leading to a crisis meeting of Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet members-a meeting between both having been fortuitously arranged downstairs-resulting in Uncle Nick and Andy managing, with some help from Yvette, to extricate the crying child, with his mother eventually almost scrambling down the rope of the dumbwaiter herself and tilting it gently, with the result that Elwen tumbled out onto the landing, sending several would-be helpers-including Mr Ed Balls-over like dominoes, and landing on-it was still speculated with bitterness in some quarters, deliberately-their father's foot.

Nancy had managed to do her bit to prove it when Gavin had raised the alarm with a shout that his treasured tarantula was missing, and the building had been put into lockdown, civil servants in every room scrambling onto tables, yanking legs up onto chairs and, in one memorable effort, preparing an elastic band and a pen to be used as a weapon-until Nancy had been located by her father, crouched on the floor of the Cabinet Room, having lain a careful trail of mint sweets from the table across the carpet, calling quietly to the creature in question, which had taken bewildered refuge against the wall, hiding so wonderfully that their father still insists that he lost at least a decade off his life the moment he caught sight of it, and their mother to opine that his voice may well have reached a pitch previously untouched by humankind.

Incidents such as these have left claims that nothing will go wrong when the children explore rather hollow, to say the least.

But now, they race for the dumbwaiter, which they've become considerably more skilled at navigating, and as Elwen tugs at the rope, Nancy takes the opportunity once again to wonder about the name Kathryn.

If Nancy had been a more usual sort of child, she could probably have found out the answer to her question in a very few moments. But Nancy doesn't have a phone, and her iPod touch is only allowed music. Liberty's at after-school drama club and Bea is grounded (Sarah had seen the bite-marks on Will's leg, Beatrice had been obliged to explain how they had got there, and both had been confined to the house for an unspecified but likely lengthy period of time.)

She could have used the family computer or iPad. But Dad probably checks the history and though of course she can't know for sure, Nancy feels, just from the way the girl's name was spoken, that it's something private, something they're not supposed to know.

She's still mulling it over when Elwen finally manages to pull the dumbwaiter back up and both scramble on, Nancy's hands gripping the rope tightly enough to almost burn.

"El-" She tugs the rope, almost tilting it dangerously. "If Dad-"

If Dad loses, they'll leave.

Nancy can remember their old house, more than Elwen can, though he remembers a little. But Flo's always been here and, apart from driving past, she hasn't seen their old house at all.

Nancy has known in the back of her mind for a while that the election is a few months away, but until recently, a few months away seemed long enough away not to think about it, ensconced in the future, too far away to be reached.

Now though, months doesn't seem so long. It doesn't feel quite real that they could be gone from here in just a few months, but of course, Nancy knows that it must be.

Before she can express any of this, however, Elwen lets the rope go and Nancy's stomach swoops, as they both clatter down the vertical passageway, their laughter shrieking back off the walls at them.

When the light of the bright, silver Downing Street kitchen crashes into their eyes at the bottom, and they sit back for a moment, aching with laughter, before pulling themselves shakily out, into the scolding hands of the cooks, they thunder back up the stairs, Nancy's hair loose and tangled, until they almost smack into Uncle Jeremy, making his way out of the Cabinet Room. Both children fall back-they'd been rather hoping to find the place empty, so they would be free to scavenge the room again for sweets.

After setting them both upright, as he's done countless times to countless children-Mr. Heywood, as the children were originally instructed to call him, but which lasted less than a day, worked in Downing Street before they arrived and in the childrens' minds, will never leave-he enquires as to where they've been.

"Dumbwaiter" Nancy explains succinctly.

"Be careful." Uncle Jeremy ruffles Elwen's hair. "We'd hate to stop you going in them, but if you go too fast, you could get hurt."

"Like Kathryn?"

It's on a hunch that Nancy says it. She says it because knowledge she's wriggled out of conversations over the years tells her that adults are more likely to tell her something if they already think she knows it, and they give knowing something away if she catches them off-guard.

She gets the desired reaction-Uncle Jeremy's eyes widen the slightest bit. "Kathryn-"

"Kathryn" says Nancy, innocently.

Elwen looks between them both, bewildered.

Uncle Jeremy looks at her for a long moment. Then, slowly "No" he says, shaking his head. "No, not like Kathryn."

Nancy stares at him. Uncle Jeremy just looks at her and then touches her hair.

Nancy watches him walk back into the Cabinet Room, still feeling the touch on her hair, and the odd way he'd looked at her, then-with something tender, but almost as though it hurt.

Elwen looks at her. "What was that about?"

Nancy can only shrug in response. But Kathryn's name has just become more firmly fixed in her mind than ever.

* * *

Craig's knock on the door is drowned out by the whirring of a sewing machine and a muffled yelling of "Oh, _fuck."_

Craig blinks.

A moment later, the door opens and Samantha appears, in her dressing gown, with her dark hair slightly rumpled, her face clean of make-up and somehow younger, more innocent.

"Ah. Hi, Craig." She leans against the door frame. "Sorry about that" she says, tilting her head back towards the flat. "Just trying to learn to sew."

Craig manages a smile. "Would have thought you already knew that."

Sam laughs, pushing her hair back. "You and everyone else. Come in. Come in-"

"Where are the kids?" Craig asks, once they're both at the table with a glass of wine.

"In bed." Samantha takes a sip from her own glass. "Only time I can do this. Just learning dressmaking. Figured I should-" She circles a finger. "Add it to the list, you know."

She glances up at Craig. "Where's Dave?"

"Oh. Down in his office. Just finishing up a meeting." Craig gives her a grin. "He came up to put the kids to bed earlier, right?"

Samantha grins, wincing at the sight of the marks on her hands, where the sewing machine needle has run riot.

"Yeah. He was-" She pushes her hair behind her ears. "He was doing the voices and Florence got to sleep quite quickly, actually-"

"I've seen him do the voices."

Sam remembers something then; they'd been married for about a year when they'd gone to Morocco. David had chosen it on a whim, remembering his own trip to the Soviet with his friends during his gap year.

They'd been young and married; and so the whole trip had seemed more exciting for it. They'd still been young enough that even booking the hotel had been a novelty, and the freedom of being there alone, without family or the others, pulling them back into more familiar roles, had meant that when they'd discovered how cheap the alcohol was, something in Samantha had felt freer, as though she was someone a little new.

The cheapness of the alcohol and the weird freedom of not being the eldest of all the kids, a label you never stopped being completely free of, even when the youngest was able to look after themselves, had meant she swallowed the drinks faster than usual, enjoying the burn in her throat.

The room had been spinning pleasantly when David had caught her up in his arms, spinning her round and carrying her into the street, the cold air slapping them both in the face, Sam's head dropping back as David carried her, his laughter vibrating through both their bodies.

She'd kissed him, pressing her mouth into his over and over again, their kisses hot and open in the icy air, her hands pressing into his cheeks. Everything had felt open and possible, stretched out before them, then.

The next morning, she'd been violently sick, gripping the toilet so tightly it hurt, her mouth sour with vomit. Her head had throbbed, a dull pounding so heavy she could barely lift it to look at David, who was in a similar condition at the sink.

She'd squinted at him through the haze of pain, her eyes raw, yesterday's make-up clinging to her lashes, and David, gasping for breath, wiping his mouth, had winked.

"Tourist attraction" he'd said with a grin, flickering his finger between them. "How sick you could get two people with one bottle of vodka. We'd make them millions."

Sam had stared at him, and then her laughter had cracked out, thin and rusty. She'd clapped her hands to her head, as the sound ricocheted inside her skull, but she'd laughed, even through the nausea that twisted every time she moved and the dull pounding pain in her head. David had made her laugh.

Now she glances at Craig, cradling and examining the memory between her fingers, when he says "Does Dave-listen, Sam, I just wanted to ask-does Dave seem all right to you?"

Sam frowns. Craig backtracks, hastily.

"I mean-Miliband was at Nancy's party-do he and Dave-" Craig shakes his head. "Well-does Dave seem all right around him?"

"Well-" Sam takes a sip of her wine, the question stirring something at the back of her mind. "If he hadn't been-I don't think he'd have been so relaxed ab-"

"No, no, maybe I'm not-saying this right-" Craig presses his hands to his temples and leans forward, his cheeks puffing out as he exhales.

Sam lays a hand on his arm. "Craig?"

Craig looks up suddenly. "Does he seem-" His jaw is working furiously, as though trying to grind the words out. _"Too_ all right with Miliband?"

Sam stares at him and Craig shakes his head before she can even answer. "Forget it. It's a stupid question-"

"No, no, it's-"

"I was just-" Craig waves a hand, searching for the words. "I don't want him to get distracted, that's all." He shakes his head. "Sometimes-ah-it would be easier if Dave could just hate Miliband a little more."

Sam takes a slow sip of wine. "David doesn't hate many people" she says quietly.

"No."

"He-" Sam stares down into her wine, thinking. "He can find something to like-about most people. It's-"

She swirls the wine around in the glass, watching the light glimmer in the golden depths. "He-would find it hard-" she says suddenly. "To pretend to dislike someone. But-he might do a better job than he realises."

She cups the wine glass between her palms, the glass not quite cool enough against her skin.

"Than he realises-"

"Except to himself-" she says, quietly and Craig stops talking abruptly, as though she's shouted it.

"It's stupid, really" he says, a little too quickly. "I just wanted to check."

Sam nods, then shakes her head. "No, it's fine" she says. "He's-fine."

Craig nods. "Good-."

"He won't let himself get distracted" she says slowly, teasing her fingers through her hair as she does so. "He's-Dave. He might not be able to pretend to dislike him-but-"

The words falter out. "I don't think-he could pretend to fail, either."

There's a silence, then-"Well. Nobody wants to fail." Craig takes another sip of his wine.

Sam, looking at him, has a sudden, sharp jolt. Deja-vu nudges her whole body and for a second, she's somewhere where she's felt this odd, pressing, almost-knowledge at the edges of her mind before. She can feel the oak under her thighs through the slippery fabric of her dress, Emily's tiny fists curled around the bannisters next to her, and voices jolting too, seeming to vibrate through the wooden stairs.

She remembers being small, very small, not being able to see over the bannisters, and so straining to. She remembers catching glimpses of her father's face in stripes through the spirals of the bannisters. She can hear, even though she can't hear the words, the way her father's voice rose and fell, against her mother's, and Samantha hadn't known if he was arguing or pleading, though whether she would have known either word at the time is doubtful. And Emily's head, heavy and dark, resting against her shoulder.

That almost-pressing knowledge. Like tilting on the edge of a cliff, but not quite falling.

Sam felt it then. She's feeling it, like a ghost or an echo, now.

"Sam?"

Sam looks up, coming back sharply to the brightly-lit kitchen, the wine glasses, Craig-

"All right?" Craig touches her arm.

Sam shakes her head. "Yes. Yeah. I'm fine."She clinks her glass to his and catches a glimpse once again of the almost-hole in her finger, where the needle had slipped and jabbed viciously, as she tried to guide it through two rougher pieces of material, the cotton pulling tight so they overlapped and leaving her marked, but the clothes stitched and knotted, pulled tight and bowed off, sewn successfully together.

* * *

"Everyone ready to go-" Jen touches Theo and Ines gently on the shoulders, guiding them to the door. "Right, let's everyone make sure we've got our worksheets-so now our mummies and daddies have finished talking about what we're going to be learning, we can do a worksheet with them and say hello, with some juice and biscuits-"

Daniel sits with his chin in his hands while Alexa and Roxanne skip out of the classroom, trying to dance each other out the door.

"Daniel?" Jen holds out a hand. "Come on. Mum or Dad'll be waiting."

Daniel doesn't say anything. He gets up and picks up his worksheet, and walks as slowly as he can to follow everyone else down the corridor.

Daniel starts to say the _Octonauts _names over and over again in his head as they go into the big hall. He tells himself that by the time he gets to Tunip, he'll have seen someone he knows.

_Captain Barnacles, Kwazii, Peso and Pinto..._

He looks around for Aaron, but Aaron's already run ahead to his mum. Daniel watches her wrap her arms around him tightly. He tries to remember what it felt like when Auntie Sam hugged him, nice and warm.

He looks around.

_Professor Inkling, Dr Shellington..._

There's no one there when Daniel looks. He tries to peer up at the faces, the ones with dark hair, but none of them's Dad. He tries to look at the ladies, but none of them's Zia or Mum.

Daniel doesn't need to finish. He wanders over to the wall and sinks down with his back against it, cross-legged. He sits quietly and watches everyone else be hugged, while he wraps his arms tightly around his knees and tries to pretend there's someone there hugging him, too.

_Tweak. Dashi. Tunip._

He got to Tunip.

After a while, Daniel gets up and walks slowly back into the hallway, towards the stairs. You're not supposed to go up the stairs or in the classroom without a teacher, but no one sees Daniel anyway, so it doesn't matter.

He drums his fingers along the black plastic rail as he takes the stairs slowly, listening to the slapping of his shoes in the stairwell, and feels the cross, scrunched-up feeling in his stomach get tighter. When he gets back into the classroom, he sits at his desk and looks at his half-filled in worksheet, which he's still holding. His is now the only one on a desk. Everyone else has taken theirs' to do with their mums or dads.

Daniel looks at his worksheet which he was filling in to show Dad, and then shoves it away so it falls on the floor. He sits there, leaning his elbows on the desk, and looking at everyone else's empty tables. He can see Alexa's pencil case sitting on her table that her mum bought her specially, though they don't need pencil cases yet, and Daniel thinks about how her mum ran to pick her up when she saw her, like she was the best present in the world, like Auntie Sam looks at Florence.

Daniel sits there, feeling something cold and sad and empty pulling all his insides down, _down_, so he feels sick. He kicks the leg of the table, which makes his foot hurt. He shoves his table hard and gets up, shoving the chair back too so it screeches across the floor.

He stands there, feeling like he might start to cry and like he wants to hit something. But there's nothing to hit and he looks at Alexa's pencil case.

He smacks it with his hand and the pencil case falls off the desk. Pencils and pens spill out everywhere. Daniel kicks them hard.

He kicks his chair again and flings himself down in his seat. He buries his face in his arms and closes his eyes, his cheek pressing into the hardness of the table, and tries to disappear into it, into somewhere warm and happy, where there's Octonauts and grown-ups who pick you up, and everyone likes him.

* * *

"Mr Miliband?"

Ed squeezes his eyes shut in confusion for a moment, trying to place the voice. "Yes?"

"It's Jen. Your son Daniel's teacher?"

Ed winces. "Oh. Oh-yeth. Yeth-of course-"

He sits up. "It-it wasn't a parenth-s evening, was it-"

There's a short silence.

Then, "No" Jen says slowly. "No, it wasn't. There was a curriculum meeting this morning, though. For parents in Daniel's class."

Even Ed, who is often perplexed when trying to distinguish emotions from voices or looks, can sense the disapproval. "I-I thought I'd-Zia-I thought Zia-the kids' nanny-I thought she was going-"

"Well, the school weren't aware of that." Jen's voice is quieter now. "There was no one here for Daniel. For the second time in a row."

Ed closes his eyes. "I'm th-sorry-"

"That's not why I'm calling you. The fact is-we need you to come down and pick Daniel up."

Ed glances at the clock. There's an hour until lunchtime. "Is he-ill or-"

Jen sighs. "There's been an incident. We'd really like to talk to at least one of Daniel's parents, and then we think it might be best if you take him home for the rest of the day."

Ed blinks. "But-you want me to come and get him _now?"_

"Yes. And we'll need to have a discussion first-your wife hasn't been able to be reached, though we've tried contacting her several times-"

Ed winces. "But-Zia could-"

"Mr Miliband." Jen's voice is suddenly very firm. "We would really prefer to speak to at least one of Daniel's parents."

Ed swallows hard, mind already grating with anxiety at the amount of time this will mean away from work. But it sounds as though there's little choice.

"All-all right."

* * *

Ed has never entirely enjoyed school functions. On the rare occasions he's attended, it always reminds him a little too much of his own school days.

Now, sat uncomfortably on a plastic chair that's too small for him, Daniel's teacher sitting on the other side of the desk, Ed has the uncomfortable inkling that he's in trouble.

"Basically-" Jen-at Daniel's school, they're keen that the children feel comfortable addressing the teachers by their first names-"We have a few concerns about Daniel's behaviour at the moment."

Ed folds his hands together, suddenly aware they feel oddly cold. "Right" he manages, his voice sounding a little too loud.

Jen inclines her head. "Right, well-usually, these would have been raised at the parents' evening in December, but obviously-" She holds out a hand. "We were told you couldn't attend-"

"Zia attended" says Ed, feeling more uncomfortable. "She gave us a report-"

"But we did say we would like to arrange a meeting with at least one of you-" Jen says, arranging a pile of worksheets. "Which so far, hasn't proved possible."

Ed bites his lip. If he's honest, he hasn't thought about the parents' evening since Zia told them about it. A part of him had presumed Justine had done something about it, but it hadn't occurred to him to find out.

"Well, we're not concerned about his-about Daniel's abilities or his schoolwork-" Jen says, tucking her shoulder-length hair behind her ears. "He's meeting all the appropriate levels on those. But we have noticed a few things that stand-stand out in his behaviour."

Ed frowns. "His _behaviour-?"_

Jen folds her hands together, leans forward a little. "How would you say Daniel's been behaving at home recently?"

Ed swallows. There's suddenly too much saliva in his mouth. He feels a little sick. "Um. At home-well. He's-"

He tries to remember the last time he saw Daniel at home.

"Well. Well. He was-"

Monday. It was Monday.

"A few days ago, he was--he was a little difficult-difficult, but-"

"But since then?" Jen presses, eyes wider.

Ed swallows. "Well-ah. Th-since then-" He threads his fingers together. "Um. I think th-so. I mean-well. Zia hasn't th-said-" He bites his lip. "I think th-so."

Jen raises an eyebrow. "You _think_ so?"

Ed bites his lip harder. "Well. Well, I haven't heard-heard otherwise-"

Jen just looks at him. Ed looks down at his knees.

"I've-work's been-" He meets her eyes. "You know my job-"

Jen brushes her hair back. "How much time have you and his mum been spending with Daniel, recently?"

"Oh. Um." Ed looks down at his hands, folded tightly together in his lap. "A little-a little leth-ss than usual-" He tries to remember what the _usual_ is. "Maybe."

Jen blinks, and then puts a hand to her cheek. "It's just that we've noticed Daniel acting out a little in class recently. It started before Christmas, but it's definitely-it's definitely increased, since we came back to school. Now, it's quite common when a child wants attention-"

"Acting-th-sorry, acting, acting out?"

"Talking a lot. Messing about. But those things aren't a problem in themselves-they're fairly usual with children. Daniel's doing them rather more than we'd expect, which is part of the issue. But then today, things escalated a little-"

"Right. Yeah. Today-"

Jen sighs. "Well. Daniel left the hall, where the children were taking part in an exercise, without permission-he didn't ask anyone or tell anyone where he was going. He came back to the classroom on his own, before the session was over."

"Oh-"

"Obviously, because we'd counted everyone in, there was a bit of a worry when we tried to go-when we were ready to go back to class, and obviously he wasn't there, which held things up quite a bit, and that wasn't fair on the other children."

"No. No, I th-see that-"

"Luckily, he was-he was all right, when we found him. When we came back to the classroom, he was there, but he'd dropped-he'd thrown one of the other children's possessions on the floor."

Ed blinks. "Thrown-"

"Alexa's pencil case. She'd brought it in from home to show the class-it was a present. Obviously, she was upset-nothing was broken, luckily, but she was still upset, and that took a bit of calming down from Tanya, our assistant. We did ask Daniel what had happened, but he refused to lift his head from the desk or engage with us."

Ed frowns.

"And obviously that took more time away from the other children" Jen continues. "So we started the lesson while Tanya and Polly tried to persuade Daniel to lift his head and engage. Now, from January, we'll be implementing something like a traffic lights system for bad behaviour, but for now, we're on warnings. We gave Daniel several warnings, but he refused to lift up his head or engage in any dialogue with us." Jen sighs. "Eventually, we had to remove him from the lesson. Usually, if he'd been disrupting the class, he'd have been sent to another classroom-or even for the actions with the pencil case- but because we-well, we know Daniel and that's not his usual behaviour and he wasn't being actively disruptive, we decided it would be more constructive for him to sit outside with Polly, while she tried to get to the bottom of things. She's sitting with him now, but unfortunately, he's still not engaging."

Ed winces. "Oh. God-no. No-no, you're right-that'th-s-that's not-not acth-ceptable-"

"The thing is-" Jen folds her hands on the table. "The children were in the hall to see their parents after the curriculum meeting this morning-"

Ed swallows. "Oh. Oh. Um-"

Jen nods. "We wondered if that might have been a trigger." She lowers her voice a little. "Daniel-Daniel was the only one without anyone there."

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"I-I thought Juth-stine had probably arranged th-something-" is what eventually crawls out of his mouth, weak even to his ears.

Jen just looks at him.

"Well, as you know, Justine is one of our governors" she says finally. "So she would have known it was today."

Ed can only nod.

"We have tried to reach her" Jen says, pulling a worksheet from the pile at her side. "But we haven't been able to."

Ed thinks bitterly, before he can stop himself, that that's wonderfully ironic.

"Now, usually, sending home would be an exclusion" Jen says, leaning forward. "And that's not the appropriate level of punishment for Daniel's behaviour today-"

"Do you want uth-us to pay for-for the little girl's penth-cil cath-se-" Ed manages, his lisp coming thicker the faster he speaks. "I mean-if anything'th-s broken-"

"Nothing's broken" Jen says. "As I was saying. Usually, it would be an exclusion, but that's not what I'm asking today. We've had a talk and we think it would be best for you to take Daniel home for the rest of the day and you have a talk with him, and see if you can get to the bottom of things. He might open up more if he's at home with you, in a more familiar environment."

Ed doubts it.

"We've already made sure Daniel's aware that this isn't a punishment, but a chance to talk things over with you, to try and help everyone decide what they want to learn from this. And when he comes back on Monday, we'd like him to have filled in a worksheet-I'll get you a copy in a minute-which is about respecting rights, which is what the children fill in when they've had to be warned in class. It might be best if you fill it in with him-in school, he'd have filled it in with me-" Jen's rooting through the pile. "It's important for an adult to help the child understand how to change their behaviour."

Ed manages a nod, and Jen says, giving him a quick glance from under her dark fringe, "Perhaps it would be an idea to set aside just a certain amount of time a day for Daniel? If things are hectic at the moment? If he knows that's his time, just him and you, even an hour, it could make a world of difference."

_A whole hour._

Ed nods, not bothering to explain that he can hardly afford an hour at the moment. "Um. Yeth-we'll-we'll talk about it."

Jen smiles. "Great. And here-" and she hands him a worksheet. "This is Daniel's, from today."

Ed stares at it, an odd, swollen, sad feeling in his throat. The first few sentences are filled in in Daniel's painstaking, shakily-formed letters.

Ed glances at the paper, then at the others. "He hasn't finished it" he says suddenly. "Everyone-everyone else's looks-"

Jen meets his eyes quietly. Ed stares back, suddenly desperate to say something, to explain, but not having a clue how to find his way to the words. He traces the paper unconsciously, finger lingering on the words his son's hand scrawled.

"Everyone else" says Jen, still quietly, her eyes not leaving his, "had a parent to finish it with them."

* * *

Ed hasn't said anything to Daniel by the time they get home.

Daniel hasn't said anything, either. Ed, every so often, when they reach traffic lights, risks a glance back at him in the mirror.

But Daniel's never looking at him and Ed's relieved to look away each time. It takes him a while to realise that he's relieved, not just that he doesn't have to make conversation, but that he doesn't have to look his son in the eye.

Once they're in the house, Daniel just walks into the living room and sits down in front of the TV. Ed stands there helplessly, knowing that this is the moment where he's supposed to wield some parental authority, but unsure how to do it.

"No" he says eventually, when Daniel reaches for the remote control. "No telly." He didn't even know Daniel knew how to use the remote control.

He expects Daniel to argue, but instead Daniel just holds the control out of reach. "Give that to me."

Daniel doesn't say anything, but turns away, holding the control further out of reach.

"Daniel-"

The TV flickers into life behind Ed-Daniel must have pressed a button.

"No-" Ed bends down and turns the TV off. "No. You're -you're going to do this-" he looks down at the Rights and Responsibilities worksheet, half-crumpled in his hand. "You need to sit down with me and fill in this sheet-"

"Don't _want_ to-" Daniel shouts this, now climbing onto the couch. "Don't _want _to-"

"Well, tough-" Ed's own voice is rising, the feeling of fury and frustration and not being able to understand climbing higher and higher in his chest. "You got sent home from school, for God's sake-"

The TV flickers on again. Ed, foreseeing a battle of buttons, resorts to simply standing in front of the TV.

Daniel looks at Ed, and then lifts his arm, and throws the remote across the room at him.

It doesn't hit Ed; it doesn't come near. Instead, it clatters against the fireplace, hitting the corner of the photo frame-the wedding picture-and then smacks onto the fender, the back flying off, leaving the batteries nestled inside, open and exposed.

Ed feels a prickle of a thought, as he looks at the picture, only knocked an inch closer to the edge. _Pity._

It's really that thought that makes something suddenly flash bright and furious through Ed's chest, though Ed doesn't know it. He looks at Daniel and the way Daniel stares back at him, something grips tightly inside.

He doesn't know he's across the room until his hand closes around Daniel's arm. His other hand snatches him, yanking him off the couch. Daniel struggles, and Ed's hands tighten on his arms.

"I got bloody called out of bloody _work!"_ He's shouting the words, holding Daniel like a parcel.

Daniel's foot catches his shin.

It only sends a dull ache through him, but something bright and furious bolts through his body. His hands knot again, and he pulls Daniel up. "For God's _sake-"_

Daniel's little arms and legs keep moving, one hand hitting Ed in the chest, his feet lashing out. Ed half-drags him towards the table. "Just do the bloody sheet!"

_"I hate you!"_ Daniel's voice is sharp, his hands hitting at Ed's chest, sharp nail catching his chin.

Ed wrenches him away. "What's _wrong _with you?" The words are shouted full-force in Daniel's face, hands knotting tightly. "Do you think this is what we bloody need-"

"Not _we-"_ Daniel shrieks the word. _"Not we-"_

The door crashes open and then Zia's there crouching and she's pulling Daniel away from him. She doesn't say anything to him. She merely pulls Daniel away and holds him gently, crouching down, murmuring to him.

Ed stands there, chest rising and falling, as he watches Zia wrap her arms around Daniel, hugging him like a mother.

"Fine" he almost spits out, his voice a little fainter than he means. "Fine. You-you do the-"

He can't be in here. He can't.

Ed spins around and heads for the door. He barely notices where he's going until he's scrambling into the driver's seat and then his forehead's pressing into his hands.

His eyes are prickling. He lifts his head, his eyes settling on Daniel's worksheet, the one he'd only partly completed. He stares through the faint blur at his son's carefully-formed letters. At the top of the page, in big black font, reads _WHO WILL FILL IN THIS SHEET WITH YOU?_

Underneath, Daniel's written, in shaky and laborious letters, _MY DAD._

Ed blinks. Something hot and wet spills out of his eyes.

Slowly, he leans his head forward and rests his forehead on the hard rim of the steering wheel, his heart pounding too hard, until the stab of Daniel's words have faded, and the only sound in the car is the sharp rasp of his breath and the slight crumpling of the paper, as he squeezes Daniel's words between his fingers, until later on when he's ready, he'll barely be able to read them at all.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Burn-Parade Of Lights-"Tell me what you want to know/Never do what you've been told...And if you go up in flames/I think you know you're to blame/I know that you'll never change/You're like fire, fire, oh/You're like fire, fire, oh/..Let's burn/let's burn"_

_Matchbox Car-Candy Hearts-"I can't say your name like it's a curse/And I'll jinx something...Sometimes I think you're really sweet and I'm confused/Sometimes we kiss, sometimes we don't/Sometimes we take off our clothes/and I'm not sure what I should/Because sometimes I think I might like you...You think that I'm afraid of everything/When I know that that's not true/It's really just you"_

_Wake Up-Arcade Fire-"Somethin' filled up my heart with nothin'/Someone told me not to cry...If the children don't grow up/our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up/We're just a million little gods causin' rain storms/turnin' every good thing to rust"-_

_Divide-Tigers' Jaw-"There are a lot of things we try to hide/But you are drowning, it's in your eyes...I've come to find we are consumed by what we try to hide"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David did used to steal strawberries at Heatherdown:http://dailym.ai/2WqoCa9  
The Andreae brothers, Simon and Giles, are old schoolfriends of David:http://dailym.ai/3b9f5s7  
Tony charging kids in his son's class to attend his party:http://dailym.ai/3dfB9TA  
The Jack Monroe incident: Monroe had caused outrage by accusing David of "using misty-eyed stories about his dead son", which drew condemnation from all parties. Monroe later withdrew the comments and wrote a personal letter to the Camerons, apologising:http://dailym.ai/2xa6CpN  
https://bit.ly/2U3gYRs  
https://bit.ly/3dcpPrD  
Cherie was very fond of and gentle to Ivan:https://bit.ly/2wnJjsA  
Gordon Brown was deeply affected when Ivan died and openly cried in his office after hearing the news:https://bit.ly/2xVPKn9  
https://bit.ly/2U3IEpi  
You can see his Commons tribute to Ivan here:https://bit.ly/3a5hzaF  
Gordon had also lost a child-his daughter Jennifer passed away at the age of ten days in January 2002:https://bit.ly/33vu3pM  
Alastair, who comes from a working-class background, did have more of a chip on his shoulder than Tony and Peter:https://bit.ly/2QyOxZl  
Gavin does own a pet tarantula, kept in his office:https://bit.ly/2xVQBnR  
Jeremy Heywood was the non-partisan Cabinet Secretary: https://on.ft.com/2WwKznQ  
He sadly passed away in November 2018:https://bbc.in/390QsMI  
https://bit.ly/2IYfWQe  
https://bit.ly/2Ur4bXO  
David didn't allow the kids to own phones until they were teenagers-Nancy was allowed an iPod touch:https://bit.ly/2U5ltLd  
https://bit.ly/3934wW8  
https://bit.ly/2U3JnH2  
Samantha did practice sewing once the kids were in bed-Nancy is also very talented at sewing:https://bit.ly/2QxMfcT  
https://bit.ly/3b9IthR  
https://www.countryandtownhouse.co.uk/style/fashion/samantha-cameron/  
https://graziadaily.co.uk/celebrity/news/samantha-cameron-interview-fashion-brand-cefinn/  
https://thegracetales.com/cefinns-samantha-cameron-on-fashion-family-and-building-a-business/  
https://bit.ly/2wpDBX1  
Dave's kids exploring Downing Street:https://bit.ly/33wVaRj  
Dave and Sam's Morocco holiday:https://bit.ly/2WysjKP  
The story about Dave and the KGB agent/attempted pick-up in the Soviet Union:https://bit.ly/3dcrGN7  
Sam's father leaving being one of her earliest memories:https://bit.ly/33Fh8Sg


	13. Constituency Calculations, Remembrance Ruminations And An Invitation Of Incongruity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which David deals with prank calls and remembrance ceremonies make it hard not to remember."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
TW: there are mentions of the Holocaust in this chapter.  
The quote references refer to Ed's Jewish background, and David's quandary over whether to take Nick's seat.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Put up your souvenir wall chart. Start counting the days. Yes, there are now exactly a hundred to go to the election. Yippee! The media can never resist a countdown or an anniversary and the party PR men know it. So this entirely meaningless date has been imbued with utterly artificial significance. Some bright spark has come up with a campaign countdown graphic that has even me screaming at the telly "Wake me up when it's over!"- "Tuesday 27th January 2015" Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_ **The study** _

_David Cameron is doing live interviews on the morning shows from the Cabinet room. He wants to talk about the economy; his interviewers want to ask him whether he'll agree to TV debates. His answer is very Vicky Pollard-yes but, no but. Yeah but he does want to come, no but he won't unless the Northern Irish parties are included and the election debates are not held during the, er, election...._

_The consequence of all this pre-packaged election blah is that everyone is searching for what's unplanned and off-message. Ed Miliband does his interviews from the first NHS hospital, in Trafford, unaware that Labour's former health secretary, Alan Milburn, has chosen the day his party launches its ten-year health plan to warn his old colleagues not to make a **"fatal mistake"** by running a **"pale imitation"** of its losing 1992 general election campaign and promising cash for the NHS but no reform._

_I hear that Milburn was invited to the Labour health launch but turned it down on the grounds it was his birthday. Perhaps this was his idea of a birthday treat? And was this message his alone? After all, he used to employ a bright young political adviser by the name of Simon Stevens-a great believer in the health service but someone who saw the value of, and indeed, earned quite a few bucks from the private sector, too. He just happens to be the new chief executive of the NHS.-"Tuesday 27th January 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The 2015 Election And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_It was politics that had brought him this understanding. His visit to Israel had been primarily political. The Salon That Was No Longer A Salon had decided it was a good way of filling in the foreign policy gap on his leadership CV. His visit to Jerusalem and meeting with Benjamin Netanyahu would send a signal to members of the Jewish community alarmed by his stance on Gaza and Palestinian recognition. While his trip to Ramallah and meeting with Mahmoud Abbas would reassure Labour activists he remained sympathetic to the Palestinian cause._

_But it hadn't been exclusively political. Although he was Jewish, Ed Miliband did not grow up in a Jewish household. His parents had deliberately sat apart from "the community." There had been no bar mitzvah, no Shabbat, no Hanukkah. There had not even been much discussion of family history. He had a memory of visiting his grandmother as a boy and seeing a photo of a man with round glasses and a dark jacket and a white shirt (though it might have been a cream shirt). He'd asked who the man was and his grandmother had started to cry and they hadn't talked about it again. As he entered politics his Jewishness hadn't even been in the background. It simply wasn't a part of what Ed Miliband saw when he looked at Ed Miliband. And amongst Labour's Jewish supports the word had already gone round. With David there was maybe some hope. But Ed? Well, everyone knew he was a Goy. During the leadership election one of his press officers had been asked **"What does Ed Miliband think about being the first Jewish leader of the Labour party?" "Oh, David's much more Jewish than Ed"** she'd responded._

_But then his Jewishness had started to become political. His first speech as leader-in which he'd spoken out against the Gaza flotilla incident-earned him a personal rebuke from the Israeli ambassador. His stance on Palestine sent further ripples across the party's Jewish base. And word went round again. Ed Miliband wasn't his father's son, he was his mother's son. Everyone in the community knew about Marion Kozak. She'd been one of the founding signatories of "Jewish Justice for Palestinians." And what's more, she'd signed in her maiden name. So again, politics had started to reshape him. He'd sat down with Stewart Wood and they'd discussed what to do about the Jewish issue. He had to bring his Jewishness forward a little, they'd decided. Not too much. But just enough so that the people it mattered to would be able to glimpse it. He started reaching back, casting around for fragments. Some were tiny. His mother had liked Woody Allen. His grandmother had cooked him chicken soup and matzo balls. And some were more substantial. Like the time in his twenties when his mother had taken him back on a visit to Czestochowa. They'd just been leaving the house she grew up in when a man appeared and started shouting, **"The Jews are coming to take back their property."**_

_But it was all good colour. So the stories began appearing in articles and as lines in his speeches. Political anecdotes presented as personal anecdotes. Ed Miliband has a hinterland. That was the message they wanted to put out. Some people noticed, and some didn't. But one of the people who did start gazing around this gradually expanding hinterland was Ed Miliband himself. What had begun as an exercise in personal rebranding was becoming-in part-a personal journey....And The Salon That Was No Longer A Salon nodded its approval. It was working. They were finally making headway with their Jewish problem. Ed Miliband recognized that too. He could see all this was excellent politics. But he also recognized there were other places he needed to go. Places that had nothing to do with reassuring the swing voters of Finchley and Hendon._

_Which was why he was standing there. With the faces looking down at him. Holding that file. Holding his grandfather properly for the first time.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_Lynton Crosby pointed at the map. **"Here. This is where we win it. This is where the majority comes from."**_

_For a moment it looked like his finger was pointing to the Isle of Wight. But then he began to rotate it in a circular motion around the entire south-west coast. Which made sense. That was where they'd decided to target the Lib Dems. In previous strategy meetings, there had been talk of picking up as many as seven or eight seats.** "How many are we aiming for?"** he asked. **"All of them" **Lynton replied._

_Everyone in the room let out a laugh, including him. But then they saw Lynton just sitting there with this inscrutable expression on his face. At which point everyone stopped laughing. Was he being serious? All of them. Yes. He was being serious._

_**"You really think we can win every Lib Dem seat on our target list? All** **twelve?"** someone asked incredulously. Seats like North Devon had a majority of 6,000, someone else interjected. Cheltenham had a majority of almost 5,000. When he said **"win all of them"**, he didn't actually mean them as well, did he? The Big Dog shook his head. No. When he said **"all of them"** he didn't mean all of the seats on their current target list. He meant all of the seats in the region, period. Every single one._

_There was an awkward silence. Sometimes people forgot Lynton was Australian. Perhaps he didn't actually understand what the make-up of the south west was. Yes, the Lib Dems were in serious trouble. But some of these seats remained bandit country for anyone not wearing a yellow rosette. David Laws in Yeovil had a 13,000 majority. In Bath they were sitting on a 12,000 majority. He wasn't seriously suggesting they targeted those, was he? Lynton just shrugged his shoulders. If they wanted to win a majority, that was how it was going to have to happen....David Cameron leant back in his chair. So essentially this was the choice he was being presented with. Play safe, hold off Labour, and prepare for a second coalition. Or take Lynton's gamble and go all out for the majority. But if he went for the majority, there was only one way to get it. He'd have to completely destroy the Liberal Democrats. And he'd have to completely destroy Nick Clegg._

_David Cameron had one last decision to make. What were they going to do about Sheffield Hallam? Nick Clegg's majority was 15,000. But Labour were reported to be throwing everything they had at it. A lot of students had digs there. And the latest polling showed there was a real possibility he could lose his seat._

_They could approach it in two ways. Treat it like a normal campaign, and push hard. Nicola Bates had come second for them in 2010. Or step back and quietly encourage local Tory voters to come behind Nick. There was an obvious rationale for helping him out. If they were going to try and form a new coalition, they needed Nick Clegg. If he lost, then Vince Cable or Tim Farron would take over, and there was no way either of them would sign up for a deal. They'd as good as said it was Labour or nothing. But given their new strategy, there was also a case for making Nick Clegg fight for every vote. The Lib Dems would have to divert even more resources there. It would pull his personal attention and the campaign's attention away from the south west. And it would send an important signal to the MPs and the activists-when David Cameron says he's going all out for a Conservative majority he really means it. _

_So he thought about it. And then he passed the word back. Let's go easy up there.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_In a group that was, according to one of its' members, a **"pathetically straight bunch",** Osborne stood out for his subversive sense of fun. Indeed, he became notorious among his group of friends as a provocateur. On his first day in the sixth form, he concocted a rumour that someone in the same year had got married over the summer. The entire school was convulsed by speculation over the identity of the (mythical) newly-wed **"within days, if not hours",** marvels a classmate of Osborne's. "**It was absolute genius." S**ometimes his playfulness crossed the line of good taste. If a teacher was palpably out of his depth, Osborne would lead the class in assailing him with questions he could not answer. **"It was an unpleasant thing to do, and classic Pauline behaviour"** admits one of those who took part in these pitiless ambushes. The baser side of Osborne's mischievousness was an ability to **"put people down"** and "**find their area of weakness."** Time has not sapped Osborne of either his wit or waspishness. There is a reason why successive Tory leaders have relied on him to coach them for Prime Minister's Questions, and why he is generally thought more compelling private company than David Cameron. "**He's got funny bones",** was the verdict of the comedian James Corden after an encounter with the Chancellor in 2011. Photographs fail to capture the way Osborne's eyes widen and coruscate when he has mischief on the mind. Along with his capacity for cold calculation, playfulness is perhaps his distinguishing trait, and it was on show in his teenage years. **"When he walked into a room, you'd know something fun was going to happen"** says Edgecliffe-Johnson. Another friend is even starker: "**Boys would talk about him more than anyone else."** Notoriety, though, is not popularity.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Osborne helped to supply Hague's sole source of relief, but it ended up doing more for his own career than his boss's. Prime Minister's Questions was the making of the young adviser. The Tory leader consistently wounded Blair in their Wednesday showdowns across the despatch box. Much of this was down to his own gifts as a parliamentarian but the coaching he received from his aides was indispensable to his performances. (Danny) Finkelstein furnished the jokes, CRD's Haldenby took notes, and Duncan would provide an MP's perspective, but it was Osborne who really sparkled. He parsed dense arguments into one-liners. He could intuit which topics would play best in the Commons. He was also an eerily good mimic, able to not only emulate Blair's voice and manner but to accurately predict his answer to any question. Hague would use this insight to draw up McKinsey-style** "decision trees"** that set out his question, then a menu of likely prime ministerial responses, and then the best follow-up question to each of those responses. Such fastidious preparation, allied to the force and fluency of Hague's delivery, kept him on top of Blair in the chamber. This may have girded his leadership by denying his enemies any momentum. Backbenchers would arrive in Westminster each week grumbling about his shortcomings and go back to their constituencies on Thursday roused by his latest besting of Blair._

_That was the limit of any advantage that Hague accrued from PMQs. The few voters who tuned in found his pat point-scoring more becoming of a student debater than a potential Prime Minister, and Blair learned to brush him off. For Osborne, though, it was transformative. Word percolated about his political wiles. **"You kept being told about this guy"** remembers Keith Simpson, a frontbencher at the time and now Hague's Parliamentary Private Secretary. He piqued the interest of journalists, received invitations to exclusive Whips Office parties attended by Major and other grandees, and socialised with Hague and his wife Ffion. **"He used his position to build his network"** says a colleague who admired his gifts as an operator. **"He can walk into a room and immediately identify who the three most important people are, and how to talk to them."**_

_Every Tory leader since Hague has called on Osborne's counsel before PMQs. Compared to summoning great thoughts about policy, this seems like a frivolous service to render, but the first step to political advancement is simply being in the room. Week after week, for hours at a time, Osborne was eyeball to eyeball with Hague, and then Duncan Smith, and then Howard. Few frontbenchers, let alone advisers, had such intimate opportunities to impress. **"He made his career at PMQs" s**ays a friend. Osborne's deft mimicry in these PMQs sessions offered glimpses of a much deeper personal quality. He is a perspicacious analyst of people, including himself. He studies humans as assiduously as more conventional politicians study ideas. The bookshelves in Osborne's Tatton home are dominated by biographies, not works of political theory or economics. The second of his laws of political success, as cheekily itemised by Hague at his fortieth birthday party, is to get inside an opponent's mind and soul. Only by grasping their motives, insecurities, impulses and habits of thought can their future motives be foreseen. It is a pugilistic take on empathy, and would later equip Osborne to rattle Gordon Brown in a way no other shadow Chancellor had managed...But there was more to Osborne's success than policy. His predecessors had never evolved a way of dealing with Brown's personal force. He bludgeoned them in the Commons with rhetoric and a raw presence that sometimes radiated actual physical menace. When even Michael Howard confesses to being cowed, a heavyweight is at work. Osborne avoided their fate by deploying his ability to analyse other personalities and identify their vulnerabilities. He worked out that Brown found weakness provocative, angered easily, and lacked courage beneath all that surface pugnacity. Osborne's approach was to evince absolutely no sign of fear, even when he felt it, and then match Brown's aggression...George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_What do you do on a day when your country hangs in the balance? As Nancy was due to start secondary school the following year, Sam and I went to look around one option, Holland Park in west London. There I was reminded just how transformational independence for schools through academy status could be. Pupils were learning Latin and Greek. There was a sense of discipline and drive. It had echoes of the school I went to. And yet this was a co-educational comprehensive in the middle of London.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_There's a short circuit between my brain and my tongue, thus "Leave me the fuck alone" comes out as "Well, maybe. Sure. I guess I can see your point."-A Friend In The Ghetto, David Sedaris_

_""You just say whatever you want, don't you?"_

_"Only to you." I shook my head. "Sorry, that sounded creepy.""-Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_I didn't expect to mend any fences with all this.........co-operation. I didn't expect to convince or convert Snow. But I thought we were making progress. Like, maybe, when it was all over, he and I would still be standing on either side of the trench, but we wouldn't be spitting at each other. We wouldn't be spoiling for the fight._

_I know Simon and I will always be enemies...._

_But I thought maybe we'd get to a point where we didn't want to be.-Carry On, Rainbow Rowell_

_"How's Roderick?" said Pip. _

_Rooney's mouth twitched with amusement. "I like that your mind immediately went to my house plant rather than asking how **I** am."_

_"I care about plant welfare" Pip replied._

_I noticed the cooler tone to her voice immediately. Gone was the flustered way she'd babbled around Rooney back in our bedroom. She wasn't blushing and adjusting her hair any more._

_After what she'd seen in our kitchen, Pip was on the defensive now._

_It made me feel sad. But that was what Pip did when she got a crush on someone who couldn't like her back: she shut down the feelings with sheer willpower._

_It protected her.-Loveless, Alice Oseman_

_No-one's the same as they used to be/Much as we try to pretend/No-one's as innocent as could be/We all fall short, we all sin_

_-"Fast In My Car", Paramore_

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Nick Robinson glances idly at the TV screen and promptly yells "Oh, for _fuck's sake."_

Will, sitting at the kitchen table, nearly jumps out of his skin, almost upsetting his tea at the same moment. "Jesus, Dad, this is my fucking A-Level work!"

"Language" Nick manages to warn him, still with his eyes on the screen, though he doesn't manage to miss Will raising an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Nick rolls his eyes, managing to squeeze Harry's shoulder, as he wanders past half in, half out of his school uniform. "Honest to God" he mutters.

"What?" Pippa's following their son, tapping him on the head with his neglected textbook and ruffling Will's hair, to his annoyance.

Nick sighs and points to the TV screen. "Well, which bright spark came up with that idea?"

All of them, even Will, follow his gaze. Across the TV screen, decorated in various colours, is a bright countdown graphic, sporting two little words: _100 Days._

"Oh, bloody hell" mutters Will, returning to his work. "Don't tell me they're going to have a bloody election countdown-"

Nick doesn't even bother to reprove him for the language. He's already thinking much the same thing.

"Jesus" he manages, letting his head sink into his hands. "That's-"

"Fourteen weeks and two days" Harry supplies helpfully.

Nick groans. "Wake me up when it's over."

"Well, we'll do that" says Pippa, fairly unsympathetically, sending the screen black with one swoop of the remote control, to an indignant squawk from Harry. "Just so long as you know you'll probably wake up on air."

Nick groans again. He gets a crust of his son's toast thrown at him for his trouble, with the result that he spends half of his morning at work bemoaning his already bad throat and the other half expounding on the many and varied grievances of an unsympathetic family.

And the annoyance of those two words _100 Days_, nestled on the screen, not letting anyone quite forget.

* * *

"Have they figured out who it was yet?" George asks, with a snigger.

"Who what was-oh-" David grins, spinning round, whilst Graeme fiddles with the wire. "Who the caller was? Yeah-"

"You're not going to-"

"No, course not. It was hilarious" David snorts, turning back to the table. "He nearly got Florence yelling down the phone." Off George's look, David shrugs. "She was sitting on my shoulders at the time. We were out walking when the call came through."

"How long did it last-"

"Only about two minutes." David laughs, leaning forward in his seat. "Better than Michael's bloody watch going off last week. I told Sarah to just get him a simple bloody Swatch watch-"

"Is Michael actually _familiar _with the concept of a Swatch watch-let alone the bloody Apple one she got him-"

"I don't give a fuck" comes an Australian drawl from over their shoulders. "Whether Michael's listening to Beyonce, Taylor Swift, or that fucking Lady and Lord girl-"

"Lorde girl-" David and George correct automatically, not being able to make that mistake with preteen daughters.

"Whatever. I want you focused on these fucking interviews. And they're going to try and nail you on the fucking debates, whether you're live from the fucking Cabinet Room or not. So I want you prepped."

David leans back in his chair. Lynton eyes him.

"Don't want them to disrupt the campaigns, want all the minor parties involved, isn't fair unless everyone gets a chance-"

Lynton puffs out his cheeks. "Thank Christ for that."

George gives David a wink. "Just remember to say you want a coalition with Miliband, don't forget that-"

"Shut up." Lynton cuffs him on the shoulder.

George sniggers, and Lynton holds up a warning finger. "And remember-debate rehearsal afterwards. Got to get you working on how to crush the little oik."

David manages to hold a smile. He runs the words through his mind again, like a necklace through a child's fingers: _campaign, minor parties, fairness-_

_Where he couldn't open the door, he was bullied by small children, and he set the carpet on fire-_

He tries to make himself picture Miliband's big, dark eyes across from him, that smug, sanctimonious, reproachful look-

He sees them suddenly across the Chamber last week. Big and dark and-

_Just imagine what a shambles he'd make of running the country!_

That lip trembling.

David feels something waver horribly in his chest.

He reaches quickly for the headphones in front of him, pulling them too roughly over his ears, but there's that wavering in his chest again, and he's moving too quickly for George not to notice.

* * *

Ed's shirt is damp under his arms. He shifts uncomfortably on the chair, too aware of the crackle of the material, the way he always is.

"It's-er-70 years since my grandfather died in one of the-er-camps-"

He looks away suddenly, not wanting to meet Nick's eyes anymore. "And I marked that-er-about ten days ago-"

He isn't sure, and the thought prickles that that's wonderfully suitable that he isn't sure.

"You know, it's really hard, this, because I've talked to my mum about this-and it's not the kind of thing we talk-"

He catches himself.

"You talk about very much when you're growing up in a household affected by this-er-affected by-these things-"

"We lit the candle" he'd told her that weekend, folding and unfolding his hands. "For-"

_Your dad._

His mother had looked at him, sharp and steely-eyed, and then said "I see."

Ed had cleared his throat. "For-you know. My-"

_Grandfather._

Marion had just looked at him. Ed had swallowed, taking a too-hurried gulp of tea, his throat too dry.

"Th-so" he'd said too loudly, his heartbeat a little too audible. "I might-talk about it this week, you know, with it being the-the memorial-"

Marion had looked at him. Then, almost quickly enough for him to pretend he hadn't heard, she'd said "First time."

"Th-sorry?"

"The first time. I think." She'd met his eyes then, unflinching. "That you've lit the candle."

Ed had swallowed. He suddenly hadn't been quite sure what to do with his hands.

"Well." He'd cleared his throat, suddenly wishing Sam would interrupt, would come toddling over. But his dark curls were all Ed could see, curled up in a corner of the couch, facing too firmly away from him.

"Well. Yeth. Juth-just because-"

His voice had sounded too quavering. Too thin. _Please. Please._

"Because-because now we _know_-about what happened-and-and everything-"

Ed's stomach had squirmed unpleasantly.

Marion had just watched him, long and hard, for another moment, and then said quietly, "I see."

Ed had swallowed. Somehow, the words had seemed too loud in the quiet room, not even drowned by the rattled chatter of Sam's Peppa Pig cartoon.

"Well-" and Marion had looked away, then. "It's up to you what you choose to speak about. As long as you're sure."

Ed had nodded. Swallowed.

It should have been what he'd wanted to hear.

So he'd squeezed his hands together. Tried to fumble the words out of his mouth.

_Yes. I am-_

Tried to meet his mother's gaze.

Tried. Hadn't.

It's a few minutes later that Nick says "How did you mark it, ten days ago?"

Ed's stomach turns over.

"I-it's a Jewish thing, you know, you light a candle-" he begins to explain, Tom's words in the back of his head. _Make sure you remind them of Yad Vashem. You need to let them know you get it, you understand-because right now they think you don't-_

"Actually-er-"

He tries to laugh, feels his stomach squeeze tightly. "I know this sounds almoth-st unbelievable, but it's only actually six months ago that we discovered the full circumstances of what happened to my grandfather-"

He remembers looking up at the wall of pictures-so many, they blurred into each other, faces and voices and stories all tangling together, all to be nailed to a wall in a frame. Justine had been next to him, peering up because he was, and something about that had made Ed look away from her, something sick and tight pulling in his stomach.

"So where-where was he-"

"He-he was in the-he was in Germany, in a, er-he ended up in Germany-in a, in a labour camp." He rushes the words out. "Which is where he eventually died, according to the records-"

The documents had felt strange in his hand-too many papers and too few at once. He'd felt his hands shaking a little as he took them, Robinson standing off to the side, miming to the cameras to lower themselves until they said, and it had seemed too _bizarre _that what had happened was written in these pages. He'd swallowed, thanking them again and again, stuttered words of thanks putting off the moment he'd have to read them a little longer.

Justine had blinked hard at his side and he'd known he was supposed to do something, put a hand on her arm, an arm around her. It'd be a good photo.

Ed had felt sick.

He'd told himself that was why he hadn't done it, that he'd known the tears were real.

"I went to Yad Vashem-you know, which is the place in Israel where they have records on-the Holocaust-and-and-er-that's where I-"

He catches himself. _United team,_ Douglas had told him, before his interview with Robinson. _Makes you look like a Prime Minister-in-waiting. Cameron was always doing it with his wife-_

Cameron hadn't had to go to Yad Vashem.

"Where we discovered more information about what had happened to him-"

He'd lain the wreath carefully, feeling vaguely stupid as he did so-walking slowly, trying not to trip over his own feet. It can never feel natural, because it isn't-

That thought had stung, because it's not natural. That's why the cameras were there.

_A personal trip,_ Tom had said. _A deeply personal trip. That's what we want this out as. You and your wife trying to work out where you come from._

Him and his wife. And Douglas. And 30 other aides. And Robinson. And several camera crews.

A deeply personal trip.

The cameras had flashed, all capturing the moment, as he laid the wreath on the floor. Justine's head had been bowed, her hands folded, the way they were supposed to be.

(Everyone had touched his arms after, murmured words of comfort, the way they were supposed to. Justine had taken his hand.)

(Ed had taken a deep breath and hadn't pulled it away.)

He'd stared at the wreath, as he'd stepped back solemnly, folding his hands together. Justine had stepped closer to him, and his vision had wavered a little, the way it was supposed to.

It would make a great photograph. A personal one.

The cameras flashed.

"And you know we-we lit a candle, and I-I-"

"And was that very so-" Nicky lifts his hands. "You know, I-I don't _believe_ you're an incredibly religious man, but was that in itself a very spiritual experience-"

"Well, I-it was a s-sort of-you know, it's a kind of-way of remember s-it's a Jewish thing to remember, and I talked about it with a friend of mine who-and we sort of agreed that it was the right thing to do-"

Bob. Bob had recommended it.

_Help you connect. Understand the Jewish ways of doing things, helping you appeal to the Jewish._

Ed had never done it before, but the argument had been there, sculpted and crafted and reasonable.

"And, you know, I lit the candle, and my kids-one of them-my eldest son, Daniel-"

_He hates me. He really hates me. He didn't speak to me all weekend. I didn't even take him to school this morning. Or yesterday._

It had been left to Justine to make Daniel do the worksheet. She'd made her voice slow and patient, her eyes overly-wide.

Something about it had left something creeping at Ed's skin, and he'd turned away, hugging himself tight with his arms suddenly cold.

Daniel had shoved the pencil away from him over and over again. Ed had disappeared upstairs eventually, and he still isn't sure whether Daniel completed the sheet or not.

A part of him had thought, childishly, that maybe it was Justine's problem.

"He said to me, er-" He laughs, tries to, a little. ""What's that for?" and, er-"

_Where were you? _he'd said, voice seeming to bounce off the walls, though it was only a whisper. _We couldn't bloody find you._

_I was in a meeting-for God's sake, BP will take this back to court, I couldn't just tell them I've got to go because my son's thrown a fit at school-_

_How come we didn't know about the curriculum meeting?_

_They'll email us the sheets-_

_But that'th-s-_ Ed had stared at her, feeling as though he was just grasping at something he couldn't quite understand. _That'th not the point._

Justine's eyes had narrowed._ Well, I didn't see you remembering._

_But it'th-_

Not my job.

Justine's eyes had narrowed.

_Well, we couldn't fucking reach you!_

_Because I was in a meeting-_

It had gone on, their voices and words round and round in circles, neither of them quite touching the word _important._

Important. What was-

"You know, it's hard to-he's five, so it's hard to-to explain-"

Suddenly, he remembers something else. Last April, in Israel, standing next to a soft play area, the childrens' shouts echoing off the corrugated metal roof overhead. Justine was standing there, her dark blue shirt crinkling a little, her too-wide eyes glancing away from the bright primary colours behind them to fix on Nick Robinson.

_Well, I-I think it's brought it home for me-I-_

She'd glanced at Ed, as though for confirmation. _We've got a three and a four-year-old at home-who play-but they don't have to play here-_

She'd nodded a little, as if reassuring herself of this.

_They've got a choice about whether to go outside, so I was quite struck by that-_

Ed had looked at her and then had to smile, because suddenly something had seized, biting and sarcastic in his chest. _Oh, well done. That's what registered with you._

He'd pushed it away a moment later, the same way he'd pushed down her standing by the play area for a shot, the cameraman yelling directions to her. _Let's get a look at the kids, this'll be a good shot._

Justine had stared at the children, her eyes wider, and for a moment, she'd looked caught. Lost.

Ed had felt a twinge of something, then-something like affection, but not quite. Like pity, or something that wished it could be affection.

He'd wondered what to do, half-putting out a hand to help her, though not sure how to himself.

But then the cameras had clicked. The light had come on.

And Justine had smiled at the children she'd been staring at, a little lost, a few moments before. _I'd quite like to do that._

(It had been so _quick.)_

Ed had turned away, that crawling feeling clamping tight in his chest and not quite sure why.

And now, he looks at Nick across the recording booth.

"But I explained it was for my grandfather who I didn't meet-and er-and er-and who died at a very youn-you know-young age-but it's-you know-"

"What is it like having somebody in your own family that, that-that, that-" Nick raises his hands. "That-that died-so a lot of us cannot relate to that-I mean-" He jerks his thumb. "Our-our-our very own Adrian Goldberg is over there-he does have a-that experience-but what does it _feel_ like-to-to-to know that your own flesh and blood was-was part of the-the-the slaughtered?"

Ed's stomach clenches. "It's-it's awful, and it-and it-"

The cameras are whirring.

"Makes me feel incredibly lucky-and you know-"

_We need a good line._

"There's horror and there's hope-because it's also the case that, er-many members of my family were r-were _saved_ because they were Jews who were hidden by decent people."

_That'll be the line._

He hears Bob's voice in his head.

_That'll echo. Decencies, principles-that's what we want to get across. And this gives it a more personal edge._

Ed's fingers curl.

_Good shot._

He feels sick.

* * *

"The truth is that Ed Miliband would walk into Downing Street hand-in-hand with Nicola Sturgeon if he thought it would gain him a _sliver _of power-"

"Hang on." Lynton holds up a hand. "Stop, stop, stop."

David's already spreading his own hands. "It can't be the bloody stance again, I've straightened up five times now-"

"It's not the fucking stance. The stance is fine." Lynton shakes his head. "I just want to go over the minor parties thing-"

"Oh, fuck, not that again." George slumps over their makeshift podium (actually a rather tired old chair that David keeps intending to get rid of and failing to replace.) "I've had to do Miliband's-" He adopts an overly nasal tone that sounds as though someone's stamped on his nose. _"Thith Prime Minithter ith chickening_ out three times, my nose will break from having my voice shoved through it-"

"And we solve the mystery of Miliband's crooked nose" Craig declares, leaning on his own chair.

"I couldn't give a fuck whether Miliband's nose is crooked or straight as a die-shut up, George" says Lynton, without even turning round to glare at George who's now enacting a pantomime of Miliband biting into a sandwich and then thrusting a fist and a series of rapid V signs.

"I believed it up until then" David remarks, referring to the silent tableau before him.

"Not Miliband enough-"

A snort. "I doubt Miliband knows what a V-sign is-"

"Right." Lynton spins to face them. "Miliband's weakness. Do it once, quickly, before we go-"

This part, they've all been waiting for David to sink his teeth into.

David clears his throat. He turns to look at the small portrait on the wall that they've decided represents the camera.

"Any deal with the SNP would be a disaster for this country" he says slowly. "But a deal between these two would be one of the worst decisions this country has ever seen."

David turns round and gestures. "Nicola Sturgeon-that invisible one over there-"

Lynton gives him a look that would shrivel Rasputin.

"OK, OK." David turns back. "Nicola Sturgeon has made it clear that her priority is breaking up the UK. But she's also made it clear that she's happy to put Ed Miliband into Downing Street to make that happen." David raises a finger. "Think about that. Why is Nicola Sturgeon so keen to put Ed Miliband into Downing Street? And the reason is that she knows Ed Miliband is the person who will let that happen. Because she knows that Ed Miliband will do anything to be in Downing Street and she knows that Ed Miliband will not be able to stand up to her. This is a man who relies on other people to further his own career. He's relied on the votes of the unions. He's relied on Len Mcluskey. He's relied on more debt and more borrowing, and now he's relying on Nicola Sturgeon to crawl into power."

George is making aggrieved faces, pretending to stagger, and then squeezes his throat until Lynton shoots him a furious look.

"That's the person Ed Miliband _is." _David leans forward. "He is a man who knows he cannot get into power without clawing for the support of others."

He turns to look at George and something _happens._

Maybe George just manages to produce an expression remarkably similar to Miliband's for a moment or maybe David just _sees _Ed there very suddenly, very sharply, but something wavers in his chest.

"Ed-" His voice falters, so the name sounds more like a question than anything else.

Lynton slaps the back of his own chair. _"David-"_

David shakes his head. "Sorry-"

He fastens tight around the wavering feeling, shoves it down hard. He has vague memories suddenly of standing, waiting in line, clutching a cricket bat too big for his hands, the grounds of Heatherdown stretching out far too wide around him, the sun too hot on his head, and a sudden wave of homesickness assaulting his chest, which he'd gripped tight and wrestled down.

"This is the same man who ducked away from Labour's responsibility for the borrowing-" His voice is growing stronger. "The same man who failed to stand up to the unions. The same man who wriggled out of helping the children of Syria for his own cheap political gain."

He keeps looking at George. Just George.

"He's done all these things, in an attempt to crawl his way into power, and that is because, above everything else, this man is _weak-"_

The word cracks in the air.

"If you care about the future of this country, do _not_ let that man crawl into Downing Street-" He looks down the imaginary camera. _"He_ is the biggest mistake this country can make."

His throat's sore. He stops and takes a sip of water. As the sweet coolness tickles his tongue, he hears the clapping.

Lynton's slapping his hands together. _"Finally._ Thank _God."_

David tries to smile. _Thank Christ._

"Now-we still need to fine-tune bits-maybe go for _scrabbling_, not _clawing_, sounds less aggressive, makes him look weaker-but that's the basic message we need to get fixed in voters' heads-" Lynton's turning to the rest of the room now. "Miliband is _weaker-"_

David doesn't hear his next few words. Instead, he's looking at George, who's clapping too, but his head is tilted, taking David in curiously.

George. Not Ed.

David takes a deep breath, holding onto the words. Not Ed.

Not Miliband.

(Miliband's big dark eyes.)

That sharp feeling wavers uncontrollably in his chest again. David clamps it down.

* * *

"For years, our Holocaust survivors have seen this as their duty to us." Cameron looks up from the podium, his eyes moving slowly around the room. "Now, we must do our duty to them-"

Ed tries to listen as Cameron rehearses, folding his hands tightly in his lap. He can still hear Tom's words in his head, grabbing his spine in rigid tension. _Fucking Milburn. Get fucking Alastair onto him._

But it's tight in his chest, leaving him feeling sick, and his heart's a drumbeat that starts to ache when Cameron's eyes move to him.

He can hear his own voice from that morning.

_We will hold him responsible for what has happened. The British people will hold him responsible for what has happened._

"That is why today, with the full support of the Deputy Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition-"

Ed looks up, feeling rather than seeing Nick next to him give a small smile. Cameron's looking at him, head tilted to one side, and when Ed's eyes meet his, he receives a small, quick grin.

Ed has no idea what expression is on his own face. It's for less than a second that their eyes meet, but Cameron smiles.

_You know David Cameron can't be trusted with our NHS._

Ed's chest squeezes tight.

He hears Harriet's voice again: _Ivan..._

"I am accepting the recommendations of the Holocaust Commission-" Cameron glances back at his notes.

Ed looks down, the words stabbing him gently. He can sense them, sitting close by, even though they're not there yet.

That's where they'll be. The survivors, listening quietly, their faces turned towards the Prime Minister.

(Would he have looked like that?)

(Would his grandfather?)

Ed can't look.

(Cameron just smiled.)

(It looked-)

Ed bows his head.

(Don't smile like that.)

(Don't be nice to me.)

"Britain will have a proper National Memorial to the Holocaust in central London. We will have a world-class Learning Centre that teaches every generation to fight hatred, prejudice and discrimination in all its' forms-"

Ed keeps his eyes on his knees.

Cameron's still speaking. "Today, we stand together-whatever our faith, whatever our creed, whatever our politics-we stand in remembrance of those who were murdered in the darkest hour of human history-"

Nick's hand touches Ed's arm, just for a moment. Ed can't look at him.

(Please don't be nice.)

He sees Sara's face.

The cameras flashing.

Something swells in his throat.

"We stand in admiration of what our Holocaust survivors have given to our country-" Cameron looks around, the same way he will in an hour or so. "And we stand united in our resolve to fight prejudice and discrimination in all its' forms-"

Ed keeps his eyes on his knees.

He can see Sara's face.

_Edward..._ Her voice raised in welcome, her arms out trustingly.

Tears prickle at his eyes. His chest is stabbing sharply. He keeps his eyes on his knees.

_This'd make a great picture._

Ed thinks he's going to vomit.

* * *

Standing there with the survivors, Ed isn't sure what to say.

The words are too small. It feels as though they're garbled into his chest, too tight and knotted to reach.

Some of them don't mention what happened, the survivors. Ed can't decide if that's better or worse.

They smile and laugh, and some of them touch his and Cameron and Clegg's arms when they talk to them. They're about his mother's age, a lot of them. It makes something swell in Ed's throat.

He wonders suddenly if Sara's ever been to an event like this.

Maybe he should have offered to take her.

He wonders if any of them have ever had camera crews in their homes.

If it was them who invited them.

(Does he want to talk about it? Does he not?)

(Is this what it was like for his grandfather? What it was like for them-)

A part of him wants to ask, sick and clawing at his chest.

Another part doesn't want to touch it. Doesn't want to reach out, thinking about it, about-

Cameron's asking one lady about her son. Cameron's been to Auschwitz.

Ed could ask him.

Ed should ask him.

Should he-

Does he want-

What does he-

_There's horror and there's hope._

Ed feels ill.

The lady turns to him and puts a hand on his arm. "Are you all right, dear?"

Something prickles at Ed's eyes. Cameron's looking at him, gaze narrowed.

"Ed?" he thinks he says, but he's not sure.

The old lady touches his arm. She looks so kind.

_That'll be the line._

Ed's stomach turns over.

"Excuse me a moment-" he says to her, with a gentle hand on the arm. "Excuse me-juth-"

Cameron's hand gently replaces his own, and then Ed's walking away swiftly, the room lurching slightly around him, and once he gets through the door, out into the corridor, he breaks into a run.

* * *

A few minutes before Ed had arrived, preparing, David had glanced at Nick, who'd murmured "Tell Nancy congratulations."

"Sorry?"

"Grey Coat."

"Oh." David had shifted uncomfortably. "We don't know yet. It was just a rumour."

"Oh."

"The _Times_ had some story about it, but we haven't heard anything-" David had sighed. "But we're hoping for there. Or Lady Margaret."

"All-girls?"

"Preferably. Holland Park's still in the mix, though-that's her third choice." David had glanced at him. "What about Alberto? Is he hoping for the Oratory or-"

"Yeah, that's our first choice." Nick had flipped over the leaflet, examining it. "We're pretty hopeful too, because Antonio's already there-"

"Sibling policy-"

"Yeah." Nick had nodded. "But that's his first choice.

"Not risking being pilloried for going private, then?"

Nick had laughed, then, in an undertone, "We would if he didn't get first or second choice. I mean, we looked for Antonio, but to be honest, the Catholic thing was the main priority for Miriam. And the Oratory did better than most of the private ones, anyway."

_And it wasn't worth the hassle._

"What about you?"

David had shrugged. "We thought about Latymer Upper School. But honestly, it doesn't offer much that Grey Coat doesn't. And Sam really wants her to go to a state school." He'd flipped through the leaflet himself. "Liberty's at St Paul's Girls-but it's pretty far away and then they don't have a uniform, and we weren't particularly-particularly keen on that-"

"No, Miriam wouldn't be-"

"We looked at St Maryleborne, too-they're the three nearest us, state girls schools-Grey Coat, Lady Margaret, Maryleborne-but there'd been that bullying thing, earlier this year-"

"The suicide-"

"Yeah." David had shaken his head. "Sam wasn't keen. And she'd know someone at Grey Coat-Bea's there-we did look at Westminster Academy, too, but-"

"We thought about it. And Holland Park, but-"

They'd both shaken their heads.

"Good school. Just....doesn't really suit Nancy."

"No. Nor Alberto."

They'd lapsed into silence.

_Talk to me._

But then, David's thoughts had prickled, _why would he?_

Lynton's eyes on his own.

_Clegg's seat._

David had sighed.

And now he's standing, watching Miliband disappear.

He turns back to the lady with a smile.

"Excuse me-" he says, with a gentle hand on the arm. "Let me just go and check on him-"

Nick takes over immediately with a big smile, and David quietly slips out the door, only to be caught by Craig's hand on his arm.

David sighs again.

"I'm just _checking_ on him" he reassures carefully. "It'll hardly look _good _if I let him run out on his own-"

Craig lets go, but eyes him slowly. "Just be careful" he says slowly. "Remember. He's not your problem."

David wishes, rather bitterly, that he could remind himself of that a little more often.

It doesn't take too long to check everywhere Miliband could be. David's familiar with him, and if Miliband was going to cry, then he'd want to dart out of sight somewhere, quickly.

God, what's he _thinking_, being _familiar _with _Miliband-_

He ducks around a few corners and after coming across several empty rooms, he heads for the bathrooms.

He knows he's found the right place when he hears the slightly ragged, wet gasping from inside one of the cubicles.

David lets the door fall shut behind him, leans back against it.

"Miliband?"

The ragged breathing stops immediately.

David sighs. "Miliband. Open the door."

There's a faint retching sound.

David frowns, then simply strides across and hammers on the door.

"Miliband. You're ill. Open the door."

Miliband takes a shuddering breath. "I'm fine. I-"

"Miliband-" David falters, his mind racing. "You-ah-"

He should just turn away.

Miliband isn't his problem.

Or at least, he shouldn't be.

But he's _sick._

God, why does he-

David takes a deep breath.

"Miliband. You're ill. I'm not-I'm not _leaving _you."

There's a pause. Then Miliband's voice, quavering. "W-why not?"

David gulps, something pressing at his chest. Some worried, longing ache that makes him lean against the door, press his hand against it.

"I don't know." It comes out almost too quietly to hear.

Miliband's breath catches in something that sounds like a sob. "What?"

David shakes himself.

"Because-" He steels his voice. "Because otherwise, I'll have to get someone. It sounds like you're ill and I can't leave you in here on your own."

There's a muffled explosion of annoyance. "Oh, for God'th-"

"Mili-Ed, _please."_

David doesn't expect the word to crack like that.

He stands there, wrapping his arms around himself, as though that can pull the word back. He only vaguely notices that there's a sudden silence.

Then slowly, the lock's pulled back.

The cubicle door opens slowly to reveal Miliband's face peering through the crack, flushed and scowling and pouting, eyes large and dark and a little tear-stained.

* * *

Cameron's standing there, watching him. His eyes narrow, taking Ed in.

Ed takes one deep breath, then another. Then he flushes the toilet and half-pushes past Cameron towards the sink. He should never have opened the door.

"Miliband-" Cameron's hand touches his arm. Ed pulls it away.

"I'm fine." He manages it with his eyes on the sink.

"You don't look fine."

Ed grips the sink tightly, knuckles white and aching. "Well, I-"

Milburn's words echo in his head.

_You've got a pale imitation, actually, of the 1992 general election campaign-maybe it will have the same outcome._

And his own voice from that morning.

_This is a total betrayal of what David Cameron promised._

Cameron's hand hovers near his arm.

_David Cameron can't be trusted with our NHS._

Cameron's done this. He tries to tell himself that over and over.

Cameron's done these things, and he doesn't care, and-

Cameron's a-

He can't bear it.

He can't think, and he can't look at Cameron, because he has to remember-

He has to remember what Cameron-

Cameron's hand touches his arm. It's too warm. Too gentle, too-

Ed pulls away so violently that he almost falls over.

"I'm _fine._" He almost spits the word out, his mouth still sour. "Honeth-stly-"

"Well, you hardly look it." Cameron's voice is harder now.

"Well, it-it'th not your_ concern_, is it-" Ed can hear his own voice wavering. "I mean-"

He can't notice.

Notice how Cameron's so near to him.

"It'th not as though you-not as though you _care-"_

"Where does that _come _from?" and Cameron's closer now, but his eyes are looking for Ed's in the mirror. Ed's dart up, then away. "Why do you always fall back on the idea that I don't _care?"_

Cameron's eyes meet Ed's, blue and sharp in the mirror. Ed stares back, then looks away like a flinch.

He tries to laugh, his voice quavering a little. "Becauthe-because-you _don't-"_

Cameron steps closer to him, and Ed's body turns somehow, so they're facing each other. "How can you tell me that I don't care?" he asks calmly. Too calmly.

Ed opens and closes his mouth. "You-you-"

Cameron just _looks _at him.

Ed wants him to argue.

That's the thing. If Cameron_ argues_, Ed can argue back.

They can argue and he can know that Cameron's wrong, even when Cameron makes everyone _laugh-_

And he _knows_ arguing with Cameron.

He _likes-_

Ed glares at him. "Because you _don't."_

He almost spits it out.

He turns away furiously, and that's when Cameron says "You know, you're just as bad as them."

Ed blinks, then pulls himself up and round to face Cameron. "What?"

Cameron doesn't look perturbed. He's just watching Ed calmly. His face is smooth, self-assured. Ed wants to shake him.

(He wants to make Cameron _see-)_

But Cameron's eyes are bright. And sharp.

The way they are when he argues. When he argues with Ed.

Ed pushes down the spark, like a shiver under his skin. Clamps it away, almost out of sight.

"You talk about how your party is a party for_ everyone_, not the _few-"_ Cameron puts the slightest stress on the words. "But you can't understand anyone who disagrees with you. You can't understand them, and so you just shove them away, so they're in some-some nice little category in your head where they're just-just bad-or stupid or wrong. Because you can't fathom that anyone could disagree with you and be right. Or just entitled to their opinion."

Ed's mouth opens and closes furiously again.

"That'th not true-" He tilts his chin up, his fists clenching at his sides, because he-he-

Cameron just looks at him. The look grates angrily in Ed's chest, the same way it does across the chamber in PMQs, but worse somehow.

"I don't think anyone who dith-s-agrees is _bad-"_ he tells Cameron, his chin jutting up and out. "I juth-st think that-"

He scrabbles for what he _does_ think.

It's just that his ideas make _sense,_ and-

_"Oh."_

Cameron's arms fold. A languid smile unfolds his mouth, spreading it. "Only if we're Conservatives. _That _happens to be the fly in the ointment."

Ed huffs. "That'th not true. I'm friendth-s with-I get on with moth-st of you-"

He pauses, searching.

"You can just tolerate being around us" Cameron finishes for him.

"That'th not-you're _twith-sting_ it-" Ed bursts out.

It's not _fair,_ what Cameron's doing. He's right, he knows he is-it's because _Cameron _won't _see-_

"It'th hardly th-surprising I don't agree with the underlying printh-ciples of your party-" he explains, trying to make the words slower, calmer. "You can hardly expect me to-"

"I don't" Cameron agrees readily. "But then you can hardly expect me to agree with _yours'."_

Ed stammers. "But-"

Cameron's mouth twitches.

Ed stammers again. "But-you-"

_"Ah."_ Cameron holds up a finger. "So you're not obliged to agree with _ours_, but _we_ are obliged to agree with _yours'-"_

Ed splutters. "No! But-but-"

_But I'm right!_

Ed doesn't dare say the words.

Cameron seems to hear them, anyway.

His mouth twitches again, in that half-smile.

Something about it drives Ed _mad,_ and-"Well-well, we're not _like_ you-it'th not the _th-same,_ we're-we're trying to _help_, and-"

"And Conservatives are evil" Cameron says, only half-jokingly. "I see."

Something stabs sharply. Cameron's smirking, but he-he looks-

Jolted. Surprised. As though he'd expected this, but-

He looks a little lost.

Something about that clenches uncomfortably in Ed's stomach.

"Well-" He clears his throat. "Well. I didn't th-say you're _evil-"_

"You didn't have to."

Ed's chin juts because that's just-

"I never th-said that-" because he shouldn't be feeling_ sorry_ for _Cameron._

It's _Cameron _who doesn't _see-_

"Do you-do you even th-see-what you do to things-to the-the-the NHS, and-"

"Did you _even see_ what Milburn said?"

And that's just typical, because _one person-_

"And that it was your party who privatised more of the NHS than any other?"

"That was Blair" Ed spits out, because that's-that's not _fair,_ he's not _Blair_, and everyone knows that-_"_That was Blair-"

"And so he's evil, too" Cameron interrupts with a grin.

For a second, Ed wants to grin too. To let himself meet David's eyes.

But he-

"I'm not him" he says weakly

(this is too important to get distracted)

"I'm not him, and-that'th not the point-"

(Because he's supposed to_ show_ people-)

Cameron stares at him, then. Really stares at him. Like he's trying to peel back Ed's skin and see inside.

Ed doesn't like it. Ed shouldn't like it.

"That's it, isn't it?" Cameron says it slowly, his head tilted, eyes narrowed. Taking Ed in. "That's it. That's why."

Ed doesn't like this at all.

"What-"

"You _can't."_ Cameron says this slowly, taking him in. "You don't _know_ how not to be right."

"That'th not true." Ed says it too quickly for something that's not true. "That'th not true-"

"You're scared."

It's like a slap.

"I am not" Ed says, like a child.

"Yes, you are." David's closer to him now. Too close. "You're scared of what's going to happen if you're _not right."_

And that-

_That _makes Ed step forward, so he's almost chest-to-chest with Cameron. So he can feel him breathing.

"That'th _not true."_ He almost snarls the words. "It'th _not."_

Cameron steps forward, too. Ed feels his own back pressing into the wall. It doesn't feel like school, when he'd be pushed back, the wall digging into his spine in a dank bathroom-

It feels like PMQs, a little.

It feels like-

"It'th _not-"_ Ed grinds the words out and they're so angry he's shaking, because Cameron-

(_How fucking dare you, stop thinking you know me, you don't fucking know me, you don't know anything about me-)_

Anger is squeezing his chest tight, and Cameron's so close, and their chests are touching-

That's-

Oh-

Ed can feel a strange warmth where they're-

Touching, and-

A warmth that's making his chest swoop, and his head spins a little-

And-

And then Cameron does something strange.

He lifts his hand. For a mad moment, Ed flinches, wincing, thinking he's going to slap him.

He stares back, jaw clenched, heart pounding.

Cameron's hand lowers a little. He turns it, so his knuckles are facing Ed's skin.

And then his knuckles stroke Ed's cheek gently.

Once. Soft.

Ed can't say anything.

Ed can't do anything.

He can't move.

He doesn't want to move.

Cameron's hand strokes all the way down Ed's cheek to his jaw.

Ed's eyes close. Cameron's hand is soft, gentle-

He wants to lean into it.

His cheek presses into it a little.

He-

Cameron's eyes are blue and brilliant, too, too close to his own.

"You shouldn't grind them" he says, knuckles still touching Ed's cheek, his voice low, almost husky. "It must hurt you."

Ed blinks.

"Oh" is all that comes out of his mouth faintly, because-

Oh-

He's-

Cameron's still touching him. Ed stares.

He can feel every line of Cameron's knuckles against his cheekbone. He can feel the graze of a rough edge of his nail.

He can feel-

Ed can feel his own heart, pounding and pounding and pounding.

Cameron's looking at him.

Cameron's pulling his hand away.

Ed holds himself still, heart thudding.

Pull away. Pull away. Pull away.

Don't. Don't-

Cameron's hand moves away. He looks at Ed.

Ed could count every one of his eyelashes, if he wanted to.

"Would you like to come to Oxfordshire this weekend?"

Ed blinks.

Then blinks again.

"What?"

* * *

Miliband's staring at him.

David doesn't blame him. He's staring at Miliband.

What?

What?

_What?_

What did he just-

Miliband's just staring at him.

David, though he doesn't know it, presses his hand a little closer to his side. "Would you-"

He clears his throat, his heart suddenly pounding. "Would you like to come to Oxfordshire this weekend?"

Why.

Why.

_Why-_

David doesn't-

He _wanted_ to.

That's the only reason he can grasp at for why on earth he just asked Miliband to come down and spend the weekend with them.

He _wanted-_

They've just been _screaming_ at each other.

Well.

Almost screaming.

They've just been _close-_

David's cheeks flame at that.

It's only then that he realises that Miliband hasn't given him an answer. He's just staring silently at him.

David steps back. Not that they're too close.

He just steps back.

Miliband blinks. His mouth seems to be working silently.

After a moment, he manages a "W-why?"

David blinks.

But-

It's fair.

But they've spent time with each other before.

But that was different.

Their kids have gone to each others' birthday parties.

That doesn't count.

They've done that with a lot of MPs' children.

And Ed stayed at Downing-

But David wasn't there.

And Samantha asked him.

That doesn't count, either.

And in France-

That was just because they _knew _each other.

And Christmas-

Dropping off his-

There were_ reasons._

This is just-

He just wanted to-

To ask Miliband round.

To spend time with-

"I don't know" he says, suddenly tired, and he steps back and away. "I just thought-"

_Just thought._

"I just thought-you might want to" he says, exhaustion suddenly creeping into his whole body, and he sinks down onto the bench, squirming a little over the flat cushions.

Miliband stares at him and then, to David's surprise, does the same.

David stares at him. Miliband's staring straight ahead, his fingers tapping furiously on the bench.

"I mean, I _can_" and Miliband's head whips round to glare at him almost defiantly. "I can. If you want me to."

David stares at him. "Do _you_ want to?"

Ed blinks. "Well-"

"Well, you don't _have _to-it's hardly an _obligation-"_

"I _do_ want to."

David stares at him. Miliband blushes.

"I-I mean, if _you_ don't want me to-" he blurts out too quickly, turning away, clearly about to scramble upright, and that's when David's hand grabs his arm and he says "Ed."

Miliband stills. They both sit there, neither of them looking at the other.

David's hand is still on his arm.

The moment they both glance back at each other, they both wriggle away, David lifting his hand as if he's been burnt.

They both sit there, each trying to avoid the other's eyes.

"I just thought-you might want to" David says a little stiffly, risking a glance at Miliband, whose hand is lying next to his knee on the cushion.

Miliband clears his throat. "Well. Um-"

"You don't _have to-"_

"I didn't th-say I didn't want to!"

Miliband blushes as he glares, but he glares at David, anyway.

David glares back. "Good."

"Good!"

They glare at each other.

David feels that odd twitch of something that could be amusement again.

He could laugh, but he doesn't. Instead, he just looks, and then says suddenly, "Look, I came in to see if you were all right, Miliband."

Miliband glares at him. "Well, I am."

He sniffs, and scrubs at his eyes.

"You hardly look it."

Miliband glares again. "Well, I am" he mutters again, but with less venom.

David just waits this time, knowing Miliband as he does.

Miliband stares stubbornly away, and then just meets his gaze with a glare. "I will be. All right?"

David opens his mouth, and whether to say yes or no, he isn't sure, but what comes out instead is this: "I don't want you to be alone."

He blinks, unsure himself at the words.

Miliband, though, outright stares at him, before turning away with a snort. "What do you mean?"

David glances around pointedly.

Ed sighs. "Maybe I want to be alone" he mutters, staring pointedly away. "Hmm?"

He looks back, sees David hasn't moved, and sighs.

David's mouth twitches. "You're a terrible liar, Miliband."

Miliband's mouth twitches, as though fighting a smile of his own, but he sighs again. "Who says I'm lying?"

"Your face."

David's finger taps Ed's nose before he can think about it. It makes both their hearts skip a beat.

David speaks too quickly. "Anyway. I was worried. You ran out-"

"I didn't _run-"_

David carries on, long-accustomed to Ed's contradictions. "I thought maybe something was wrong."

He waits for another denial or an outright instruction to leave.

Instead, Ed just stares straight ahead of him.

"I just-" He sighs. "Nothing."

"Something" David says, before he can stop himself.

Ed glares at him. David meets his eyes.

"I'm not going to laugh."

Ed arches an eyebrow.

"I've hardly laughed before, have I?"

Ed makes a disbelieving sound.

David sighs. "I didn't. I explained. In my office, when-"

He breaks off, feeling himself blush. He can tell even as he hastily glances away that Miliband's cheeks are tinged pink, too.

_When we ended up dancing together._

Maybe Ed speaks so quickly because he's not the only one trying not to remember. "I'm juth-st-"

He looks away. "Thinking about my th-speech."

"You sounded ill."

Miliband shifts a little.

"Juth-st-" He shrugs. "I don't know."

"Are you nervous?"

"_No."_ Miliband says it far too quickly for it to be true.

David tucks his hands under his legs. "You know, it's all right if you are-"

Miliband just snorts.

David looks at Miliband's hand, lying on the cushion, very near to his own.

David could just reach out, and-

David slides his hands away, presses them under his legs, and tries not to notice how long Ed's fingers are.

* * *

Ed has no idea why he's sitting here. He has no idea why he's talking to _Cameron_, of all people.

But Cameron's sitting there next to him. (His hand's far too close.)

Ed clears his throat. "I'm not nervouth-s" he says, a little louder than he means to. "I'm juth-st-"

He looks away, steeling his jaw a little. "I don't-thith one's juth-st-"

_It'll help rebrand. Make things more personal._

Ed's stomach turns over.

"A challenge" he manages, trying not to let his voice shake too much. "Becauthe-you know-"

He wraps his hands together, not letting his hand crawl too close to Cameron's.

_It'll just be-_

_We need to give them something personal-it won't affect Sara-_

Ed's stomach lurches.

He retches suddenly, nausea gripping his stomach.

Cameron's hand is warm on his arm. "Come here-" He steers Ed back into the cubicle before he can do anything, one hand already holding Ed's hair back. "Come-come here, it's all right-"

Ed retches, but nothing comes out. Nausea's wrenching his stomach and chest, and Cameron's voice is soft in his ear. "All right-all right-"

Ed gasps for breath, but David just holds onto him, his voice low, murmuring until Ed stops, his chest aching, and he slumps back against Cameron.

"All right-all right-" Cameron's steering him back, pulling him gently to the bench. He sits him down. "All right-take a breath-"

Cameron's hands are on his cheeks. He lifts Ed's head gently. His hands are warm.

Ed's eyes meet his. "I-"

His hands are so warm. God, they're so gentle.

David's eyes are on his. "You all right?"

Ed manages a nod. He's not sure, but-

Cameron's hand's on his cheek, and-

Ed doesn't feel bad.

Cameron's pulling something soft out of his pocket. He's wiping Ed's mouth with it, but his eyes more than anything, and Ed hadn't even realised they were wet.

"I can-" But Ed's hand shakes when he puts it up to the handkerchief.

David moves it back gently to his side, and just keeps wiping.

When he's finished, he touches Ed's shoulder once. "Do you need anything-"

Ed can't look at him. The words scratch out of his mouth. "I-"

David's hand's on his shoulder.

_Don't._

Ed's lip trembles.

_Don't be nice to me._

"You know you don't have to-"

"No. No-" Ed shakes his head frantically. "I can do it. The th-speech, it-I d-don't-"

He shakes.

Tom and Bob and-

There was no point.

There was no-

But what was the-

He shakes his head. "No. I've got to-I've-" He can't stop saying it.

"I can't-I can't-"

He can't stop saying and then David does something that makes him.

His arms come up and around Ed's shoulders. He pulls Ed's face into his neck.

He's hugging him.

David's hugging him.

Ed lets it happen.

Cameron's _hugging-_

He just-

It's an awkward half-hug-Ed's head's somewhere under David's chin and his hand's holding Cameron's arm, and Cameron's just holding onto him and-

But the thing is, Ed doesn't notice it.

Or he _does-_it's _odd_-but-

It doesn't feel _as-_

It just feels-

_David's _hugging him.

And then Cameron lets go a little too quickly. Ed blinks as Cameron sits up hastily, clearing his throat.

"Um-"

Ed's blushing.

Cameron's blushing, too.

Oh God.

That felt-

It was...

_Nice-_

"Well-" Cameron looks away. "I just-wanted to-you don't have to give the speech-"

He's speaking too fast.

Ed shakes his head, barely noticing he's doing it. "No. No, I want to-it's juth-st-"

_Why do I want to?_

_Is it because I want to?_

"You know." Cameron clears his throat. "You know-I didn't particularly like-when I gave speeches-talking-talking about-about, Ivan and-it was nerve-nerve-wracking-"

That makes Ed feel much, much worse.

"But-but you-"

_You knew why you were doing it._

He swallows.

He looks at Cameron. Cameron watches him. "I what?"

They look at each other.

Ed shakes his head. "Doethsn't matter."

They're sitting far too close. David's leg is touching Ed's, very lightly. And now Ed's noticed it, he can't stop noticing. Everywhere they touch is sending a strange, light, stirring sensation through him, a tickle of electricity that makes his heart beat faster.

David takes in a deep breath. "Of course, you don't have to keep the handkerchief. Not if you still think I'm an evil-"

"You're not evil" says Ed, without looking at him.

Cameron snorts.

"No-" Ed lets his head fall into his hands. "I _don't,_ Cameron. I don't think-look, I juth-st-right now, I-"

He doesn't finish the sentence. But Cameron's shoulder nudges against his own.

They sit there, Cameron's shoulder against his, until Ed's breathing more slowly, more evenly. The warmth still makes his heart beat faster, but there's something deeper there too, solid, like getting into bed on a winter's night.

When Ed speaks, his voice is quieter, almost a breath. "Yeah."

He's not looking, so he feels rather than sees Cameron's turn of the head. "Yeah what?"

Ed swallows, his heart beating so fast he can feel it. He can feel his cheeks burning. "I'll come."

A pause, then "To Oxfordshire?"

Ed nods, and his voice is almost a whisper. "I'll come to Oxfordshire this weekend."

He can't look at Cameron. His heart's beating too fast. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. His cheeks are so warm, he doesn't know why-

He feels Cameron smile. He can feel it rather than see it out of the corner of his eye.

"Good" is all Cameron says, but he can feel that smile.

It feels like something bright opening out in Ed's chest, a flower spreading out and fluttering happily. It makes his heart beat faster, his breath quicken. His cheeks are so warm, and he lowers his eyes, his cheeks aching, with the sudden smile he can't stop spreading over his own face, too, and Cameron's shoulder's still there, warm and strong against his own, and something else, too. Something that makes Ed keep his eyes down, but they're wide as they stare at his knees and his heart's thumping so fast he can feel each beat.

* * *

An hour later, Ed's standing at the podium.

"In the 1940s, both my parents fled the Nazis."

His fingers whiten a little on the edge of the podium. He takes a deep breath, and looks up and out at the audience.

"And several of my relatives-"

He swallows hard. His fingers whiten a little more.

His eyes flicker from one face to another in the audience-and then they settle on one. Cameron's watching him calmly, his face tilted to the side.

The long-honed reflex in Ed rears up, the sudden determination gripping him that Cameron will _not_ see him standing here, faltering like this, the sudden urge to just wipe that-that-

And also, something else-that same nervous brightness that had opened out in his chest when he saw Cameron's smile. That same deep solid comforting feeling when Cameron had put his arms round-

He straightens up. His voice is louder now.

"Including my grandfather-were killed in the Holocaust."

He swallows. He deliberately doesn't look at Cameron.

"My family's story is just one of millions of stories of men, women and children who were tragically murdered in the Holocaust, just because they were Jewish-"

He's not looking at Cameron now. He's looking out at the room. But his voice is stronger, as if that one look from Cameron was a drop of warmth, nourishing him from the inside.

"Or a member of other persecuted groups. I'm pleased to support the Holocaust Commission's recommendations-"

His eyes find Cameron's almost defiantly, braced for something. Something he isn't quite sure of.

But Cameron's smiling at him.

Not smiling smugly. Not the smooth, confident smile that Ed likes too much.

A smile like the one earlier. That makes Ed's heart quicken and his fingers tremble a little. That makes him smile, too.

His eyes find Cameron's. He can feel his own smile, a little tremulous but there, climbing to his own mouth, too.

"Because they will help ensure-" He says it to Cameron, his own smile hovering tentatively. "That the memories of those killed in the Holocaust live on."

Cameron smiles back at him. He doesn't nod, just smiles.

Ed watches him, his heart beating fast, and feels himself smile back.

* * *

"He's doing well, isn't he?" Nick murmurs suddenly at David's side.

David nods slowly, eyes still fixed on Ed on the stage, but his eyes flicker to Nick quickly. There's something less stilted in Nick's tone, his eyes fixed on David's conspiratorially-he sounds, in fact, like his usual self, not the slightly politer version that he'd given David earlier.

Nick's eyes flicker away and David feels a wrench of something-as though something's been pulled away that he didn't even realise was there.

He opens his mouth unthinkingly, considering saying something to Nick-something about what's going to happen in the next few months, something about his conversation with Lynton, something about the fact they don't know what there _is._

But Nick's already looking away again, at the stage.

For once, David follows his lead.

He sits and watches Ed speak, trying to ignore the urge to sink into the sound of his nasal voice with the edge of uncertainty that David thinks he and only a few others would notice. He watches, too aware of the warmth of Nick's elbow almost touching his at his side, and his face turned politely but resolutely away.

He watches, and he thinks of that moment again, in the Thatcher Room, last Monday. Lynton's eyes on his own face, his voice sharp, waiting.

_Clegg's seat._

His own silence for a moment, then slowly turning to the map on the iPad lying open on the table. His eyes roaming over the constituencies labelled in yellow, some marked with a blue dot.

"These are all the constituencies we could take from the Lib Dems?" he'd said, a casual blanket covering his tone.

"Yes." A similar casual tone from Lynton. They'd both known that every ear in the room was poised, sharp, waiting.

George's eyes had never left David's face.

David had let his eyes move slowly over the map, as though letting himself come to the conclusion of what they all knew he'd already decided.

(Not even decided, perhaps. Just known, deep down. Let himself realise.)

"They all look fine to me" he'd said slowly, deliberately. The room had waited, people drawing themselves up the slightest bit straighter. David had felt sweat bead under his arms in his shirt.

His finger had hovered over Nick's constituency, not quite touching, but able to if he wished. Able to reach out and grab it, fingers closing before anyone could stop them.

George's eyes had been fixed on his face. They hadn't moved at all.

"Yes, they're all fine-" His finger had circled slowly. "Except-"

There hadn't been much reaction in the room. The slightest straightening of backs, perhaps. The slightest incline of heads.

But everyone had known.

David's finger had stabbed down on the blob of yellow. "Except Sheffield Hallam. Let's go easy up there."

He sits, and listens to Ed speak, feeling Nick breathe at his side. He's aware of each movement of his hands, each time he folds his legs, the indentation of his fingers in the order of service, the way they've had to be aware of each other for the past five years.

He waits, aware of the way Nick and he had once believed each other about things, and knows that he could tell Nick. He could drop it in as an aside. A final joke in a conversation.

He could, but he doesn't. He sits still, folds his hands in his lap, looks straight up at Ed on the stage and listens to his voice, that David likes a little too well, and knows that Nick wouldn't believe him anyway.

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Bright Lights-Placebo-" _ _Cast your mind back to the days/When I pretend I was OK..I have to find a middle way/A better way of giving/So I haven't given up/But all my choices, my good luck/Appear to go and get me stuck/In an open prison"_

_Done All Wrong-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club _ _-"Done all wrong/Done me wrong/All the wrong I've done/I'm sure I'll live quite, quite long"_

_Dramamine-Modest Mouse _ _-"Look at your face like you're killed in a dream/And you think you've figured out everything/I think I know my geometry pretty damn well/You say what you need so you'll get more/If you could just milk it for everything/I've said what I said and you know what I mean/But I still can't focus on anything"_

_What You Know-Two Door Cinema Club _ _-"Maybe next year I'll have no time/To think about the questions to address/Am I the one to try to stop the fire?...Just remember I know/And I can tell just what you want/You don't want to be alone/You don't want to be alone/And I can't say it's what you know/But you've known it the whole time/Yeah, you've known it the whole time"_

_Stop This Song (Lovesick Melody)-Paramore _ _-"You say the sweetest things and I/Can't keep my heart from singing along to the sound of your song/My stupid feet keep moving to this 4/4 beat, I'm in time with you/To this 4/4 beat, I would die for you...I never let love in/So I could keep my heart from hurting..It creeps in like a spider/Can't be killed, although I try and try to/Well, can't you see I'm falling?/Don't wanna love you but I do/Won't someone stop this song?/I've gone too far to come back from here/But you don't have a clue/You don't know what you do to me/Can someone stop this song, so I won't sing along?/Your lovesick melody is gonna get the best of me tonight/But you won't get to me if I don't sing"_

_So Contagious-Acceptance _ _-"Oh no, this couldn't be more unexpected...Could this be out of line? Could this be out of line?/To say you're the only one breaking me down like this/You're the only one I would take a shot on/Keep me hanging on so contagiously"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milburn's comments:https://bit.ly/3b8PVK2  
Ed's comments at the hospital:https://bbc.in/394cG0t  
The prank call David received, while carrying Florence:https://bbc.in/2WDyaid  
The incident with Michael's watch:https://bit.ly/2Qy7wmY  
Ed's radio interview:https://bbc.in/2J9O4Zn  
The case Justine refers to which she lost:https://bit.ly/2J2Gfot  
Ed's trip to Israel, with laying the wreath and dialogue:https://bit.ly/3bcC4T4  
https://bbc.in/2UqAA0Q  
https://bit.ly/3deBNkm  
The complaints within Labour about it:http://dailym.ai/2J0rKl0  
The article David refers to about Nancy's secondary school:https://bit.ly/3bfRB4q  
Lady Margaret was their first choice, Grey Coat their second:https://bit.ly/33EtwC2  
Holland Park is a school David and Sam considered for Nancy but decided against. Michael and Sarah also considered it for Bea but decided against-but did send Will there:https://bit.ly/2xPKQrE  
https://bit.ly/33BwXcH  
http://dailym.ai/3bjfg4d  
Westminster Academy is another school that was suggested as an option:https://bit.ly/2whyw3j  
St Marylebone is another school that Dave and Sam considered for Nancy:https://bit.ly/396O2fx  
https://bit.ly/2wqeSC6  
http://dailym.ai/2J1hTvi  
Nick sending his sons to the Oratory (where three of Tony Blair's kids went):https://bbc.in/2QwwkvG  
https://bit.ly/2J5UtEY  
Nick stating he'd send his kids to private school if that was best:https://bit.ly/2Wy5kQ0  
Liberty attending St Paul's Girls' School and Luke attending St Paul's School:https://bit.ly/2xfDHR4  
http://dailym.ai/2WxiLQ8  
https://bit.ly/33Htfyc  
https://bit.ly/33zs2ZD  
David's choice of whether or not to target Nick's seat:https://bit.ly/2Wz6NWi  
The suicides David mentions were two high-profile cases of pupils at the school who took their own lives which were big news stories in the UK:https://bit.ly/2wtw09U


	14. Comedy Calculations, Oxfordshire Odysseys And Cloud Connotations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Ed isn't distracted, Nick doesn't know how many times he's wanted to slap someone, and Florence likes clouds."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr ](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask%22) .  
The quote references in this refer to Ed's speech, David's liking for chopping logs, his constituency home, and Florence's birth.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_ **Members' dining room, House Of Commons** _

_Curious place, Westminster. By day the press-or at least, large portions of it-compete to make Ed Miliband look nerdy, dangerous and unfit to be prime minister. By night here they are, dressed in black tie, sipping champagne and introducing their wives (or, albeit only occasionally in this male-dominated world, their husbands) to the guest of honour at the Westminster correspondents' dinner: none other than the Labour leader himself. The dinner is modelled on its glamorous, lavish, star-studded White House equivalent. Except that, as Ed observes wittily, the host, my BBC deputy James Landale, is not quite George Clooney and the guest speaker is no Obama. Politics barely features at these dos. They're a mixture of mutual back-slapping and teasing from people forced to spend inordinate amounts of time in each other's not always very appealing company. _

_Last year, it was the PM who spoke. Recalling a recent visit to China, during which I'd complained loudly that he and his Communist hosts were scared to take journalists' questions, he joked that he'd been delighted **"to accompany Nick Robinson on his trip to China."** This year James introduces Ed with a good-natured collection of jokes at his expense (bacon sandwiches, nerds, Rubik's cubes and forgotten speech lines all get a mention) and a nice self-deprecating pay-off. Looking ahead to the election debates, he notes that this may not be the last time Ed gets **"to stand next to an Old Etonian who's patronizing you."** (James bears lightly the burden of having gone to that school.)_

_Having shown that he's more than capable of laughing at himself, Ed turns characteristically serious. The real significance of this week, he says, is not the hundred days to the election, but the seventieth anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. He speaks emotionally about his discovery earlier this year that his grandfather died in a German concentration camp and recalls the small family candle-lighting ceremony the Milibands held in his memory. Few have seen him speak this way. Many look moved. I was filming with him in Israel just hours after he was handed the file that revealed his grandfather's fate. I recall him telling me that he would have to ring his mother to break the news to her before I asked him about it on camera. It's clear that he's been absorbing it ever since. It is a real irony that Ed is finally reconnecting with his Jewish roots just as the Jewish community at home have pretty much written him off._

_He ends with a skilful reminder that everyone in the room is, like it or not, seen as part of the Westminster establishment. **"We"** he tells his tormentors, **"are custodians of politics and its reputation."** As he sits down I look over and give him a thumbs-up._

_Last year, when David Cameron effortlessly teased and charmed the room, few, including a nervous-looking Ed Miliband, believed he could do the_ same._ Sensibly, he has focused instead on delivering a message that can't be repeated often enough, and one that we have always agreed on: the need for all of us, whatever our jobs, and whatever our views, to make the case that politics can and should be a force for good.-"Thursday 29th January 2015" Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Cameron had spent the day keeping up the bravado of a leader in waiting. There was an evocation of Lincoln as the media were informed that he had spent some hours chopping logs at his constituency home Dean Farm, a relatively modest country place, quiet and isolated in a tiny hamlet some ten miles from the centre of Witney. (What a contrast to Gordon Brown, who according to an inexplicably demeaning briefing to the Press Association had **"lamb stew for supper"** followed by** "a nap."** Samantha Cameron served up chilli con carne, less retro more metrosexual.)-Hung Together: The 2010 Election And The Coalition Government, Adam Boulton and Joey Jones_

_Cameron was chopping logs in Dean. It was polling day and, by convention, electioneering was over. There was nothing he could do but wait. As voters across the country made their way to the polls, he was savouring a brief moment of respite before his constituency count. He had spent the morning at Hilton's house in the nearby village of Asthall Leigh, swinging by with Samantha after casting his own vote in Witney. A minor ruckus had set him back a couple of hours-protestors on the roof of the polling station had unfurled a banner reading: **"Britons know your place. Vote Eton-vote Tory"-**but there had been no other drama. At Hilton's place, they had discussed how to play things if they fell just short of a majority. Those present-Osborne, Llewellyn, Coulson, Patrick McLoughlin, Stephen Gilbert (the party's head of field operations) and Kate Fall-agreed that Cameron could claim victory the following day if the Conservatives won a minimum of 300 to 310 seats. It would be less than the 326 required, but would be enough to patch something together.In a sign of their quiet optimism that they would scrape together more seats than Labour, they also touched up a provisional list of Cabinet appointments. Cameron then went home. As Samantha prepared a chilli con carne for dinner, he began tackling the stack of wood in the garden. Bored commentators wasted little time trying to interpret his choice of activity. Some suggested it was a last-ditch attempt to appear ordinary. Others thought he was simply taking out pent-up frustration on a chunk of tree. Cameron had previously spoken of how splitting logs helped him relax, so many concluded he was nervous. Legend has it that William Gladstone was felling a tree when he first heard the news that he was to become Prime Minister in 1868. He reportedly leaned back on his axe and declared, **"My mission is to pacify Ireland"** before returning to his labours.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Notwithstanding the size of the school, in Cameron's first term a quick familiarity would have been achieved among those he encountered. It might not have been apparent at the time, but many of these boys were to become friends for decades (quite a few he knew already, from Heatherdown and elsewhere.) In F year in Faulkner's house, for example, there were just nine other boys, at least half of whom can call themselves good friends of Cameron to this day. The names James Learmond, Simon Andreae, Roland Watson, Tom Goff, and "Toppo" Todhunter crop up throughout Cameron's life, as does that of Pete Czernin, in the same house but the year above..Cameron's friend James Fergusson remembers a conversation in which he discussed which boys in his year might emulate previous Etonians and go on to become Prime Minister. One boy, and Fergusson believes it was Tom Goff, Cameron's old friend from prep school, said he thought that, if anyone might, it would be Cameron. Asked about the exchange, Goff says: **"James may well be right but I'm afraid I have no recollection of it."**...His Heatherdown and Eton friends dominated (his stag night)-Charles "Toppo" Todhunter, Tom Goff, James Fergusson. But his political gang was well-represented too-Ed Vaizey, Michael Gove, Dean Godson and Steve Hilton.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Cameron's closest friends at Eton included "Toppo" Todhunter, Simon Andreae (whose twin Giles also became a close friend at Oxford), James Learmond, James Fergusson, Tom Goff and Ben Weatherall, who remain in close contact with the Prime Minister and fiercely loyal to their friend. (Tophunter and Goff were joint best men at his wedding.)....He was asked in the run-up to the 2015 election whether he **"loved"** Osborne. Failing to answer, he **"whooped with laughter", **saying simply that they were **"very good friends, as well as work colleagues."**When asked if he loved any of his other friends, however, he immediately replied in the affirmative, referring to those **"from way back....eleven or** twelve." He named Tom Goff, now a bloodstock agent in Newmarket, as his closest friend after Samantha. They talk on the phone most weeks, with Goff acting as a **"sort of taxi driver"** who rings him up with**"very frank....good, robust, strong, middle-of-the-road Conservative views."** Others in this very elite category include "Toppo" Todhunter, Dom Loehnis and Giles Andreae. Along with family, these are the only people who actually call him Dave.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_For the Cameroon inner circle, this day of patronage and power distribution was tinged with a sense of irrevocable change. All political cohorts are gangs, with a social face as well as an ideological purpose: the architects of New Labour had gone on holiday together and plotted in French and Tuscan villas. But the Cameroons existed as a social set even before they had acquired a clear political purpose. Cameron, (Steve) Hilton, Kate Fall, (Michael) Gove, Ed Vaizey (who would shortly be appointed Culture Minister), Nicholas Boles (the leading moderniser and newly elected MP for Grantham and Stamford) and a handful of others had been a gang first, a caucus second. They went on holiday together, were godparents to one another’s children and-that greatest of social bonds-shared childcare._

_The gang was porous: some lost touch, others were recruited to its social round. Osborne, a few years younger than the core Cameroons, was a natural addition. His (then) wife, the author Frances Osborne, was close to Simone Finn (nee Kubes), Gove’s girlfriend at Oxford and for several years thereafter. Finn would soon be advising Francis Maude at the Cabinet Office. She was also good friends with Gove’s wife, Sarah Vine, the Times journalist, who, in turn, was close to Samantha Cameron, helping to look after her children on election night…_

_Like the comprehensive-educated (William) Hague, Gove was sometimes a much-needed ambassador from outside the west London Tory demi-monde. Like Hilton, he enjoyed dual citizenship, firmly rooted in his past but happily assimilated to the world that the late Frank Johnson, former editor of The Spectator and Telegraph sketch writer, had christened “the Hill.” He had stepped out for several years with Simone Kubes (later Finn), who became a Special Adviser to Francis Maude, was a longtime friend of Kate Fall and had known Frances Howell long before George Osborne met and proposed to her. Gove’s wife, Sarah Vine, whom he had met at The Times, was independently close to Kubes/Finn and to Sam Cameron. Three degrees of separation were rarely necessary, let alone six…Gove and his wife performed a function in the Coalition as a couple that was completely distinct from their individual roles as a Cabinet minister and a newspaper columnist.** “Michael and Sarah are the couple the Camerons can hang out with and talk shop or not talk shop with. They help out with the kids, they are great company.”****-**In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D’Ancona_

_Samantha has her own ambitions, of course, but they are not in politics. Halfway through her time in No. 10, she starts preparing for her lifetime dream, to launch her own clothes label. She busily tries out her new designs in the upstairs flat. **"You can be my standard size-8 model"** she says cheerily, pinning me into her latest dress.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Sam was very busy with the fashion business she was about to launch. She had been working hard for the past year, learning to sew and to cut patterns, and filling our dining room with dressmakers' dummies and fabrics. I would come up to the flat to find one friend or another standing on the kitchen table in Sam's latest creation as she fiddled with the hem. Life was moving on. There would be a new business, a new prime minister, a new path for the country.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_David Cameron is in his house in Oxfordshire. **"The Manor"** was how one paper described it recently. That was the sort of stuff that always drove Samantha insane. **"It's a house"** she would fume. **"A bloody house. They make it sound like we live in a mansion."**_

_It isn't a mansion. Although it does have several bedrooms. And quite a large garden. And a small conservatory. So what can he do? Get someone to ring them up and put them to rights? **"The PM lives in an ordinary house in his constituency."** And then wake up to a picture of some family of eight from Trafford who have just been thrown out of their cramped council flat by Iain Duncan Smith and his damned Bedroom Tax? So he's sitting there in his ordinary house that isn't a mansion.-One Minute To Ten: Cameron, Miliband And Clegg: Three Men, One Ambition, And The Price Of Power, Dan Hodges_

_It was a bright, crisp day at the beginning of March and the Cameron constituency home in Dean, near Chipping Norton, in Oxfordshire, looked rather modest in the rain. Hardly a country pile, their house was relatively small, sitting in a tiny garden full of lawn chairs, a kids' wigwam and the detritus of family living. Inside-light was pouring into the kitchen-it was full of the same sort of stuff that clutters up many such homes, including a fashionable but fairly useless Dualit toaster, a flashy but probably soon to be discarded coffee machine, the same scrubbed wooden work surfaces and the same much-thumbed Jamie Oliver cookbooks. There was a fancy Maytag fridge freezer, but then there was also the usual random assortment of cereal boxes-Cheerios, Weetabix, Shredded Wheat and all the rest. The Camerons' kitchen could be described as the most generic middle-class-by-numbers kitchen in Britain, a kitchen most people would instantly recognize, an open-plan area full of garlic-stained work surfaces, old wine bottles and yellowing butter on a breakfast table under a pale halogen wash. There was the white perforated kitchen roll, the John Lewis kettle, the Bodum cafetiere, the Fairy Liquid, the sticky jars of Marmite, the Waitrose marmalade and the plastic jar of sea salt. There were also scuffed carpets and comfy sofas-furniture meant for sitting in, not staring at. His downstairs loo was adorned with framed covers of Private Eye and the Spectator (the ones featuring him) plus a cartoon from Viz in which he appeared (in his London home he had a framed Sun front cover, featuring Cameron standing in front of a gesticulating hoodie with the headline I SUPPOSE A HUG IS OUT OF THE QUESTION). The porch was a typical mess of dirty Wellington boots, Barbour jackets, a Hackett raincoat, an old Dunhill jacket, children's jackets, children's coats and children's hats. Two Marks & Spencer's scarves hung on a hook. There was kids' clutter simply everywhere, just like every family home, with Charlie and Lola books lying on a pile of women's magazines, odd socks drying on a radiator, newspapers stacked by the back door. There was the odd blue Smythson box, but mainly there were a lot of toys in primary-coloured plastic. On their side of their neighbour's pristine grass verge borders was Cameron's vegetable patch, which had recently been profiled in a Sunday newspaper. **"I love my vegetable garden"** he'd said, a few months earlier. **"It's a really nice place to go and sit and contemplate the world. I don't grow vegetables out of the kindness of my heart. I enjoy it, I like eating them, I'm greedy, I love cooking, and it's a good way to unwind."**_

_The living room looked like a bookshop and there was an overspill on one of the window-sills-mainly political biographies and popular novels. That day's Daily Mail was folded on top, bathed in sunlight. This was a home rather than simply a house, a home that looked refreshingly lived in, a home that looked strangely normal. Intriguingly, the house didn't look like the home of a politician, and-judging by the somewhat ordered domestic chaos and the cultural detritus-could just as easily have been the home of a doctor, lawyer, a farmer or a vet.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_Our daughter arrived an hour later, weighing six pounds one ounce-and for the fourth and final time I had that amazing feeling of being the first person to hold the new baby, looking back at the team of midwives, doctors, nurses and anaesthetists who'd helped to bring this tiny, precious girl into our lives. There followed some of the happiest days of my life. I went back to the holiday home to tell the other children the news, and for the next couple of days, drove between Trebetherick, where we were staying, and the hospital in Truro. When Samantha and the baby were ready to leave, we were completely unprepared for the arrival of a baby. No cot. No pram. No bottles. No baby clothes. _

_Nancy, who had inherited her mother's genius for design, had found a cardboard box, decorated it in tinsel and crepe paper and put a pillow inside as a mattress. This was where our new daughter spent her first days-indeed weeks, as it was so successful that we continued to use it when we returned home to Downing Street.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_The next few days before the funeral were a blur. At least we had to focus on the songs and poems we wanted to remember him by. A friend of Sam's called Damian Katkhuda, who had a band called Obi, sang and played his guitar in St Nicholas church, Chadlington. It was a beautiful service, with our closest friends and family around us. But there was nothing but darkness for us..._

_Ivan lies buried opposite the church in Chadlington. We take the children there, and tell him how things are going and how much we still miss him. Sam found an inscription from Wordsworth for the headstone that sums up so much of what we feel: _

_**"I loved the Boy with the utmost love of which my soul is capable, and he is taken from me-yet in the agony of my spirit in surrendering such a treasure I feel a thousand times richer than if I had never possessed it."**-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_**I left one of my children in the care of Richard Desmond-pornographer, owner of the Daily Express. Because what happened is I went to-this is a genuinely true story-so I went to Hampstead Heath for a walk with my children-it must have been, I think-pretty sure it was before the general election of 2015-and-so they must have been three and five, four and six-and they were both on their bikes-and one of them rode off. And then the other one-and I-I couldn't see him-the older one, Daniel, I think, rode off-and I was sort of-had run into this guy in a woolly hat with some dogs, who turned out to be Richard Desmond, who engaged me in conversation-and as he was engaging me in conversation, one of them rode off. So I was like, "Look, I'm sorry, I've got to go and find Daniel-you're going to have to look after Sam!" So I left Sam in the care of Richard Desmond. I mean, he sort of lived to tell the tale, but you know-I don't think it's perfect parenting.**-Ed Miliband, speaking about leaving his son with Richard Desmond in 2018_

* * *

_Dakin: I'm beginning to like him more._

_Posner: Who? Me?_

_Dakin: Irwin. Though he hates me._

_ -The History Boys (2006) _

_Therese: I can't explain it. I just..._

_Richard: What? You got one hell of a crush on this woman is what. You're like a schoolgirl._

_Therese: I do not. I just like her, is all. I'm fond of anyone I can really talk to._

_-Carol (2015)_

_""It is always having your own way that has made you so queer" Mary went on, thinking aloud._

_Colin turned his head, frowning. "Am I queer?" he demanded._

_"Yes" answered Mary. "Very. But you needn't be cross" she answered impartially. "Because so am I queer.""-The Secret Garden , Frances Hodgson Burnett_

* * *

Ed's rehearsing in his head exactly how he's going to carry the wreath and bend to lower it at the statue-keep his feet a few inches apart, _don't_ let them get mixed up with each other-when a hand grabs his side.

"Haven't seen hide nor hair of you this week, Miliband."

"Ah!" Ed jumps, turns a furious gaze on Cameron, who's smirking, his hand having scrabbled into the soft part of Ed's waist, where he's more than slightly ticklish. "What the hell were you thinking, Cameron?" Neither of them quite know then that this is something he'll say to David many times over the years, with varying degrees of fondness.

David laughs. "What the hell were _you _thinking?" And he actually elbows Ed a little as he moves to scan the room for their seats. "Shocked, Mr Miliband. That kind of language in a chapel-"

Ed feels himself blush, to his own consternation. "I-I'm th-sure that Th-Sir Winth-ston would hardly-"

They're standing in St Mary's Undercroft Chapel under the Palace of Westminster. The wreaths will be secreted somewhere else, waiting to be brought out into the lobby to be laid at the feet of the statue of Sir Winston Churchill, who'll be half-glowering down at them all. It's years since he was buried and, glancing around, Ed can see, with a strange jolt, the sight of three little children's heads, one blond and two dark, bent together in the front row.

David follows his gaze. "His great-grandkids."

"What?"

"Churchill's great-grandkids. The children. Nicholas is their grandfather." And sure enough, Ed sees Nicholas then, crouched in front of the three children, one of the dark-haired little girls rubbing her hands over his balding head affectionately.

"The little boy's John Winston" David tells him. "And the girls are-Iona and Christabel, I think-anyway, you didn't answer my question."

Ed blinks. "Well. That'th only fair, given the amount of time-th-s _you-_anyway, what question was that?"

David winks. "Hadn't asked it yet. But you just admitted you'd try not to answer it."

Ed rolls his eyes. "For God'th-s sake, Cameron."

"I was going to say-" and Cameron leans a little closer, voice lowering in a way that stirs the hairs on the back of Ed's neck. "Don't you know it's rather rude to agree to go to Oxfordshire with someone and then ignore them for the rest of the week?"

Ed feels the heat creep up his neck. "Ah-"

Cameron arches an eyebrow, that smile still playing around his mouth, waiting.

It's not that Ed's been _trying_ to avoid Cameron. In fact, he'd looked around for him worriedly last night, without even realising what he was doing.

"Hey." Rachel had tapped his arm. "Stop looking around. It makes you look nervous."

"Oh." Ed had immediately made a concerted effort to look down at his shoes.

Rachel had yanked his chin up. "No. Makes you look _more_ nervous."

"Right." Ed had settled on staring straight ahead, trying not to picture the expression on his own face. It had been then that it had registered with a sudden jolt that he hadn't seen Cameron, and then, that that was who he'd been looking for.

Perhaps it had been that which made it a little harder to smile at Justine when she came up to peck him on the cheek. His hand had nearly darted up to rub at his skin automatically.

It had only just then occurred to him that he'd watched Cameron give his speech last year.

He'd been sitting there, listening to Cameron make some joke about Robinson and China, and then he'd looked down at Ed. It had been a ghost of a second, but Cameron's eye had flickered in a quick wink. Ed had felt something, something warm, bloom in his chest.

He'd tried to push it down, scowling at the table, and when he'd risked a glance up through his eyelashes, he'd caught Cameron smirking, dimples denting his cheeks.

That was last year, though. Though, then again, after Wednesday's PMQs, he hadn't felt much like talking to Cameron at all.

"Well, I'm-I'm very glad the Honourable Gentleman has mentioned the NHS-" Cameron had been looking away from him, carefully taking in the whole Commons. "Because I think before we go any further, he needs to clear something up."

Ed's heart had sunk. And that old surge of fury was back in his chest that-_It doesn't count, it's just a phrase, it doesn't mean-_

"He has now been asked _nine times-"_ Cameron stabbed his finger on the words. "Whether he made the disgraceful remarks about weaponising the NHS-"

The jeers had begun rising around them, and all Ed had been able to do was shake his head, mutter something to Balls without even grasping the words.

"Now, I think everyone in this House-and, I suspect, everyone in this country-"

Ed had hated Cameron, then. Hated him in a sudden, childish rush, that had curled his hands into fists, and then, on the tail end of it, had been the sudden thought-_He was hugging me less than twenty-four hours ago._

"Knows he made those remarks-" Cameron still wasn't looking at him. "So he should_ get up_ at that dispatch box-"

His finger stabbed once at Ed.

"He should _apologise_ for this _appalling_ remark, and then we can take this debate forward-"

Cameron had already been sitting down as the noise rose around them, and even as Ed had been standing up, one thought had grasped at him suddenly, sharply: _He's won._

He'd shoved it away again immediately, but even as he'd been shoving out his own reply-_The only person who should be apologising is this Prime Minith-ster-_it had reared again, perhaps making his voice louder, more frantic-

(more desperate)

(_no)_

_He's won._

"Why did he break his promith-ses?"

_He's won._

"I-i-it's very simple, Mr Speaker-" Cameron had been leaning on the dispatch box, not even _looking_ at him. "One of the most respected political journalists in Britain-Nick Robinson, the Political Editor of the BBC-"

Ed had felt everything squeeze tightly in his stomach.

"Said this-and I'm going to quote it, however long it takes, Mr Speaker-"

The edge of smugness to the jibe sent a bolt of something hot and furious through Ed's chest.

(Cameron had been wearing his glasses. The sight had sent an odd jolt through Ed's chest, quite unlike the other sensations.)

_"A phrase the Labour leader uses in private is that he wants to-_and I quote-_weaponise the NHS for politics!"_

All Ed had been able to do was shake his head.

Harriet, next to him, had been very still, her eyes not moving from Cameron. Balls was shaking his head, but Ed couldn't look at him.

He just kept shaking his own.

_He's won._

"Now, that is one of the most respected journalists in our _country-"_ Cameron had been leaning on the box again. "Will he now get to that dispatch box-"

Cameron had pointed at him without even looking. Like he was someone Cameron didn't even know.

"And _apologise_ for that appalling remark?"

_He's won._

"This is a ridiculouth-this is a ridiculouth smokescreen from a Prime Minith-ster running from his record on the NHS-"

They weren't listening. They weren't listening. And it wasn't _fair,_ it _wasn't_, he was _right-_

_He's won._

When he heard Cameron's voice in that smooth drawl-"Let me tell him my record on the NHS"-he knows Cameron's hearing it, too, and in that moment, he hated.

Ed isn't sure if it was Cameron he hated or if it was Cameron he'd wanted to hate, but he'd hated.

And then Cameron had said "But people rightly want to know what his motives are when it comes to the NHS-" and Ed's head had jerked up then, his heart pounding, Cameron glaring, pointing his glasses at him.

"Now, if his motives are that he cares about this great national institution, then fine-" Cameron's face was flushed, spitting out the words faster, but somehow, it worked-

It worked with _him._

"But he told the editor of the political-the Political Editor of the BBC he wanted to weaponise the NHS, so I ask him again-"

And Cameron had been glaring straight at him, then. Glaring across the dispatch box, glaring straight at Ed.

Their eyes had locked, and Ed had almost flinched, because the-

The look in Cameron's-

The look in Cameron's eyes was like a physical blow.

_And everyone watching will notice that, too._

"_Get up there _and _withdraw!"_ Cameron's voice had barked out at him, and maybe it had been that thought-_everyone else will see that, too-_and maybe it was the sheer command of Cameron's tone-but Ed had almost scrambled upright, their eyes locking together, and Ed's whole body had jolted as their gazes met, because he-

"I'll tell him what my-" His voice had been too weak, which had made him even angrier. "I'll tell him what my motive is-it's to rescue the National Health Service-"

Cameron wasn't looking at him anymore. When had that happened?

"From this Tory government!"

Cameron wasn't looking. Somehow, that made fury wrestle in Ed's chest, leaving his hands clenching, wanting to smash that composure, to shake it to pieces-

"This is a man who-" The unfairness of it had been bubbling over in his voice. "This is a man who has a war on Wales-and frankly, frankly-"

_He's won._

Fury had gripped and thrust the words louder, wilder.

"And is using the Welsh NHS as political propaganda-"

The Tory benches had collapsed into hysteria. Hammond was jabbing his glasses at him. Ed had been so bitterly angry, he'd almost felt sick with it.

"This is a man who-who-"

He'd barely heard Bercow's call for order, barely heard his rebuke to them all-all he'd known was breathing hard and his heart pounding, and his voice weak, faltering when he stood up again-"Thith-s is a Prime Minister who is in a hole on the NHS-" because Cameron had already made his point, and that's what they'd lead with, that's all anyone would know-

"Let me answer that very directly-" Cameron had just looked faintly amused by the sardonic cheers from Ed's backbenchers.

"The NHS-the NHS in the West Midlands-without any instruction from the Department Of Health, without any instruction from ministers-issued a statement about major incidents-"

Ed had felt sick, then.

"The head of NHS England was asked about it this morning, and she said this-_"I haven't been under any political pressure. This is a document that was issued in the West Midlands!""_

_He's won._

_He's won._

A chorus of _"Aaaahs!"_ rises up from the Tory benches.

_He's won._

"What a contrast-" and Ed had felt himself stiffen slightly, look up. Cameron hadn't been looking at him, but an edge of smugness had curled the words-as though he knew Ed was looking.

As though he wanted him to see.

"Between the operational managers of the NHS, and the man-" Cameron's finger jabbed at him, hard. "Who wants to _weaponise_ the NHS!"

_I hate you._

_I hate you for this._

_I hate you._

"Now, the Right Honourable Member-he mentioned Wales-" That note of false surprise had entered Cameron's voice. "He criticised me a moment ago for mentioning Wales-he seems to have forgotten that yesterday, _he _said this to the BBC-he said this, and let me quote-"

(Cameron's glasses look good when he pushes them on like that)

(Don't notice that)

"He said this-_"It is right to look at problems in Wales and to compare."_ That is what he said yesterday!"

Ed clutched his papers, his knuckles whitening. _You-you-_

Cameron was reciting statistics and Ed couldn't help but picture those glasses again. The way Cameron holds them, pointing at him.

"Now, let's look at what's happened today in Wales-the Welsh Ambulance Service statistics have come out and they are the _worst ever on record_-"

A chorus of _Aaaahs._

"Just 42% of emergency calls are answered in time, compared with 70% in England-so will he now admit-will he now admit that Labour's catastrophic cuts and mismanagement in Wales have cost the NHS dear?"

_You-you-_

"Mr Speaker-the last time _he _was in charge for Wal-in Wales-" It had burst out of him, louder, indignant at the injustice of it-"People were waiting _two years _for an operation! That is the comparison with what was happening-now he has, everyone will have heard-"

They were shouting again.

"Everyone will have heard he did not answer the question-he did not answer the question about what is happening in the NHS in England-this is what the head of operations at one NHS hospital says, and I quote-"This is the in-enhanced criteria that has been introduced by NHS in England to stop trus-thts from calling a major incident-"

He curses the lisp.

"The whistleblower says the hospital's hands are being tied-now, the Prime Minister says they're not-who does he think people will believe?"

His voice was too loud. Cameron's was too smooth.

"P-people will _believe_ the head of NHS England, who said this very clearly this morning-"

Ed had fumed, then. He'd fumed, because Cameron had held this back, of course he'd held this back, the way he always does-

_"Local hospitals continue to have responsibility for deciding whether to call major incidents!"_

Ed had wanted to shake him.

He'd wanted to-

"It's perfectly clear what is happening, Mr Speaker-" Cameron had been smiling at his own backbenchers. "He's clasping at straws, because he's in a desperate mess on the NHS-"

The cheers from Cameron's benches were almost drowning him out.

"He talks about Wales-here's the record-"

Ed had wanted to shake him. He'd really wanted to.

"Per head of the population, 10 times more people in Wales on a waiting list for an operation-"

Cameron looked round at each one.

"Nearly twice as many ambulances failing to meet those urgent calls-almost _twice_ as many people waiting for more than _four hours_ for A&E-"

Cameron looked up. "That is what is happening in the NHS in Wales, because Labour ministers cut its' budget-but the reason-the reason he's in such a mess on the NHS is this-"

With a jolt, Ed had noticed Cameron's parting. It was neat, made his chestnut hair look thicker, fluffier.

It was nice.

Underneath the fury, something had flipped pleasantly in Ed's stomach.

"A week ago-a week ago, the Shadow Chancellor said that every penny from their new homes tax will go into the NHS-"

Ed had glared at him. Balls was saying something, but Ed couldn't hear over the roaring in his own ears.

"Yesterday, the leader of the Labour Party said he had a plan to pay down the deficit with _"tax changes like the mansion tax we've announced!"_"

Ed had almost snarled. Because Cameron was just-

He'd just seized on one thing. One quote and _twisted_ it-

Ed had to smile. That was all he could do.

"So there we have it-" Cameron was looking around. "99 days to go until the election, and they can't even have a sensible policy on the NHS-"

Ed had snarled. "He's pathetic" he'd said to Balls, but it was drowned out under the tide of cheers from the Tories, and Alastair's voice in his head-_The economy._

He didn't need Alastair to tell him what the subtle message was.

No one else did, either

"What a completely _useless_ Opposition!" Cameron had spat out and Ed had almost kicked himself upright.

"Nin-ninety nine days-ninety nine days to kick out a Prime Minister who has broken all his promises on the National Health Service-" His voice had been weaker, quavering, but the shouts of his backbenchers had made up for it. "And today's revelation shows once again the NHS under him is in crisis and under strain-"

Cameron had just sighed, as though Ed's points were so beneath him it was barely worth responding to them. It had sharpened Ed's words even more.

"It's a crisis of his making-on his watch, and that's why nobody will trust him with the NHS ever again!"

His words had fallen weaker then, but he'd sat down, shaking with the fact that Cameron hadn't looked at-

_Look at me!_

Cameron had got up slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Wh-what a contrast, Mr Speaker-this government dealing with the unions to stop the l-the action in the NHS-a Labour Party _weaponising_ the NHS! That is what everyone can see-"

Ed's fingers had curled into his papers.

"He talks about what has happened this week-we've seen Labour casting around for a coalition with the SNP, a coalition with Sinn Fein-"

Ed had had to laugh. He'd had to, because he didn't know what else to do.

"The first time in Britain you've had people who want to _break up_ Britain or_ bankrupt_ Britain-what a _useless shower."_

Cameron had sat down, Mr Speaker calling "Mr Stephen Gilbert-", and Ed had made himself keep laughing. He'd stared at Cameron across the box, willing him to look up.

_I don't care. See? I don't care._

Cameron hadn't. Instead, he'd kept talking to Osborne and the others. As if he hadn't even noticed Ed was there.

It had stuck in Ed's chest. And it grated, even as he forced his eyes back down to his notes, and tried not to notice his own hands trembling.

Ed hadn't felt like talking to Cameron at all afterwards.

And then, to his own irritation last night, he'd found himself scanning the room under his eyelashes once again, for Cameron.

He hadn't been there, of course, and Ed had told himself it should be _of course._

But now, he thinks, his speech went well-and he holds onto that with a fierce stab of pride. It had gone well.

He can do it. He _can._

He'd even been able to use the story about the park-

No. No. Ed catches hold of his feelings tightly. No. Not _use._

That sounds bad. Wrong.

He just-adapted it.

And that's fine.

_(Cameron's_ always talking about _his_ children.)

(But his children weren't crying.)

_Now Daniel was learning to ride a bike, Sam was on his scooter. And I met another man with a large dog. It was really odd actually, because he stopped me, and he started talking to me quite intensely about politics, the weather, Europe, statins, Princess Diana-I thought to myself, hang on a minute, I know you, you're Richard Desmond._

The room had been laughing.

Daniel's face, flushed and crumpled with tears.

_This is actually a true story. Justine, I've hidden it from you for reasons that will become obvious._

Justine had been laughing. Of course she had, everyone was-she was meant to-

_For those of you that don't know, Richard is actually quite an intense guy. He talked at me for about 10 minutes and I looked round and Sam was still there but Daniel was nowhere to be seen. So I panicked and I said to Sam "Where's Daniel?"-he said "I don't know."_

It had been her idea, partly. Well-Stewart's, too.

_Keep talking about the kids. People always like the personal touch._

And Justine had suggested talking about the park.

_I said "Well, we've got to find him" and Sam, being a Miliband, said "No, I'm staying here."And suddenly I realised I faced a hideous dilemma-leave Sam alone on his own at the age of four in the park-or ask Richard Desmond for childcare._

"I mean, you'd bumped into Richard" she'd said, with those wide eyes. "You could turn it into a joke. Makes you look more personable-"

Ed had hated that, suddenly. That she knew that. That that was the first thing she'd thought of.

_Now David Cameron may have left his daughter in the pub._

Something had stabbed in his ribs as he'd said that.

_But everyone can agree I did something far worse that afternoon. And now Sam's worried about house prices and threatening to vote for UKIP._

They'd laughed. Ed had made himself laugh, too. His mouth had ached.

"But-that day-" Ed had paused, staring at the cursor flashing on the screen, at the laptop's page, waiting for him to fill it with reasons, funny, smart reasons-reasons he should be Prime Minister and not Cameron.

"Daniel was upset. You know?"

_You were talking with the man!_

He'd raised an eyebrow, willing her to remember. "He cried?"

"Oh yeah. That day." Justine had shrugged. "Don't worry." She'd turned those large, pale eyes on him, and a moment later Ed had turned too quickly back to the laptop screen. He'd tried not to flinch. He'd tried not to feel that something about that shouldn't be so easy. Something about that shouldn't be as easy as the shrug Justine gave before she said "Just don't mention that bit, then."

Now, watching Cameron watch him, Ed feels a surge of confusion.

"It's fine if you don't want to come."

Cameron says it gently.

Ed's head snaps up. "What?"

"It's fine. If you don't want to-"

"No! No, I want to come-"

He does, he realises with a sudden jolt. He wants to go.

Badly.

Shaking his head at that, he peeks up at David.

"I haven't been avoiding you" he tells him. "N-not deliberately-I'm juth-st-"

_Confused._

David's blue eyes crinkle. "Just?"

_You confuse me._

"Just" he says, feeling stupid. "Juth-st-"

Cameron grins at him. Ed tries not to grin back.

"Well" Cameron says, as if this is a perfectly usual conversation. "If you want to come tomorrow, you can come anytime."

"I-it'll juth-st be me" Ed says warningly. "And the kids-"

"Fine-" Cameron's already pulling out a pen. "Here, have you got any directions-"

"Oh-" Ed fumbles in his pocket for his phone, but shakes his head-they're in a chapel, after all.

"Here." David nods, indicating something. Ed glances down at his hand, puzzled.

Cameron's mouth twitches in a quick grin, and then his hand comes out and grabs Ed's, warm and strong.

Ed's too surprised to do anything, but Cameron just turns his hand over and begins to scribble a number down.

His hand is warm. Ed is very aware of that, and the warmth in his own cheeks. His heart is suddenly beating so fast that it's almost a tingling sensation in his chest. The nib of the pen tickles Ed's skin. His eyes skitter to Cameron's face, and then away in a second, before he can see anything but the slight crease of Cameron's brow, the blue of his eyes.

"There-" and Ed becomes aware that he's breathing a little too fast, and when Cameron smiles at him, something melts and swoops in Ed's chest.

Cameron's fingers take his own then, very gently, and fold them over the words in a flutter of movement. "So you won't get lost."

"Oh." Ed manages a smile. "Um-thankth-"

He's like this. Already, after Cameron-

After PMQs-

Ed stares at him, perplexed, that tangled mess of feelings pulling at each other in his chest again.

_How do you-_

"Oh, and if you want to stay over, we've got plenty of spare rooms" Cameron says, as if this is the sort of casual remark anyone might make.

Ed splutters. "W-what?"

His heart's thumping. His palms are suddenly damp.

Cameron gives him an odd look. "Just that it might be a long journey-there and back in one day. We've got a few spare rooms-option's there." He shrugs, still looking confused.

Oh. Ed realises.

"Oh."

It didn't mean anything. Cameron was just offering.

He's surprised by the twinge of something like disappointment he feels.

"Um-" Frantically, he tries to unscramble his thoughts. "Um-yeah-that-that might be-"

He trails off because Cameron's face just-

Lights up.

It really does.

The eyes crease. The smile-David's smile-widens.

Ed feels something open out in his chest, something bright and beaming-and-

"Shall we-" Cameron gestures to the seats, and Ed has to shake his head a little to clear the daze.

And then PMQs stabs back into his head.

For God's sake, why can't he _remember-_

Ed curses himself.

* * *

David is careful not to mention the speech. Then again, it's not as though he heard it.

It had been Samantha who'd suggested he go up and speak to him.

"You dragged me down here" she'd said, swinging her legs with a grin, as she sipped the glass of wine she'd demanded as compensation. "We're not even listening to the bloody speech."

"I know" David had said, letting his foot kick hers' gently as she swung her legs. "I just-"

He'd shrugged. Samantha had been playing with his hand, bored. "So you've dragged me to the Strangers bar for a speech we're not even going to go into."

David had considered. "That's about the size of it, yeah."

Samantha had kicked him again.

"How are you even going to know what he said?" she'd asked, several minutes of good-natured bickering later, and one demanded second glass of wine promptly ordered. "You haven't bloody got someone there reporting back to you, have you?"

"No. 'Course not."

There had been, at that moment, a strange scuffling from round the other side of the bar. Samantha had peered over curiously.

Lawrence's head had popped up, hair dishevelled, clutching his phone triumphantly like a dying man. "I got out without anyone seeing me" he'd hissed, with the air of an injured war hero crawling out of a battlefield.

Several minutes later, with Samantha still sniggering, she'd taken a sip of the wine, a cocktail now also meekly ordered, in line with a careful and specific request. (David had known all too well Samantha wouldn't hesitate to count the cherries.)

"I'm surprised Justine's there" she'd said, with a slight frown.

"How come?"

Sam had shrugged. "Don't know. Just-wouldn't have thought-I don't know-just from what Frances says-"

"I thought she and Frances were friends?"

Samantha had shrugged again. "They are. But-" She'd tilted her head. "I don't know. You can be friends with someone, really good friends, and still have-reservations, I guess."

David had frowned. Samantha had looked at him. "Well. You were friends with, weren't you?"

David rolls his eyes. "They'll bring back those stories if they hear you saying that" he says warningly, taking a sip of his own beer. "Saying you were one of-I don't know, Blair's Babes, or whatever it was."

Samantha had drawn a hand across her own throat. "Nah. Ed's not here to tell people."

David had jumped a little, before he'd realised she meant one of _their_ Eds.

"Still" Samantha had said, as though answering David's question before he'd asked it. "I meant a bit more-or Frances, Frances meant more than-you know, different politics, political beliefs, whatever. It was something-more."

David had looked more closely at her, then. Samantha had been staring down into her glass of wine, a slight frown creasing her brow. David had watched. "What-"

Before he could finish the question, Lawrence had touched his shoulder. The doors were opening, people starting to spill in.

"Come on." David had grabbed Samantha's arm. Samantha had spluttered indignantly. "I'm finishing my drink!"

"Take the glass, I'll pay for it later-go, go, go!"

And they'd run, Samantha defiantly gulping from her glass as she ducked down, still giggling slightly, as Lawrence jumped and weaved about, trying to get in the way of as many people as possible, at least until they'd reached the doorway of the bar, where Samantha had abandoned any attempts at concealing her humour and burst out laughing at the sight of her husband crouched down, occasionally meercatting his head to check they hadn't drawn any attention, whilst scuttling sideways in a frantic crouch, which looked, as Samantha informed him cheerfully, once they were safely ensconced in pyjamas, back in their apartment above Number 11, "Like a sort of terrified crab."

David, if asked, would never have imagined that he'd be relieved if informed he resembled a trembling crustacean in the advanced stages of terror by his wife of nearly nineteen years, but on this occasion, it had to be said, it had had unexpected benefits; she hadn't asked anything more about why he was so keen to be in the same vicinity, if not the presence, of Miliband's speech. David counts his blessings, and doesn't let himself wonder why.

Now, perhaps to help himself not wonder, he gives Miliband an attempt at a friendly elbow. (Miliband winces. Perhaps it was a little too hard.) "So, you weren't avoiding me, hmm?"

Miliband blushes. David takes that as a yes.

"You know, it's only PMQs" he says , feeling uncharacteristically awkward. "It doesn't mean-"

Ed looks quickly at him.

David sighs and looks back. _"You_ say things, too."

Ed sniffs. David feels an odd stab of irritation.

"You know, it's not just _me."_ The words tug at that sense of annoyance that had risen in his chest in the bathroom on Tuesday, when Miliband had knocked his hand away.

Miliband simply pouts, and abruptly, David tires of the conversation.

"Look, just-just forget it. I just wondered where you were, that's all."

Miliband frowns, looking confused, and David sighs.

"I don't want to fight with you" he says, as plainly as he can. "Not here."

Miliband stares at him, and then gives one rapid, jerky nod. David looks away as they take their seats, mind already running through the first few lines of his speech. ("Don't do the bladder trick" had been the customary warning from George.)

("I'm not planning on it. Family event."

"That makes it sound as though it's some kind of deviant kink, Dave.")

"Do you usually-"

David looks up at Miliband. "Do I what?"

Miliband's watching him across the empty seat between them.

"Like fighting." Miliband clears his throat abruptly. "With me."

David stares at him, at the colour creeping slowly up his cheeks. Miliband's dark eyes send an odd, jolting sensation through David's chest.

"Well-" David coughs. "Well. I-"

He swallows. "I-yes-"

Surprisingly, he doesn't have to think about it.

"Yes. I suppose. Sometimes, it's-stimulating." David pulls out his glasses and begins adjusting them with an ostentatious amount of attention. "Arguing with you."

He concentrates very hard on the glasses, then the order of service.

He can feel Ed watching him. Big, dark eyes.

David's heart is suddenly beating very fast.

Suddenly, perhaps just unable to stand staring at the booklet anymore, he looks up, stares back at Miliband directly. "What?"

Miliband's just watching him, head tilted to the side, with those dark eyes just a little wide and wondering.

"What?" David asks again, perhaps a little peremptorily.

Miliband keeps staring.

David's about to ask again, but Miliband's looking at him. Still with that wondering look.

David looks back.

"Nothing" Miliband says slowly, after several moments. "Juth-st-"

David's eyes meet his.

"Hi." David jumps, as Nick promptly plonks himself down between them.

He quickly looks away but he senses an odd frisson of movement from the other side, as though Miliband's just jumped a little, too.

"Hi" he says, the slightest bit brighter than usual, turning to Nick. "Looking forward to _The Last Leg?"_

Nick gives a half-grimace. On his other side, Miliband seems to give a small, suppressed shudder at the thought.

David focuses a little too hard on what Nick's saying about how tight the schedule will be to get to the studio, and on not looking at Miliband, and when Nick's leg presses against his own for a second as he moves, tries not to notice how he pictures it for a moment as Miliband's.

* * *

It's when they're standing in line, clutching the wreaths each of them will lay at the foot of the statue, that Ed notices.

They've walked through with him behind, so he should really have noticed sooner, he thinks-

(No, he shouldn't have noticed.)

(That's the thing.)

(He_ shouldn't_ have noticed.)

But then it's Cameron's turn and it's as he walks forward-

Ed's just watching him, and then he-

Well, he bends to lay the wreath, and-

It's nothing, of course, but-

Ed's looking.

He's looking at Cameron's-

Cameron's-

And it doesn't make _sense_, because he's seen Cameron like this more times than he can count, and it's meant nothing, and-

It must just be the cut of the suit, it-

It_ must-_

But Ed can't stop noticing.

Can't stop noticing his-

Oh God.

Ed should stop looking

Oh God, that-

Those trousers fit him so-

Oh God.

Ed can feel his cheeks burning. He doesn't know what to do with his fingers. He doesn't know what-

Oh God.

He can feel that ache in his-

No-

_No._

Ed stares down at the wreath, wondering if anyone's noticed his rapid breathing. He tries to keep looking at the wreath, tries to notice little details about it, counting the leaves-

Cameron's stepping back now. He gives a short, careful bow to the statue.

Ed's eyes flicker down.

He notices-

Heat flames in his cheeks.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh-

Just ignore it. Just don't notice.

It-

Ed keeps his eyes on his wreath. His cheeks are flaming.

When he lays his own wreath, the thought grabs at his mind-

_Is he looking?_

_Is he looking at me?_

An odd shiver goes through him, makes his cheeks burn more.

He can't look at Cameron as he walks back to the line. But he's aware of him, of his blue eyes and his smooth skin and that crinkle at the edge of his smile, and he can feel that awareness, settling into his whole body, burning his face, prickling his skin.

* * *

The thing about David having a driver is that it often means Sam does, too.

She doesn't always mind. But there are times, like now, when she misses being able to talk to Dave while he drives. She's always liked it. It was a time when it was just them-the way David liked to talk sometimes, when he's occupied with a task he knows so well he could do it in his sleep.

When they were first going out, he'd sometimes chop logs while they discussed something-Sam would watch him, perched on a log pile, swinging her legs as she chattered. Originally, she'd wondered if he was showing off for her-letting her see him bring the axe down with a long, powerful swing into each blow-sometimes ripping his shirt off halfway through. But she'd quickly realised it wasn't so much that as simply the chopping himself he loved-the look of concentration on his face as he lifted the axe, the slight, satisfied nod he'd give as he took a few deep breaths, hands still gripping the wooden handle triumphantly, his face clearer, as though the blade had swung through whatever was bothering him too.

Now, Sam watches him, aware of the kids behind them, with the iPad propped up against the back of the seat, the volume turned down low. Nancy has one of her headphones dangling loosely from her ear, her attention half on the film, and half on the rough sketch she scribbles at quickly whenever they come to a stop in traffic.

"What did you mean, yesterday?" Dave asks her, as he leans back a little in the seat, unfastening his top button.

"When what-"

"When-er-we were talking about-in the bar, we were talking about Justine, or something-"

"That-Justine Miliband-"

"Yeah, yeah. You said something-"

"Well." Sam leans back in her own seat, keeping her voice low. "Actually-I mean, yesterday, I was just-it was just Frances, but then today-"

It had been that morning, when she and Sarah had been in her kitchen, having a coffee.

"She's probably just on her last paragraph or something" Sam had said, familiar with both Frances and Sarah's ways with their writing. It's one thing she's always loved in both of them-the way they can create a story, an article, coax out tears or spike up rage or just slash out their own feelings, simply through unscrambling a myriad of words into their own order, crafting them around a shape of their own. Sam sometimes wonders if it's the same pleasure she gets when she hits on the right cut for a dress, when her pencil traces the right curve. She wonders if Nancy experiences the same thing-if that'll be something her daughter, too, can disappear into, something that gives her an agency, the control, of creating something out of nothing.

Sarah had been sitting at the breakfast table, where Nancy's hairbrush still lay, where she'd thrown it down that morning, diving out the door. They'd done the school run together-it had been a chance to experience what the drive to Grey Coat might be like, if that's where Nancy ends up in September. (They might have put Lady Margaret first, but Sam isn't getting her hopes up-you practically have to have a signed letter from God to walk through the door.)

If they're still in Downing Street, of course.

Either way, the journey had been informative, to say the least.

"Stop rambling about them being green, or I'll _ram them down your throat-"_

"They're _green-"_

"They're _white"_ Sarah had bellowed, hiting the wheel. "They're white. They're the whitest sodding socks to ever be white. And I know because I bloody washed them."

Beatrice had kicked the back of her mother's seat, while William and Elwen had been tossing a pound coin back and forth, which had hit Nancy in the head.

_"Ow!"_ Nancy had promptly chucked the coin back at Elwen, who'd thrown it again, with the result this time of hitting Sarah in the head.

"Ow!" Sarah had grabbed the coin before it slid down her collar, and flung it into the back seat, where it had caught William in the neck, bringing forth an indignant squawk. _"It wasn't even me!"_

"Money" Florence had said, loudly, then. "Money-"

Sam had been about to wonder if Flo was listening to Dave's speeches when Nancy had leaned forward and said "Oh, yeah, we need money for the Bake Sale."

Sam had had to count to four very slowly in her head. Then she'd turned round to face her daughter. "You're telling me this _now?"_

Nancy had shrugged. "I just remembered. It's for charity."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Nancy had eyeballed her. "Well, you don't want us to look selfish, do you?"

William's head had popped forward. "So do I."

Sam and Sarah had carefully avoided looking at one another.

"I could kill you" Sarah had announced, apparently to the car in general.

"That's emotional abuse" Bea retorted, kicking the seat again.

"I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to God."

A musing silence. Then,

"They're green, not white."

Sarah had breathed out through her nose. Nancy had leaned over to squint at Bea's socks. "I think they look blue."

Sam had winced.

When they'd eventually pulled up round the corner from Grey Coat, Sarah had simply grabbed the laundry bag out of the boot, and thrown a pair of white socks into Bea's face. "There. Now get out before I choke you with them."

Bea had proceeded to exit the vehicle as slowly as possible, with the result that Sarah yanked the door shut hard enough to shake the entire car.

Bea had promptly screamed so loudly that Sam was sure they were about to find she'd been shot.

Sarah had yanked her own seat belt loose, thrown the door open, and scrambled out of the car in one swift movement. "What is it-"

She'd already had her hands on Beatrice's arms, when Bea had promptly fallen silent, pressed her lips together, scowled and said "Nothing. But you could have broken my hand."

Sam, whose idea had been to get a picture of the average drop-off at Grey Coat, is fairly certain it wouldn't usually consist of the sight of a young girl racing through the school gates, cackling manically as she went, chased by a middle-aged woman, bellowing incoherently, several balled-up pairs of socks flying from her hands as she ran, each lobbed at the retreating back of its' target.

Sam had taken the opportunity, as they drove to St Mary Abbots in wary silence (Sarah's teeth were gritted and every few seconds a sound rather like the word _green_ would force itself out between them), to slowly pull out the money. "Would it kill you to remember the night before?"

Nancy had just looked at her. "Well, it's unlikely."

Sam had drawn her hand swiftly across her throat. "Bring the change if there is any."

Nancy had rolled her eyes. "Well, I'm not _stupid."_

Later, ensconced back in the kitchen at Downing Street, Sam had peered at Sarah over her mug of tea. "I didn't know the school run usually ended like that" she'd remarked mildly, taking a bite out of one of David's homemade biscuits. "With you picking Bea's socks out of the road."

Sarah had shaken her head, still looking battle-worn. "No. That's just us. That's just Bea. She's possessed. It's the only decent explanation."

There'd been a knock on the door, and Frances had popped her head round. "Hi."

Sam had taken the two of them in a few minutes later, Frances slumping into a chair and reaching gratefully for one of the biscuits. She and Sarah have known each other for so long that Sam almost doesn't remember not knowing her and Michael.

Logically, she knows they met in the '90s, shortly before she and David got engaged. She remembers Michael introducing Sarah to her, Sarah's dark crop of hair shining as she glanced up at her, her dark eyes glittering wickedly with mischief as she gave Sam a hug. Michael and her had already seemed to move together, easily conscious of each other-Sam remembers the first night they all went out together, the two of them throwing the car keys back and forth as they argued about where to park.

Now, as Frances had confided in Sarah about the difficulties of wrapping up a chapter, Sam had watched her, too. She can remember meeting Frances-a couple of months after David had become an MP, after he'd first started talking about George, the other new MP with the dark hair and dark eyes, who'd taken to picking David up in the mornings and dropping him off in the evenings, when they'd had them over for dinner.

George had been standing there when Sam opened the door, with fifteen-month-old Luke nestled into his father's shoulder, and Sam had felt a leap of happiness at the sight, her own hands automatically travelling to her stomach, though she'd been nowhere close to showing yet. But the knowledge had been enough; the knowledge that Ivan was there, though they didn't have his name yet, didn't even know they'd have a son-just that he was there, a small, living person inside her, still putting himself together, growing and unfolding into the little baby he would eventually be lifted out as; the knowledge that this time next year, she and David could be opening this door, holding a small, gurgling little boy or girl of their own.

Perhaps that's why she still feels that leap when she remembers the first time she saw Frances. But she'd smiled, as she looked past George at his wife, meeting blue-grey eyes, and a scattering of freckles under wavy, blondeish hair, and a smile back that, under the confident upright look, had an edge of sweetness.

Now, Sam had sunk down at the table between them, picking up her own biscuit. Sarah had been filling Frances in on the chaos of the school run that morning.

"You're lucky George took your two."

Frances had grimaced a little. "They don't think so."

"Has he ever chased one of them?"

Sarah had given Sam a kick under the table.

It had been a few minutes later that Sarah had remarked "Why are we eating Dave's biscuits when we're about to try on Sam's dress, by the way?"

"Because you don't need to worry" Sam had chipped in. "Either of you. It's me who needs to-nearly ripped the bloody thing sewing it. Nearly had to get Nancy's help with it."

"She's getting quite into the sewing, isn't she?" Frances had asked, as the two got up to follow Sam down to the dining room, which somehow, over the years, has become her dress room.

"Yeah. She always liked her art and that, but-she's into it a bit more, now."

Sarah had clambered up onto the dining table. "Better than being a priest. Still haven't forgiven you for telling Will that."

"What's wrong with being a priest?"

"That was when Bea's hamster went, wasn't it-" Frances had asked.

Sarah had snorted. "Yeah. Nancy wrote a pretty good poem for that, too. I thought she'd be into writing."

"She is, quite-and her opera-but I think she's more-" Sam had turned and grinned at Frances, a slight tradition when it comes to them trying on dresses together. "Don't go giving it away to Justine."

Sarah had snorted. Frances had rolled her eyes. "I helped Justine pick out a dress. For Labour conference. Once-"

"Did she try to make you drink the Kool-Aid?" Sarah had asked, straight-faced.

Sam had shaken her head. Frances had rolled her eyes again. "No. Though we don't usually talk about politics."

"When did you meet her?" Sarah had asked, taking another sip of her tea. "University?"

"Law school." Frances had taken another bite of her biscuit. "She was always-well-" Frances had pursed her lips a little. "Focused."

Sarah had snorted, picking up on the tone. "Why were _you_ friends with her, then?"

Frances had almost exploded._ "Cheek!"_

A few minutes and one thrown biscuit later, Frances, who had joined Sarah on the table, chewing her biscuit, had said thoughtfully "I don't know. I mean-I was there because I wanted a back-up plan. In case I couldn't write. But Justine-" She'd rubbed both hands through her hair, ruffling it up so that it resembled a blonde cloud around her head. "It was like it was the be-all and end-all. You know. I mean-" She'd sighed. "Her parents expected things, but it was more like she didn't....I don't know. Like she thought-I don't know. Like that was all she was."

Sam had stopped by that point, staring at her, dress folded over her arms.

"But you went backpacking together?"

Sam had nearly choked then. "She _backpacked?"_

Frances had managed a grin. "Yeah."

Then the second implication hit Sam. "_You_ backpacked?"

Another thrown biscuit later, Sam had joined her friends on the table.

"Thing was-" Frances had sighed, chewing another biscuit. "It was like-she had to do it. Like everything was just-another thing to be able to say she'd done. Another string to add to her bow, if you know what I mean. It was like-she couldn't-"

"Have fun?" Sarah suggested, with a raised eyebrow.

She'd meant it sarcastically, but Frances had shrugged. "Yeah, actually. As though everything-everything had to mean something. Enjoying things was-I don't know. Secondary."

She'd shaken her head. "Anyway. I suppose I was just-I don't know. Protective? She_ was_ three years younger-but I'm not sure."

"Doesn't she have other friends?" Sam had asked, taking a slow bite of her own biscuit.

Frances had shrugged. "She's got some. But I don't know. I think-" She'd taken another gulp of tea. Then, "I don't think she knows how to _be._ Not without work, really."

The slight pause had, for some reason, made Sam shiver.

Now, sitting next to Dave, she takes a breath from relating the conversation, glancing at him to see what he makes of it.

David's leaning his elbow against the window. His jaw's tense, but his eyes are narrowed thoughtful.

"I suppose" he says slowly. "Well. Miliband's quite similar. With the children."

Sam frowns and turns, peering surreptitiously at their own children in the backseat. Nancy's still got one of her headphones in her ear, but she's got Flo nestled into her shoulder. Flo's staring at the screen, blue eyes intent above her chubby cheeks. Elwen's squinting over her head, freckles scattered under that brown hair that's almost exactly the same shade as Dave's.

Sam's chest aches, she wants to put her arms around them so badly. But it would scare them or smother them. And she doesn't want to do that, doesn't want to risk ever pushing them away. Ever giving them a moment of doubt.

So she takes them in with her eyes, as though if she looks long and hard enough, her eyes could pull them into her chest and keep them there, safe, under and inside her beating heart.

She just looks, and then turns back round in her seat.

David is watching her quietly. He keeps watching for a moment before he speaks. "You know, we'll have to talk about it. What Lynton suggested."

Samantha turns and stares straight back at him. "My children's faces will not be shown on the television" she says very quietly, and she stares at him, the words like steel between them.

David meets her gaze. "I know" he says, and Samantha's arms wrap around herself instinctively. She pictures hugging them, all four of them, Ivan, Nancy, Elwen and Florence, safe, under her skin, under her heart, inside her heart, each beat strong and loud, each thump yelling how much she loves them.

She pictures, the way she always does, his dark hair and dark blue eyes, nestled in her lap. Ivan dozing off gently while she stroked his cheek and kissed his hair. Ivan, blinking up at her just for a moment, back from the world he lived in, but drifted to her for this one breath, looking up at her as she watched him, so that for a moment, it feels like her son knew who she was.

* * *

The lights are hot on his skin, and Nick tries not to adjust his suit too obviously.

"But I'll tell you what-I'll tell you what-"

"Almost? Almost?"

Alex Brooker glances up at him over his glasses. "You _almost_ had me at Nandos."

The audience bursts out laughing. Nick laughs, too, settling a little now that this portion of the show must be coming to an end.

_How much worse can it get? _James had asked, when Nick had asked if coming on _The Last Leg _was really the best idea. Which wasn't, in itself, a reassurance.

"But just one more question, quick-fire-" Alex is peering at the card, but Nick stills a little.

It's _The Last Leg._ It's a comedy show. But they can still use it.

_You need to get young people back onside again_, James said backstage, Miriam sitting at the dressing table, glancing between them, taking him in. _And if this is the best way to do it-_

And so, now he's sitting in a chair that he's remarked looks pretty Mastermind-_Yeah, well, that's one seat you're guaranteed this year, innit, pal_? Alex had shot back, and the audience had burst into laughter, loud slaps of applause stinging in the air-lights too bright on his face, sweat running down his back, and Alex sitting opposite him with a last question.

"How many times in the last five years-" Alex leans forward slightly. "Have you wanted to give David Cameron a slap?"

Cameron question.

That's the first thing that occurs to Nick. The second is, _Oh God._

They've practiced this one. He just has to take it carefully

"Ooh." He leans forward slightly, playing for time. "Ooh-"

"And this is-so we'll put this to the nearest hundred and all."

Alex grins. The audience bursts into riotous laughter. Nick glances down at his lap, fighting back a grin, trying desperately to land on something vaguely non-committal to say.

"What, over the national debt-"

But they won't let him get away with that. They've left this question until last and they want something. Of course they want something. And he's got to give something too, and not just for them.

"Erm, a few times, yes-" He waits for the laughter. "And I think, likewise, likewise-yeah-"

"Just a-just a figure?"

Oh God. Just head it off.

"Both ways-both ways-"

"How many times-go on, just between me-" Alex leans forward with a grin. "Pretend there's no one else here."

"No one else-"

The audience is dissolving into laughter again. Nick lets himself smile a little, quietens his own voice. "A few times, yeah. A few times-"

That won't be enough.

"About ten? Twenty-"

Not enough-

"Oh, more than-more than-"

"Thirty?"

"Oh, no, no, no-" Because Nick can suddenly see how this is going to go, and he can see how this could be spun into the headlines the next day, and he has no idea if it would be good for them or not but he knows he needs to shut it down now. "No, no more than that-"

Was he saying more than that? Wasn't he?

"Really?"

"I'm not going to get into-"

"Ten or thirty-"

Oh God, shut it down-

"I got into this at Number 10 once and it got me into-" He says something about _trouble_ but the audience is already laughing, and Alex is moving on.

"Well, then-well then, I'm glad you two have been working together for the last five years-"

"Yes-no, we have-"

"-went _really_ well-"

The audience are laughing, but something nettles at Nick. He's not sure why, but something about it-

"Right-"

"Do you agree with these-this lot?" Nick points at the other presenters, who are sitting, watching the proceedings with high amusement. "You don't agree with everyone you work with-"

Alex gives him an amused look. "Sorry, this was Al-Alex's question, so-" His eyes glimmer behind his glasses, and the audience dissolves into more laughter.

"OK." There seems little else Nick can say to that, but somehow-

It's not as though when they first agreed to go into coalition they didn't know every inch where they disagreed would be scrutinized-

"So, Nick, thank you-"

"Yeah-"

"You've given me your time-"

It's just that sometimes, Nick can't decide whether people want them to agree more or not-

"You've spoke some bullshit, admittedly-" Another small laugh. "But you have given me your time, and that is OK-"

And back then, five years had seemed like a long time.

"But-it's up for-you have been a great sport-but-"Alex looks straight at him. "Now, it's your turn."

Oh God.

"Yeah?"

"Which party leader would you like to nominate-" Alex sits up. "To go next? To sit in the hot seat-"

"Here?"

Nick doesn't have to think before he says it, and he's not sure if that's a problem or not.

"Oh, David Cameron."

In the split second between him saying that and the applause breaking out, he wonders if he shouldn't have.

It was only an attempt to lighten the mood, but all he can think of suddenly, even as the applause rings out around him, is the other stuff.

Dog shit through the letterbox. Saliva hot on his cheek. _The Lib Dems are worse than the fucking Tories. They fucking sold us out._

He wonders if he shouldn't have-

"Oh, and by the way-" He leans forward, raising his voice a little to be heard above the noise before he can second-guess himself. "If-if-if-if you-but-but, erm-but your-your producers will have a job 'cause-"

Something itches about saying it.

"If you've seen what he's been saying about these TV debates, so if he comes-"

"Absolutely not-"

"He won't come on his own, he'll come with the Green Party, the Monster Raving Loony Party-"

The laughter's breaking out again and Nick raises his voice even more to be heard, even over Alex, who's saying something he can't hear.

"And-and-Larry the cat-"

"Oh, brilliant-" Alex's laughing, and Nick leans back a little. "He'll have everybody here, so-"

The crowd's applauding. Nick squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, because the lights are too bright.

He thinks that came off right.

He thinks.

"So, news headline today-" Alex grins at him. _"David Cameron Won't Come On His Own."_

The crowd dissolves. Nick cringes inwardly, but he makes himself grin.

"Well, he won't" is all he can say, and imagines the way David will deal with this, with some joke of his own that'll be turned onto Nick and how he might just have made the whole polling situation worse.

The crowd's still screaming.

"Are you going to vote?" he asks Alex, too loudly, mainly for something to distract himself, distract the crowd.

Alex grins-as though he knows what Nick's doing, but has decided to give him a pass for some reason, and gives a quick nod. "I will be voting-"

"You will vote?" Nick grabs his arm and turns to the crowd, knowing he must look ridiculous, but somehow preferring this to what he was saying a second ago. "He said he's going to vote, did you hear that?"

The crowd keeps applauding. Alex's hand is a little too tight on Nick's arm, and Nick suspects his own grip is too.

It's that sometimes he doesn't know whether people want them to agree more or not. And, getting up, leaning forward, gripping Alex Brooker's arm, ears almost hurting from the crowd's cheering, Nick wonders, if he'd known, if he'd have answered the question the way they wanted.

* * *

David is sitting, looking out at the winter evening settling over the long lawn. Flo's asleep, and the other two should be soon-it's easier to get them to bed in winter than summer, when the evening sunlight can creep through the curtains, and they like to give Gita a break and make sure it's always at least one of them who does the bedtime routine.

But now, David's sitting at the dining room table, watching the winter night through the window.

"Want me to do my Mozart trick?"

David looks up at Tom, who grins at him across the table. David shakes his head. "Not unless you want Samantha to kill you. It'll wake Flo up."

Tom grins. "Ah, well. It's for long nights. And this is just a quick drink."

David's first sighting of Tom was at the age of thirteen, sipping his too-hot tea nervously, Alex lounging next to him, swinging his own legs with the lazy insouciance that comes with three years of knowledge of a school. David had glanced round, conscious of his father's hand, occasionally squeezing his shoulder.

David had let his gaze wander around the room, taking in the faces of the boys who would become his classmates, some of whom he'd known from Heatherdown-Simon and Giles were both there, both of them adjusting their collars nervously-some of whom he'd still know more than 30 years later, and his eyes had settled on Tom.

Of course, he hadn't known his name. But he'd noticed one thing about Tom-something that he'd notice in his own younger son years later and, though he doesn't know it, others notice in him, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with resentment. A watchfulness, perhaps. But more than anything, a quiet confidence.

A comfort. An ease.

David hadn't, of course, been able to lay his hands on any of those terms then, but he'd looked at Tom and when Tom looked back, something had clicked-clicked in the way Tom grinned at him, as though recognizing something. Clicked in the way David recognized the same thing without knowing it, in the way he'd smiled back.

Now, they're sitting at the dining table across from each other, and Tom grins. "I didn't foresee being dumped for Ed Miliband-"

David rolls his eyes. "Hardly being _dumped-"_ He reaches for his glass of Scotch. "Just-don't fancy him going on about old Etonians all weekend."

"Won't he do that, anyway?"

David shrugs. "Knowing him, probably."

"Hmm. Why'd you invite him, then?"

David sighs, chewing over the question, taking another ruminating sip of wine. "I don't know" he says slowly. "I really don't. I just-"

He chews at the inside of his mouth, trying to find the right word, but he supposes, in the end-

"I just wanted to" is what he hears himself say, quietly.

Tom, when David looks up, is arching an eyebrow. "Well. You were always good at surprises."

David arches an eyebrow himself. "Haven't often heard that."

Tom shakes his head. "No, just-you remember how it was, in our last couple of years of school. When you suddenly got into politics, no one expected that of you, either."

"Thanks" David laughs, but then, more seriously "Yeah, I wanted to do Art. I remember."

Tom nods. "And then when you were at Oxford, you blew everyone else out of the water."

"I don't think I-"

"No, what I mean-" Tom says, almost before David can open his mouth. "You know-you did well in your work, but you weren't-you were so _into_ it once you got to Oxford."

David frowns. "What's that got to do with Miliband?"

Tom shakes his head, taking a gulp of his own Scotch. "Well. I suppose you've always taken people by surprise, that's all. I mean, I don't tend to get involved in all this politics lark, but-well, you know. You can get on with people. I mean, you surprised us, then."

David knows he did. He's been asked a couple of times, with varying degrees of admiration or incredulity, why he chose politics. Not why he's chosen it, now. But why, all those years ago, looking at the advertisement from CCO, he'd thought _Hmm. Yes. OK._

The odd thing is, he supposes most people he knew at Eton would have put bets down on him entering any number of other professions. Finance. The City. Even journalism, though he didn't know if writing was really his thing. He could manage it fine, well when he wanted to, but he didn't seem to love it enough.

He supposes that's how a lot of his friends would have thought he'd end up-a little like them, with jobs that they maybe don't _love_, but are interesting enough to provide them with money and friends and contacts-all the things that form a bedrock to their lives. Just what was necessary.

He looks at Tom, remembering doing the same thing a hundred times before; as teenagers at Eton, lounging across the aisle between their desks, half-lying over the back of a motorbike during the summer holidays. The same thing with Simon, shivering in narrow beds at Heatherdown, waiting to get warm, not knowing if they wanted the door to open or not. Simon's hand stretched quickly across the gap between them to squeeze his in the dark.

"Well" Tom says. "You've always been fine when you've surprised us over the years."

He clinks his glass to David's. For a moment, the stretch across the table, the high ring of glasses, is the squeeze of cold child's fingers in the dark. Simon's whisper, warm and small and scared but strong, "Don't worry. It'll be OK."

David tries to hold onto that now, the look in Tom's eyes. There's no whisper, but at this age, there shouldn't need to be.

* * *

Ed drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances over his shoulder at his sons.

The boys are both staring at an iPad. They're watching The Octonauts. Ed had guessed it'd be that. He feels proud of himself for guessing correctly, and only briefly does it occur to him to wonder if that's unusual.

He glances at the seat next to him, at the small packet lying there.

It had been by chance that he'd found it the previous evening. He hadn't been able to sleep, and so he'd wandered about, a little aimlessly, and eventually ended up in his study.

He'd tried distracting himself with one of his books at first, but somehow, scrambling up to pull one out, had dislodged a little envelope tucked between the pages.

He'd stared at it for a long moment, heart beating fast, and then, almost as though it might disappear, he'd snatched it up and held it against his shirt, before glancing about, as if someone might see.

He'd slid his finger nervously under the flap of the envelope a few times, lying in bed again, with it almost lying over his heart. He'd known what they were, of course. But he hadn't opened them.

It's not as though he'd meant to bring them with him. But somehow, they'd been on the bedside table, and when he'd dragged himself into consciousness, hearing the shower running, which told him Justine wasn't in the room, his hand had covered the envelope, hiding it swiftly under the bedcovers so they wouldn't have to talk about it.

He'd kept it there the entire time that Justine had been in the room, and he'd felt an odd pang of relief that she was dressed when she came back in, because somehow, if she hadn't been-

Well, she might, she might have suggested-and he couldn't, this morning, he just couldn't.

So he'd managed to force a smile and drill out some chatter, fingers pressing lightly into the envelope, creasing it a little, so that now when he glances over, Ed can still see his thumbprint, pressed so deeply into the envelope you could never pretend it wasn't there.

It isn't that he intended to bring them along. It's just that he picked them up, intending to put them back, and then he'd been planning to shower first, and then he'd put them in his pocket, and then-

And now, well, here they are on the car seat.

Ed glances at them again, then drags his gaze away, trying to focus on the road. He wonders if it's normal that he hasn't spoken to the boys since they left their road.

But then, they haven't said anything to _him._

So that's fine.

Ed glances at the clock instead of the envelope. 10:47. Cameron said to get there for about 11:15-"Then, we can have lunch or something, maybe go to a nice pub-or maybe that on Sunday. We've just got to run a couple of errands Saturday morning, shouldn't take too long, and once you arrive, we'll have them done-"

At this rate, they should be there on time.

Ed wonders if he should think that's a good or a bad thing. He wonders if his heart suddenly picking up speed, the slight dryness of his mouth, the tightening and then playing back and forth of his fingers on the steering wheel is an answer he wants at all.

It's easier to focus on the road.

* * *

Florence likes coming up here. The churchyard is nice and quiet and she's allowed to run _round_ in _circles_ and sometimes take a skipping rope, so long as she doesn't hit a gravestone. The safety people always walk a while behind them, so they can keep them safe, Daddy says.

She likes it because everyone gets together, nice and all together, and they get to take flowers. Flo can't carry flowers because she held them once when she was much littler, back when she was three or maybe _two,_ but a few got out of her hands, and ended up blowing about. Nancy got really upset, so her face went all creased, and she cried, so Flo cried too, because she didn't want Nancy to cry.

So Mummy or Daddy carry the flowers now, or Nancy, sometimes, because Nancy's bigger. Flo still gets to skip, though, and sometimes she can bring things she's drawn for Ive.

Ive is in heaven, but they come to the graveyard, anyway. Flo doesn't know why, and Nancy got upset when she asked-Mummy and Daddy say that Ive went back to heaven before Flo was born. Babies come from heaven, Mummy says, and when people die, they go back up there, even if their bodies are under the ground, like Ive's.

Now, Flo walks around the gravestones. Daddy keeps looking at her, so Flo waves so Daddy knows she's fine. Nancy's talking to Ive, that's why Mummy and Daddy have moved away. Mummy told Flo she can talk to Ive on her own too if she wants to, but Flo likes talking all together, and everyone else knew Ive, so they might have other things to tell him.

Flo does want to hug Ive, though, but she has to wait, because you have to wait when someone talks to Ivan, though the safety people have to stay near. That's one rule, so Flo jumps up and down to help herself wait.

When Nancy stands up, Flo jumps. She runs up, so fast her feet nearly get tangled, and hugs her arms around the gravestone. It's nice and big, so Flo can't get her arms all the way round. She pushes her cheek against it.

"Hi-hi" she says happily. Mummy and Daddy say that Ive's up in heaven but his body's under the stone, so that he can still feel when they hug him. Flo likes that, so she gives Ive lots of hugs in the stone.

"Are you giving Ive a lovely cuddle?" says Mummy, and Mummy's kissing her head. Flo presses her cheek against Mummy's, nice and soft.

"Yes" she says, and hugs Ive again. She has Nancy and Elwen as her big sister and brother, but Ive is her big brother too. When Miss Karim asked about brothers and sisters, Flo said that, that she had a big sister and two big brothers, and one of her brothers went back to heaven before Flo came down. Miss Karim's face got all crumply.

El put something on Ive's grave, too. Flo's brought him a little coloured-in picture she did at school, though there's some icing smeared on it, because she was biting into her cake while she coloured it, so it's a bit sticky. Mummy says that's OK.

The picture's of her hugging him. There's lots of pictures of Nancy and Elwen hugging Ivan, but there aren't any of Flo because she wasn't here yet. So Flo made one.

"Lots of nice hugs today, Flo" says Daddy. He's cuddling Nancy, squeezing her hand like he does when he holds Flo's hand when they walk to school.

Flo nods. "Yes, yes" she says, with Mummy's arms nice and all tight around her, and she gives the stone a kiss, rubbing her nose against it the way Daddy does when he gives her rabbit kisses. She gives Ive another kiss, longer this time, so that when they've gone home, it will go up to the sky where Ive is.

Flo hopes Ive gets to sit on the clouds. Flo likes clouds.

* * *

Ed wishes suddenly for a mirror as they wait, the ring of the doorbell echoing in the air.

The cottage they've just walked up to is larger than Ed expected, extending in all directions. It's made of what looks like cream sandstone, but despite the size, there's something homely about it. Maybe it's just the countryside surroundings, but the place feels warm, loved. You could picture a family in there.

He tries to surreptitiously fiddle with his hair, smoothing it down into place. He hopes it isn't sticking up.

He should have checked in the car. What if he's looking-looking-

Why does it _matter-_

But he can't stop fretting. He wonders if he should take Daniel and Sam's hands-but then, they're not having a photo taken, so maybe not. Ed worries at his lip.

The door opens.

"Oh, hi, Ed-" Samantha's dark hair shimmers above a grin as she opens the door. Florence is clinging to her mother's shoulder, her blue eyes crinkling into a grin at the sight of Sam.

_"Sam-"_ she says, pointing happily. "Daniel, _Sam-"_

She looks so like David. Ed thinks the words with a flood of warmth, something that makes him feel soft and fond.

He smiles. "H-hi-"

"Do you want to come in?" Samantha steps aside, and Ed jumps a little. "Oh-yeah-thanks-"

Daniel promptly steps forward and wraps himself around Samantha's legs.

Ed steps forward, already getting ready to apologise, before hesitating, unsure of whether he should.

But Samantha's lowering Florence gently and lifting Daniel, wrapping her arms around him. "Hiya, Daniel-"

Ed feels an odd stab of something, watching Daniel bury his face in Samantha's neck. He can't remember the last time Daniel did that with him or Justine.

He can't remember the last time Daniel _did_ that.

But then they're stepping inside. Sam's looking round at the walls, his big, dark eyes taking everything in.

"It's the first time you've been to our place, isn't it?" Samantha asks, still holding Daniel.

(She does that so easily.)

Ed's so busy staring that it takes him a moment to realise what Samantha's said. "Oh-"

He's about to tell her that he has-he's been to Downing Street plenty of times and he's been to Chequers for Nancy's birthday-but then he remembers that they're not Cameron's, not the same way his homes are. He supposes David and Samantha have done the redecoration, and put in their own kitchen. But Downing Street's not theirs', of course. And obviously, Chequers isn't, so this is the first place he's seen that's been just _Cameron's._

It's really this sudden spark of interest that makes Ed relax a little, though he isn't aware of it. But the sudden appeal makes him forget his nerves a little, and he looks around the hallway, eyes brightening without him realising.

The hallway's warm, especially after the cold outside, though even Ed, who knows nothing about interior design, can tell it's minimally decorated. But the walls are a warm cream, and the door ahead is wooden, in a style more reminiscent of an old farmhouse than anything else.

Something about it's cosy, making it easier for Ed to take Sam's hand when he needs to as they push the door open.

"It'th lovely" he manages, meaning it. He looks around as they step into the kitchen.

He blinks at the size. His and Justine's kitchen at home's almost blank. Neither of them are in there very often, if he's honest, and Zia has the bigger kitchen downstairs, where the kids eat their meals. This kitchen is about the same size as Zia's, perhaps a little bigger-but the decor is different. Although it's simple, there's something warm about it-the kitchen table has one of the chairs yanked out, and there's a couple of couches nearby. It's an open-plan kitchen, Ed thinks, finding the words for it. It's outlined in honey brown wood with a silver fridge and photographs hang on the walls.

"It's lovely." Ed hears his own voice before he realises what he's saying.

Samantha gives him a grin over her shoulder. "Thanks. We had it done up a few years ago-"

Elwen wanders in, kicking a football. Sam takes a tentative step forward and kicks the football back.

"Take it outside."

"It's too cold."

"Tell that to your dad-he wants us all to go on a walk-" Samantha rolls her eyes at Ed. "Here, do you want to-"

Daniel's wriggling down and Samantha lowers him gently. Elwen, kicking the ball again, grins at him. "Oh. Hi-" He kicks Daniel the ball.

"Boys-"

Florence is already tugging Sam's hand, trying to wriggle between the two of them. Samantha glances at Ed, who's staring about the room.

His heart's beating faster. He's not sure why, but as his eyes dart to each picture, each cushion, he finds himself wondering if Cameron chose that one. Was he there when they picked it? Did he look at it with Samantha, mull it over? Or did he stare at his phone, or nod thoughtfully, the way Ed's seen him do a hundred times when he knows Cameron's trying not to let his eyes glaze over?

Ed feels a little jump in his own chest as he realises he's noticed that about Cameron without even knowing.

It's only then he becomes aware that Samantha's saying his name.

He jumps a little. "Oh. Oh, th-sorry, Sam-I wath-s just-"

"It's fine." Sam's picking his Sam up now. Sam's clinging to her. "I was just asking do you want a cup of tea?"

Ed nods gratefully. This is something he knows, at least. "Oh. Yeth, pleathe. Thanks-"

Samantha regards him then, head tilted to one side, her eyes twinkling with something. Something like curiosity. Something like mischief.

"Dave's just out there" she says, nodding at what Ed realises is a conservatory. "Could you get him for me? I hate to ask, but-"

"Oh, no-yeah, sure-"

"He's decided to some drilling while he waited for you-" Samantha rolls her eyes. "So now we're all waiting on him. Just tell him there's a cup of coffee ready for him."

Ed jumps. Something about the words makes his heart beat faster.

"Um-OK-" he says nervously. "Um. He's-ah-"

"Just out there-" Sam grins and jerks her head towards the conservatory, filled with slanting, winter light. "It's just outside-you'll see the door straight away-probably hear Dave, knowing him-"

Outside is a shock of cold after the warmth of the cottage, and Ed wraps his arms around himself. The garden is huge-more like a field than anything else, stretching out in both directions, with a space hopper and a mini-trampoline scattered about. Ed measures it with his eyes, notices the barbecue in the corner, the small brazier sitting out on the patio. He pulls his jacket tighter around him.

He can hear the drilling as he gets nearer the outside door, the vibrations echoing in his ears. He takes a breath, suddenly unaccountably nervous.

It's ridiculous. He's only going in to tell Cameron that there's a cup of _coffee _ready. It doesn't _mean_ anything-

But he can't stop himself thinking suddenly-imagining if he'd made that cup of coffee for Cameron. If he was out here working and Ed was just bringing him a drink-

Something about that makes Ed's insides puddle into something warm and pleasant in his stomach, something that makes a grin stretch across his mouth, making his cheeks ache with happiness.

He clears his throat. He tries to shake his head, clear it a little.

Just knock on the door.

He rubs his hands up and down his trousers. His heart's beating fast.

Just-

He rubs his hand up, then down again, then up-

He knocks. Once.

The drilling goes on.

He knocks again.

This time, he hears a muffled shout that sounds like a greeting, so, taking a deep breath and not being quite sure why, Ed pushes open the door.

It's much warmer than outside-that's the first thing Ed notices. He lets his jacket fall open.

The second thing is Cameron standing upright, pushing his hair back. He's standing over a set of shelves that look to be midway through a stage of construction.

Cameron's shirt sleeves are pulled up. His hair's slightly damp with sweat. He gives the shelves a satisfied look. He's clutching the drill in one hand.

Ed just stares at him. He's not sure why, but Cameron looks-

Well, he looks-

Ed stares. His own cheeks suddenly feel far, far too warm.

Cameron looks up then, and jumps. "Jesus, Miliband-" His hand slams over his chest.

Ed jumps himself. "Th-sorry-"

Cameron shakes his head, gives him a grin. "Pre-pre-election tactics-"

Ed manages a laugh. For some reason, he feels a little light-headed.

"When did you get here, then?" Cameron gives him a grin, dragging another piece of wood out.

"J-juth-st now-"

Ed's eyes are riveted by the strip of bare skin visible at Cameron's collar.

He yanks his gaze up to Cameron's, needing to say something suddenly.

"D-doing labour yourth-self, Cameron?"

David chuckles. "Surprised, Miliband?"

He steps round, adjusting his shirt so that it hangs open, revealing more of his skin. Ed's breathless.

Cameron cocks an eyebrow at him. Ed can't answer. He couldn't remember the question if his life depended on it.

"Th-Samantha th-said she made you a coffee" he manages, what seems an age later.

"Oh, right." Cameron chuckles. "I'll be out now-here, let me just finish this one bit-"

He bends over, lifting the drill again.

Ed should go, he thinks. He's delivered the message. Cameron will be in in a moment.

But he stands still. And he watches.

It's slowly that Ed realises his cheeks are much, much warmer than usual.

He chews his lip. He can't stop looking at Cameron's hands, wrapped firmly around the drill. Cameron pushes his hair back with one hand, taking deep gulps of air. His tongue's sticking out slightly in concentration, as if the only thing he really cares about in that moment is the way he's moving that drill, guiding it just exactly where he wants it.

Ed's hands are knotting very slowly in his own shirt. He's breathing a little deeper.

Cameron tosses his hair back, giving the shelves a triumphant look. He grips the drill more firmly, guiding it all the way in. He rubs a bare arm across his forehead, lets his hair fall back again, goes on with drilling, tongue sticking out a little.

Ed's hands are clenching more and more tightly. His own tongue comes out of his mouth, tracing his lips.

Cameron stretches, and Ed catches sight, as his shirt rides up, of the bare skin there, of the slight softness at his stomach, and then Cameron gives him a slight grin, just fleetingly, over the drill.

Ed thinks he grins back. He isn't sure. Suddenly, it's very hard to be sure.

He swallows. His mouth's dry. He watches the way Cameron's tongue traces his mouth as he bends over again.

He's got his back towards Ed and Ed's got a perfect view of his-

His-

Ed's knees suddenly feel like they might give way. He stares at Cameron's strong hands just _gripping-_and that strip of skin visible-

Ed's tongue moves slowly over his own lips-

If Cameron just loosened his shirt a little he could-

Ed would see-

Like at Chequers-

It's very hard not to think about that image.

Very hard.

His heart's pounding so hard it aches.

Cameron turns the drill off, and gives Ed a grin. Ed blinks, only just aware he's staring at Cameron through hooded eyes. His hands have knotted in his shirt, creasing it.

Cameron arches an eyebrow. "You all right, Miliband?"

Ed's cheeks are burning. When did the room get so warm?

He tries to look away, but somehow Cameron's eyes won't let him.

Cameron's stepping towards him. His eyebrows are arched, almost amused, but there's something else there too.

Something a little nervous. A little-

"Are you all right?"

Cameron's so close to him. When did Cameron get so close to him?

Ed can't look away from him either.

Cameron's just looking at him. Ed's never felt so warm in his life. Cameron's gaze feels like a slow, physical touch.

Something's fizzing in his chest. Something that leaves an ache between his legs, his heart pounding-something that's leaving him so excited his body's almost shaking with it. Something-

"I'll-"

Cameron's trousers are brushing his own and Ed gasps, because that-

That makes something-

There's a knock-or maybe just a thump from inside the house, Ed isn't sure-but either way, it's enough. They both take a step back, Ed wincing as he smacks into a table.

"Um. Right-" Cameron clears his throat, eyes blinking a little rapidly. "Right. Shall we-"

Ed nods too quickly. "Yeah. Yeah-um-"

It's too warm in here. Far, far too warm.

And close.

It's probably better to get outside.

Ed takes a couple of deep breaths of the winter air as they step out through the door, feeling the sting of it cool his warm cheeks.

That's better.

(He pretends not to notice Cameron, at his side, doing the same thing.)

"Shall we-"

Ed follows Cameron towards the house, tugging his jumper and shirt down firmly over the front of his jeans.

He pretends not to notice that it's a little more difficult to walk than usual.

Or that he has to fight not to look at Cameron-

(or that he _wants_ to)

-the whole time.

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Another Day-Carousel _ _-"Did you know that I have never felt this way before?/I know you're quiet but you feel it too/...You'll be surprised that I already adore you too..Oh, you got me feeling I want to stay/I want to stay another day"_

_When Our Legs Grew Tall-The Paper Kites _ _-"There's a place we once knew/Something old, something true..Now the days go so fast/Give me time, give me past/And I know it's been so long/Since we were children of the sun..See the world up from the trees/Like when we were young/Memories, memories..But our minds grew small/When our legs grew tall/And our eyes don't see right"_

_ Doll-Helen Jane Long _

_Tracking Aeroplanes-The Echelon Effect _

_Not Enough-Carousel- _ _"And right now, thinking I wanna do what you wanna do/This is not enough, I can't get enough/This is not enough/...You're all right, I feel like I'm changing/Look with both eyes/You couldn't hide it/In this town/I feel the way that I wanna feel/But don't hold out now/Don't hold out now...This is not enough/I can't get enough"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David's country home:https://bit.ly/3bjqJ3L  
https://bit.ly/2QArBsF  
http://dailym.ai/3a8SdbT  
https://bit.ly/2Wy0XVm  
https://bit.ly/2U5p1gt  
http://dailym.ai/2UaaDDU  
http://dailym.ai/3diaHJ0  
https://bit.ly/2xh24OE  
The ceremony commemorating the 50th anniversary of Churchill's funeral that David, Ed and Nick attend:https://bbc.in/3dfK07P  
David, Ed and Nick laying the wreaths:https://bit.ly/2Ua7OTk  
Excerpts of Ed's speech:https://bzfd.it/33AFNXT  
The PMQs depicted:https://bit.ly/33CeZXa  
The close friendship between Dave and George:https://bit.ly/33GzWjV  
https://bit.ly/33AFSe9  
Frances and Justine have been friends since law school and went backpacking together:http://dailym.ai/2U9kPfy  
https://bit.ly/2Wv5WpG  
https://bit.ly/3bikAoy  
Sam did try her dress designs on her friends and used the dining rooms in Downing Street as a dressing room:https://bit.ly/2wf8XQl  
https://bit.ly/2JfH7GA  
Nancy's keenness on sewing, dress designing and opera:https://bit.ly/3djbBoM  
http://dailym.ai/2UoNUCX  
https://bit.ly/2J6nkZP  
https://bit.ly/2U6XbjR  
https://bit.ly/2U5eAcK  
https://bit.ly/2J0X8jt  
The anecdote about Nancy writing a poem for Bea's hamster and Sam's comment about Will being a priest:https://bit.ly/3a8VcRR  
Nick's appearance on The Last Leg:https://bit.ly/2xctCED  
Tom Goff is one of David's close friends:https://bit.ly/2UsC9Lt  
Tom's "Mozart trick":https://bit.ly/397pnHG  
Florence giving Ivan's gravestone a hug and them visiting him:http://dailym.ai/2Ww800B  
https://bit.ly/2Un4zqt  
https://bit.ly/2Uo7ejv  
https://bit.ly/2Ww94ld  
Ed's children reportedly eating with the nanny:https://bit.ly/3beC3hl  
David Cameron chopping logs:https://bit.ly/3dgI4vS


	15. Country Camaraderie, Earring Embargoes And A Bipartisanship Of Bikes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Bake-Offs are the way to solve competition and earrings are a negotiation requiring careful delay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
The quote references in this chapter refer to Ed and Yvette's flatshare, David's first meeting with Brown and the Camerons' counselling.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Ed joined HM's Opposition, and Harriet's team, as a replacement for another Oxford economics graduate, Yvette Cooper, who was off sick with ME (and didn't return to work until the start of 1994.) Cooper had read PPE at Balliol and then gone on to be a Kennedy scholar at Harvard University and a member of Bill Clinton's 1992 presidential campaign. Ed had been sharing a flat with Cooper in Belsize Park, in north London, when he replaced her on Harman's team. **"He probably did more washing up than I did"** Cooper has said about her ex-flatmate. **"But he never cooked."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Switch and the custodians are not the only group who work shifts 24/7. Downstairs are the famous "garden room girls." This is the name given to a now mixed gender but once female-only group of prime ministerial support staff whose office in No. 10 looks out on the rose garden. They fulfil a huge range of functions, overseeing the paperwork and organising diaries, calls and events.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_ **Tell me about your relationship with Brown. What's it like?** _

_It is pretty non-existent, to be honest with you. I have met him a couple of times in my life. I met him before I was an MP when he came in and had lunch at Carlton once but as an MP, I have met him literally just a couple of times in my life.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_In the spring of 2003, during the build-up to the war in Iraq, things began to reach a point of crisis.** "It was around then that I think they both began to wilt slightly under the tiredness and incredible stress of coping with everything on their own"** said Birrell. The couple made three major decisions. The first was to alter Ivan's feeding by arranging for him to take in food through his stomach. It had been proving impossible to get his food and medicine into him reliably, so they agreed to the insertion of a gastrostomy tube. Second, they decided to go to the social services. As Birrell attests, **"It is only when you get plunged into this world of disability that you realise, slowly, there is help available, poor and haphazard as it often is."**_

_And third, Samantha decided to go for counselling. She was worn out from lack of sleep, with nights spent at Ivan's bedside, and felt she was adding to her husband's burden by talking all the time about Ivan, her worries, and her exhaustion. She went to three or four sessions with an NHS family counsellor over a six-week period, largely to have someone who would listen, someone with professional experience to understand what she was going through. As a result of these decisions, combined with more respite care and the feeding tube, the Camerons' domestic life began to stabilise.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_**"If you listen to one week of what it takes looking after Ivan, it beggars belief. There are a million complications. It really is a staggering thing"** said (Giles) Andreae in 2005. If the couple ever went away from home with the family, Ivan would have to travel in a van and would have to have the full **"impedimenta-special this and special that"**, plus a ramp, to accompany him...Every morning soon after seven, Ivan would be collected from his basement quarters by his mother or father or brought upstairs by his night carer. His father, generally, would then apply Ivan's face creams, brush his teeth and hair, dress him, put him in his wheelchair and get him ready for school. Then Cameron would wheel him out to the ambulance and kiss him goodbye before he was taken, in the early years, to the Cheyne Centre...In the Cameron household, it became completely normal to have lots of people, carers and respite nurses and so on, wandering through. (The arrival of their third child, Arthur Elwen-now known to his family as Elwen-in February 2006 added to the chaos.) The Camerons did extensive work on their Edwardian terrace house, on King North Street just around the corner from Finstock Road, although the main press interest was in the environmental measures they took. They demolished the rear extension and had the basement redesigned to provide a room for Ivan (complete with pulley-and-hoist system to help lift him), a room for a carer, a playroom and a customised lift to take him up and down.)_

_**"I know Sam worries about him, almost every second, every day"** said (Ian) Birrell in 2006. **"She has told me that she is always thinking: Is he in pain? Is he happy? What's happening with the carers? The truth is that a severely disabled child does overshadow so much else in one's life."** With both parents having grown up in hospitable families, their inclination has always been to invite friends for a meal in the evening or at weekends, and they sought-for Ivan's sake and their own-to continue that pattern of life. Their gregariousness surprised some people, given the other demands on their time and energy. They used to tell friends that, just occasionally when they were the only two adults in the house, they would look at one another in amazement, as if to say **"Is it really true?"**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_ **Can you describe your day-to-day dealings with Ivan? Let's start in the morning.** _

_We're very lucky because we have some excellent night care. She brings Ivan upstairs at 7.30. We've converted our house and he lives downstairs-he's got his own bedroom with a bathroom in it, with its own pulley and hoist system so he doesn't have to be lifted. Although actually we all do lift him because he's lovely to pick up and cuddle. So I normally take over at 7.30 and do what we call his oral routine. I do his face creams and teeth and hair and all that, get him dressed and put him in his wheelchair and get him ready for school. That's my contact with him in the morning. And in the evening, if I'm home to do some things with the kids I'll do something with him. I'll read him some stories or do some exercises...At the weekends, when we obviously have him all the time, it's very hard because with a seriously disabled child you have to work very hard to stimulate and entertain them. When children really can't walk or talk you just have to work an awful lot harder to find out which books they like and what activities stimulate them, what exercises are good for them, etc....it takes a lot more effort. Samantha is brilliant. I go in bursts but she sort of has it all the time...He's about to be six and he's beginning to get quite heavy, and that's why we have the hoists and the pulleys, so it's obviously much easier being able to pick him up. I still have a bath with him, and I still lift him in and out of the bath...all those things that Health and Safety would have a heart attack over. So inevitably it will get more difficult.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_The first time I visited their home in North Kensingon (which, as anyone who knows London can tell you, actually means Ladbroke Grove, and is far from the trendy boho paradise painted by the press), I saw Ivan's influence everywhere: the specially installed lift, his toys, the medicine being prepared in the kitchen. The Cameron household is Ivan's own little church, and everything the family do at home revolves around him. It breaks your heart, but then you get the feeling that David and Samantha's hearts have been broken a thousand times over.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_ **Is it possible for you to describe how his (Ivan's) death has affected your other children?** _

_They've been obviously grief-stricken. The sadness of the shock hits everybody and I think they knew that...they were old enough to understand, they were very sad, but the amazing thing about young children is that in situations like this they do handle their loss in a very positive way. They talk about it a lot, in a positive way, where as adults we moan. It's been extraordinary to see how positive they are about it. _

_ **Would you and Samantha seriously consider having another child?** _

_We'd like to, but I don't know. We are very happy, we have a lovely family so fate will decide these things...._

_ **Finally on Ivan, did his passing have any effect on your attitude towards your work/life balance?** _

_Yes, it does, you know, your children only grow up once. So I do, I try. I took Elwen to school this morning on my bicycle; I tried to convince him that if we both clapped our hands at the same time we'd take off! You know, it just brings home to you that you don't get a second chance with childhood so you must make the most of it, and it's for the best.-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_Just as we experienced a new world of hospitals and tests, so we had to build a new and very different life at home. Looking after someone with Ivan's condition-unable to move or communicate, doubly incontinent and prone to massive and prolonged seizures-meant huge changes. We needed a hospital bed, syringes, tubes, oxygen, suction pumps, sterilisation equipment and a range of controlled drugs, including powerful benzodiazepines and barbiturates. But above all we needed Olympian levels of stamina, patience and love. We did our best, but after a few months we were close to collapse. We tried to cope mostly on our own, but we simply couldn't. I found the phone number of Kensington and Chelsea council's social workers, and soon, to my great relief, one of them was sitting in our kitchen, notepad in hand, talking about the help that was available. The list of people, who assisted us, in both London and Oxfordshire, is a long one. Children's hospices like Helen House and Shooting Star, and dedicated public servants like the community nursing team, who Samantha would say did more than anyone to save her life and her sanity. At the moment of greatest crisis, when we were near to breaking point, I found someone who would become very special in the life of our family. Gita Lama, a young Nepalese woman, had worked for a diplomatic family in London and subsequently registered with an organisation that represented domestic workers at risk of abuse and helped them find new work. She became Ivan's night carer, and would later help us to look after him at the weekends at Dean. She loved Ivan as if he were her own, and went on to look after our other children in Downing Street. Now with a son of her own, she remains a good friend of the family._

_Kensington and Chelsea were incredibly helpful, and gave us carers who stayed in with Ivan several nights a week. Again, these amazing women-the main two were Shree and Michelle-became devoted to him, and close to us.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_"I feel like we could be friends" I said. "But I don't want to mess it up."_

_"Oh, sweetheart." Mum gave me a sympathetic look. "You've got lots of other friends."_

_"They only like School Frances, though. Not Real Frances."-Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_"It's just...everything. There are too many people. And I don't fit in. I don't know how to be."-Fangirl, Rainbow Rowell_

_"I thought I recognized you. You're awfully quiet, aren't you. Not much like your sister then, I'm supposing."_

_"We...we like different things, Katie and I" Emily told her quietly._

_"Good" Naomi said with an approving nod, blowing smoke out into the cool night air. Then "I have to say I'm rather pleased that you and your sister aren't so alike. The world doesn't need two Katie Fitches in it. Besides" she added, flicking away the end of her fag. "It would have been so disappointing if you'd turned out to be nothing special."_

_She thinks I'm special, Emily thought.-(park that car, drop that phone) sleep on the floor, dream about me, majesdane (Skins fanfiction)_

_It's so much easier just to look at him than to think about things, and the truth is that looking at him is making me ridiculously happy.-Gone, Gone, Gone, Hannah Moskowitz_

* * *

"This is my room. My room _here."_ Flo tugs Sam by the wrist so that he doesn't get left behind. "Up here. I have my, my, my own room here _too."_

Sam looks around at all the photographs on the walls. Mummy and Daddy have lots of photographs on the landing and Sam's eyes are so big and dark that Flo thinks it looks like they're pulling the photos into them, making them bigger and darker.

Daniel grabs her hand, pulls it up so that it's pointing higher at one of the photos. "Who's that-"

Flo cranes her neck back, trying to see; Daniel's only a bit taller than her, but she can't see who he's pointing at. "Who's that-who-"

"The-who-him-" Daniel jumps up and tries to touch the pictures, but even Flo can see that his finger won't reach. "That little-boy-"

Flo scrunches up her forehead and tilts her head back until she can see he's talking about Ivan. There's a big photograph of Mummy and Daddy on a settee and Ivan lying in the middle. In the photograph, Mummy's holding a baby that she's told Flo was Nancy.

"That's my big brother" Flo says. "He's Ivan. He's my other big brother. He's bigger than Nan--Nancy and Elwen-"

"But where's he?"

"He's in heaven" Flo says, leading the way into her bedroom. "But he went up there before I came down." She jumps up onto her bed and bounces, her hair slapping her in the face.

"What's that?" Daniel asks, climbing up next to her. Sam climbs too, his big, dark eyes looking around Flo's room. Flo beams happily at getting to show everyone her room. Everyone she knows has already seen her room before.

Then she hears what Daniel's said and blinks. "That's where you go-it's in the _sky"_ she says, her voice waving up and down, and jolting with each bounce. It makes her teeth chatter a couple of times. "It's in the sky, and you go there when you die."

"When you _die?"_ asks Daniel, as they bounce.

"Yes" Flo says, happy to explain. "When you die, you go back into the sky. Mummy and Daddy said. That's where babies are before their mummies born them."

"Our grandad-Daddy's grandad died" Daniel says, still bouncing-Sam is quietly bounced between them. "But he's-he's-he just died, he's not in heaven, he just died-"

Flo shakes her head, panting. "No, he'll be in heaven. If he's good, because if he's good, if you're good, when you die, you go to heaven."

Daniel's face is all scrunched. Flo nods. "Ivan went up and then I came down" she tells him, taking Sam's hand to make him bounce too. "And then I-I came down, and then I was here-"

She bounces harder, and because she's got hold of Sam's hand, he does, too. Daniel's head nearly crashes into hers', and they bounce, Flo's breathing aching while their laughter gets all loud and crashes into each other as they bounce, higher and higher and higher.

* * *

Nancy shoves her hands deep into her pockets as she walks, breath punctuating the air like small sharp bursts of conversation as they walk. The air's icy, biting at her collar. Nancy yanks at her ponytail, fingers squeezing at her earlobes regretfully.

"Dad" she says, trotting up next to him, breaking off his conversation with Mr Ed Miliband. "When can I have my ears pierced?"

"Ah." Dad puts an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into him. "The ear-piercing question."

Nancy shakes her head, annoyance stabbing in her chest. Liberty has her ears pierced. So do most of the girls in Nancy's class, and Bea's, from what she says. But not Nancy. Or Bea.

Mum wouldn't have a problem with it-when Nancy was little, Mum used to sit and let Nancy run her fingers over and kiss the blue dolphin Mum has on her foot. Nancy had told her she wanted a dolphin, and Mum had sketched out a picture of Nancy grown up, with a school of dolphins leaping up and down each shin.

Dad shakes his head, pulling Nancy tighter into his side. "I said we'll think about it."

Nancy snorts. "That means no, then, doesn't it?"

It's not fair, because even Bea says her main problem's Auntie Sarah (Auntie Sarah took Bea's phone away last year when she'd only had it a week. Uncle Michael, Auntie Sarah had said waspishly, would probably have let Bea stare at the screen until her brains dribbled out of her eyes, which totally ignored the fact that Auntie Sarah had _bought _her the stupid phone in the first place, Bea had said furiously, kicking her wardrobe.)

At least Bea _has_ a phone. Nancy isn't even allowed that, or Internet on her iPod touch. Even if she does get her hands on a phone at some point, Nancy's got no doubt that Dad's security team will get their hands all over it, that by the time it's actually given to her, she won't be able to so much as click on Instagram without every alarm in the building going off in case someone's hacked into it.

But even if Dad wasn't Prime Minister, Nancy probably wouldn't be allowed a phone or earrings. Nancy kicks sullenly at the ground.

"What about when I go to secondary school?" she tries, tugging her ponytail out of her jacket collar. "Why not then?" Her words come out as an icy cloud. "Liberty got her ears pierced, then."

"You're not Liberty."

"Well, that's quite obvious, Dad."

"Oi." Her father taps her shoulder. "Don't."

Nancy glares up at him. "Why not? Uncle George is fine with it-"

"Nance, we'll talk about it another time." Dad just looks at her, and Nancy glares back at him, kicking a stone along the ground. "No, we _won't"_ she says, as they catch up to the others, loud enough for Mum, who's carrying Flo, to turn round as they catch up to them. "Why, what is it?"

"Earrings" Dad says, at the same moment Nancy says "Dad won't talk about getting my ears pierced-"

"Oh." Mum's arm comes out around her shoulders. "Well, how about we talk about it-we could look at getting it done in summer, OK?"

Nancy just folds her arms and shrugs. Mum bends down, tugging her into her side gently. "Just not right now, OK?" she says, breath tickling Nancy's temple. Nancy huffs.

It's not fair, she thinks, and tugs herself free from Mum's arm a little, letting her take Elwen's hand instead. Nancy pulls her jacket tighter around her and her gaze falls on Mr Ed Miliband, who had been talking with Dad, but had drifted away a few steps, as if not sure whether or not he was allowed to listen to the earrings conversation.

Nancy watches him. He's trying to lift Sam, holding him out in front of him like a parcel that he's not sure if he wants or not. "Can I juth-st-can you just wait a th-second, sweetie-"

Nancy watches. Mr Ed Miliband holds Sam out in front of him, eventually moving him to the side, onto his hip. But his arms look like they don't quite fit around him properly.

Nancy's not sure why she lags behind a little, shoving her hands into her pockets, and slowing her pace to match Mr Ed Miliband's, but she does, falling into step beside him. Maybe it's something about how odd he looks, looking at Sam like he doesn't know quite what to do with him. Nancy looks for Daniel, but he's wriggled between Mum and Elwen, holding Mum's hand tight.

She stares at him until Mr Ed Miliband notices and turns to look at her. "Oh-" He always looks a bit surprised to see her, or anyone, really. "Hello, Nanth-cy-"

It's really the lisp that makes Nancy feel a bit warmer towards him, though she isn't aware of that at the time. She just knows that he sounds nervous and his eyes dart a little and, in the manner she's used to having to do at school when there's someone on their own, she wants to talk to him. Nancy's on the school council, one of those children whom are often selected by teachers to be a buddy for the younger kids, and she feels the same pang of almost painful sympathy now.

If Nancy was less used to being around adults, she'd probably feel more out of her depth, or at least be aware of the strangeness of their positions-of her asking Mr Ed Miliband if he's all right-of the person a forty-five-year-old man needs to reassure him being an only-just eleven-year-old girl, whose biggest worry a few moments ago was when she could get her ears pierced.

But she's Nancy, and so she isn't, which is what makes her able to say to Ed Miliband "Are you all right?" with absolutely no hesitation at all.

Mr Ed Miliband blinks and stares down at her. Nancy just stares back, noticing the odd grey streak in his hair. Bea thought it was cool, like the girl from Paramore, but Nancy has the feeling Mr Ed Miliband would probably no more think of dyeing a streak in his hair than he would to fly out the window.

"Um-yeah." Mr Ed Miliband shifts Sam awkwardly from one hip to the other. "I'm-I'm fine. How are you?"

Nancy shrugs. "I'm OK." She can hear Sam's breathing on the air, a little unsteady, as if he has to try hard at it.

"Well. That'th-that's good."

Nancy's used to grown-ups knowing the way they want to take the conversation, so, although she doesn't know it, the fact that this grown-up probably couldn't hold his own as well as Flo can with strangers probably makes Nancy more interested in talking to him.

"Th-so-um-" Mr Ed Miliband shifts Sam awkwardly again. "You'll-you'll be going to th-secondary school in September."

One of Uncle Michael's friends had called it big school. Nancy had nearly vomited.

"Yeah" she says, wandering with her arms out, noting the thin crackles of ice on the hedges she brushes her fingers along.

"Do you know where?"

Nancy's pretty sure. "Probably Grey Coat" she says. "Where Bea is."

"Oh. Did you like it?"

Nancy hadn't minded it, looking around-as much as you could like a school. It was old, like a house in some ways-Nancy had wondered if anyone had ever lived there. There were old boards on the walls, listing school teams and that kind of stuff. Dad had stopped and stared at them with an odd blink, as though they were reminding him of something. Nancy guesses they were probably quite like the teams he'd had at boarding school, and had wondered if that was why he liked this school for her so much.

When they'd gone into Bea's class, Nancy had felt the odd jolt that comes with recognizing someone you know somewhere unfamiliar. It shouldn't have been because Bea and her have been in the same school for as long as Nancy can remember, until this year, and she'd seen Bea in her uniform plenty of times.

But it was still weird. Nancy had watched her, until Bea had looked up, spotted her and given her a wave. She'd gone off to school that morning in the school-regulated ponytail, but during the course of the day, Bea had clearly pulled it out so her hair hung like a dark curtain over her shoulders, brushing her desk. She was slumped in her chair, rocking it back and forth.

Nancy had waved back. The girl sitting next to Bea-Eliza, Bea later told Nancy-had been doing the thing most people did when they spotted Dad in public-the look under the eyelashes, the widening of the eyes, then staring really hard at a table as if she'd never seen a desk before.

It was more subtle than most of the rest of the class were being. One of them was elbowing her friend, who eventually shoved her back, sending her half out of her chair into the aisle.

Those were the ones looking at Dad. The rest of the girls had been staring at her.

Nancy had had no clue what to do. The classes they'd been into so far had been for older kids. They'd _looked_ but they hadn't stared.

This lot were staring.

Nancy had just fixed her gaze on Bea, trying to look as though she wasn't aware that she'd turned into a zoo exhibit. Bea's eyes had caught her own, and her head had jerked slightly as she seemed to get Nancy's silent telegram for help.

"Uncle Dave" she'd said loudly enough for her voice to carry across the classroom, and, with everyone watching her, she'd given Dad a wave. "Hi."

Dad had just given her a quick "Hi, Bea" and wave in return, but that's all he'd had to do. The other girls had turned to look at Bea, not Nancy.

"Do you-"

"-know him because your dad-"

Bea had affected a disinterested, casual air, which, of course, had only served to make everyone more interested. "Yeah. He's just my uncle. Well, you know, not _proper_ uncle, but-"

It hadn't mattered. There'd been a couple of muffled explosions of whispers, and a rustling of looks around the classroom. One girl was already yanking her phone out. Nancy had resisted the urge to grab it out of her hands.

But they were looking at Bea. Dad, as well. But Bea. Nancy still drew a few curious looks, but Bea was the one shrugging, feigning a sudden interest in her work which would only make people look at her more, casting Nancy a grin under her dark fringe and a mischievous look out of her green eyes. Nancy's missed Bea being at school with her.

Now, she shoves her hands in her pockets as they wander down the lane.

"Are you looking forward to it?"

Nancy shrugs. "I 'spose."

St Mary Abbots is tiny. That's what Nancy's heard Mum saying, anyway. But it's the only school Nancy's ever been to, and the size feels fine to her. She knows her way around. She can see the other kids at church on Sundays. And, of course there's Bea and Will, but some of their other friends-kids of Dad's friends-go there too. Everyone knows each other.

That's the big thing-everyone _knows._

And so, they know Nancy's _Nancy._

They don't ask about Dad. They don't gawp when they see him at the summer fair or at Sunday school.

People _know_, there. At Grey Coat, things are going to be totally different.

Mum and Dad have been talking about the uniform-Nancy can already tell the skirt will be a total nightmare, though she might be able to sew it somehow-and the different way to school, and if she'll be able to be in the car with El and Flo, or if they'll have to take two cars, and of course, about who'll have to go with them when they take her, because Nancy can't remember the last time they were able to go anywhere, alone, without-and she clocks them ahead of her now, knows there are a couple behind-guards walking around them, but Nancy's got other things to think about.

How's she supposed to invite anyone over? What does she say when they ask where she lives? Whenever they do letter-writing at school now, Nancy just writes down her old address, of the house they lived in until she was six, that they'll go back to when Dad stops being Prime Minister. And that was fine, because by the time he was Prime Minister and they moved, everyone in her class knew who she was and they only cared who Dad was the same way they cared about anyone else's dad.

At Grey Coat, the second they read out her surname on the register, _everyone's _going to know. If they do letter-writing_ there_, the second Nancy has to stand up and read out her address, the entire class is going to dissolve into hysterics, no matter what she says. She could tell them she lived at Disneyland and her dad was a marshmallow man and they'd still be gawping at the big, fat, invisible DOWNING STREET they'd all be seeing slapped on her forehead.

"You know-" Mr Ed Miliband's threading his fingers in and out of each other around Sam's back. "Um-when I went to th-secondary school, people were-um, well, they were difficult-"

Somehow, Nancy isn't surprised.

"You know-" Mr Ed Miliband juggles Sam nervously, who's making annoyed sounds. "Shh, sweetie-it'th-s best to ignore it-"

Nancy snorts. She sometimes wonders if adults remember that they were ever actually kids. It's all very well to tell someone to _ignore it_-they're not the ones sitting there while everyone stares at them like they might sprout a black Downing Street door out their shoulder.

"What does ignore it even mean?"

Mr Ed Miliband stares at her worriedly, head on one side. He looks like a curious squirrel. "Doeth-s that not work?"

Nancy snorts. "Not particularly."

Mr Ed Miliband bites his lip. Somehow, Nancy feels rather like she just kicked a puppy.

"Why?" she asks. "Did it work for _you?"_

"Well-" Mr Ed Miliband's forehead crumples a little. "Not really. But then-"

He blushes suddenly, and his fingers flutter, as though they want something to hold. "O-other thingth-s didn't work, either."

Brilliant.

Nancy's not quite harsh enough to say that out loud, though, so she just shrugs.

Mr Ed Miliband glances at her a few times, as though wanting to say something. Nancy watches him, curiosity piqued. She knows Mr Ed Miliband's smart-and he's about the same age as Dad-but he seems younger, somehow, with big eyes. Like a shove would send him over.

"Do-do you come here a lot, then?" There's his voice too, the way he stutters over certain words, his lisp thickening in his mouth.

Nancy kicks a stone along the road as they walk. "Yeah. At weekends. But sometimes, we go to Chequers."

Mr Ed Miliband nods. "Right."

"Where's your other house?"

"Oh." His head jerks a little. "Doncaster. It's in Yorkshire-but I'm not there as much."

Nancy nods. She's used to the fact other people don't come to their other houses as much as they do. When she was little, she thought everyone had a weekend house.

"Your dad said you were out doing errand-ths thith-s morning" Mr Ed Miliband says suddenly, and Nancy's heart plummets for a second, making her hug herself tighter.

"Um-yeah."

It's not that Nancy's surprised Dad didn't tell Ed Miliband where they were going-though she guesses he must talk to him about _some_ stuff, since they have photos of Ivan everywhere at home.

If Dad didn't tell him, Nancy's not about to. Besides, she doesn't like talking about Ivan. He's theirs. When she tries to put it into words, it makes it feel different, less, like when you see an age-progressed picture of a kid that's missing. It's a kid but _not_ the kid.

Everyone at school knows about Ivan, but everyone knows not to ask about it, without needing to be told. At Grey Coat, things will be totally different.

What does she do, the first time someone comes round and asks _Who's that?_

_Oh, that's my brother, he's dead, do you want to watch Bake Off?_

Or does she have to give them a pre-emptive warning when they're at school? _Oh, just so you know, my brother's dead, don't ask about the pictures._

The only way Nancy can see around it is not to talk about it, and that's not going to stand up forever. But then that's the only way she can see around mentioning Dad, either.

"Were you canvath-ssing?"

Nancy looks up in surprise. Mr Ed Miliband's watching her.

"Was I what?"

"Were you canvath-ssing?" Mr Ed Miliband shifts Sam from one side to the other. "This morning. For the election."

"Er-no."

Mr Ed Miliband stares at her, looking slightly bemused by her tone. "Oh. Don't you-I mean, won't you have to do some, th-soon?"

Nancy stares at him. "I'm _eleven."_

Mr Ed Miliband blinks. "Right."

He stares at her for another moment. Nancy stares back.

Then_, "Oh."_ He blinks a couple of times, as though he's been hit and isn't quite sure if it's happened yet. "You mean-no?"

Nancy shakes her head slowly.

"Oh!" Mr Ed Miliband's eyes open a little, as though he's just been stuck with a pin or something.

They walk on in silence for a few moments, a little behind the others, Flo's chatter echoing on the cold mid-morning air. Nancy, glancing at the slightly confused expression on Mr Ed Miliband's face, feels an odd stab of guilt.

"You mean leafleting and stuff?" she says, moving closer to him without realising.

"Yeah." He looks relieved, as though Nancy's just thrown him a life jacket or something.

She shakes her head. "I mean-I think Dad does that, but we don't have to."

Mr Ed Miliband doesn't look bewildered this time. Instead, he just stares at Nancy quite unabashedly as they walk, scrutinizing her as though she's some curiosity in a zoo he's never seen before.

This type of staring, oddly, doesn't make Nancy feel the same stirrings of self-consciousness she'd felt at Grey Coat. Perhaps it's something about the simple unashamed nature of the way Mr Ed Miliband's staring at her-as though he doesn't realise it's a weird thing to do at all.

Nancy stares back, with a similar amount of curiosity.

"Oh." Mr Ed Miliband shakes his head a little, still frowning, as though Nancy's just told him something very odd indeed. "Oh-juth-st-I would have thought-" He blinks, frowning a little at the ground. "I always did, with my dad" he says more quietly, almost to himself.

This doesn't seem to require an answer, so Nancy doesn't give one. But she looks at Mr Ed Miliband, and then at the way Daniel, a few feet ahead of them, is cuddling so determinedly into her mother's side.

Sam's making noises again. Mr Ed Miliband juggles him half-heartedly. "All right, sweetie" he says, but he says it vaguely, as though his thoughts are somewhere else, and the words are something he learnt a long time ago, that he still trots out. The words don't seem to quite fit in his mouth.

Nancy looks at Daniel again, at the way he clings onto her mother's hand, as though she might pull away at any second. She looks at Sam, at the way his dark eyes skitter away from his father's, still making small, disgruntled sounds in his throat-at the way Mr Ed Miliband holds him slightly out in front of him, like a parcel that's arrived unexpectedly that he's not sure what to do with.

_Yeah, _Nancy thinks to herself, without quite knowing why. _I bet you did._

* * *

Every second he looks around, Ed has to pinch himself to remind himself that this place is real. Chadlington looks like the sort of village Enid Blyton would shove into one of her books; the kind of place retiring couples or young families rhapsodize about. It is the kind of place where, Ed would bet, it'd be safe to leave your door unlocked, the kind of place almost nobody real gets to live.

Even when they get out of the car-it had transpired they'd only had to walk part of the way-people still smile when they meet their eyes. Ed has been here once or twice before-but that's been to visit food banks, to deliver packages, to show willing, to show caring.

To show how uncaring Cameron was.

Ed shoves that thought aside.

To park himself on Cameron's turf.

He supposes that's what he's doing now-but it feels entirely different.

Now, as they walk down one of the high streets, Ed notices the sheer number of people who nod or smile at Cameron, Sam and the children-some even turn and run back, after accidentally walking past, to say a hello. Ed, if he'd thought about it, wouldn't have bet that many places like this still existed.

And the first thing that lodges itself into Ed's mind, small and mean and leaving his mouth crumpling at the sourness of the words: _No wonder this is a safe Tory seat, then._

Even as he thinks it, Ed hates himself for it.

"All right, Miliband?" Cameron turns to him unexpectedly, jolting Ed out of his reverie. "Seem a bit glazed."

Ed shakes his head, blinking rapidly. "Oh-no-"

Cameron's eyes sparkle. "Wondering what kind of Conservative safe-seat abomination I've brought you to, Miliband?"

_"No."_ Ed looks up at him, suddenly aware of their arms brushing. "It'th-"

He searches for a word, but the way Cameron smiles is making him-

"Nice" he manages, inanely.

Cameron grins. Ed feels something flood up and out in his chest, making his cheeks ache as he ducks his head to hide his own smile.

He looks around at Samantha. Her eyes flicker to the children every few moments, even as she walks-she has his own son on one hip, Sam's curls resting against her shoulder, Daniel cuddling into her leg, Florence skipping ahead. (It's a miracle she can skip. Florence has been wrapped in so many coats and jumpers that only her little eyes are visible. She looks like a tiny Michelin man.)

As she walks, Samantha's eyes skitter to each of the children without trying, a dance her gaze seems to have learnt over the years. Justine always looks ahead when she walks, or at the others they're talking to-because when they take the kids out, it's nearly always with aides or advisors or strategists-but Samantha looks at the kids, every time.

Ed's so busy staring at them that he barely notices the brush of David's arm against his. "Hey? Pizza all right for you?"

"W-what? Oh-" Ed shakes his head. "Yeah, it's-that's fine."

"For the boys?"

"Um-I th-I think th-so-"

Cameron gives him an odd look. "You _think_ so?"

Ed fumbles. "Well-"

But before he can say anymore, a woman's voice calls out. "Hi, Dave-"

Cameron gives her a grin, and then he's chatting away, with her and her husband, who's tugging at a dog on a lead. Ed never knows how Cameron does that-launches into a conversation with anyone, without practicing, without-

Ed suddenly feels a tug of wanting, one that makes his hands curl and makes him bite at his lip.

He doesn't know why, but seeing Cameron like that, talking to people-

He almost gets the feeling-

As though Cameron would introduce him.

Like he's-

"Oh, this is Ed."

Ed freezes.

"I think you already know him" Cameron's saying, with a grin.

The woman blinks, as though expecting him to vanish any moment.

Ed can't blame them. They've got the _Prime Minister-_

Well, their MP.

And those words crash together in Ed's head, because-well-which is it?

"Oh-" says the woman, and Ed takes her outstretched hand a little awkwardly, running through the etiquette he's rehearsed so many times that he sometimes wakes up mumbling it, teeth clenched tightly around the words as though that might help him hold them closer. "Hello, it'th nice to meet you-"

The woman shakes his hand, still regarding him warily, as though he's a dog that she's not sure is friendly or not. "Nice to meet you" she says, still warily, and, with a sudden jolt, Ed realises that, of course, there's another thing Cameron is-he's their neighbour.

And Ed's the one they see trying to get rid of his job.

Ed drops his hand a little too quickly. "Um-really nithe to-" He feels his head bob awkwardly, and looks away.

"Ed's here for the weekend" Cameron says and Ed notices the slight raising of his voice, wonders if anyone else would. "He's my-"

He hesitates. Ed wonders if anyone's noticed that either. Cameron's eyes have somehow found his own.

"Friend" Cameron says, a little quieter. The slight uncertainty in his voice makes Ed's heart skip a beat.

Cameron clears his throat, looking away too quickly, a slight flush at his cheeks. Ed looks down, feeling his own cheeks warm, but his gaze is caught by the sight of Elwen running over to one of the stone walls that borders the town lane, heading for a little boy in a white football shirt, Daniel following him.

"Chadlington Under-9s" Cameron says, following his gaze. "Elwen plays for them most Saturdays or Sundays-you'll see them tomorrow-"

Ed stares at them, the three little boys, one in a football shirt, leaning against the stone wall.

_The day had been sunny. Ed had been reading, reading Enid Blyton to himself-he can't remember which one, years later-his mother's hand too tight around his wrist, occasionally tugging him along. "Come on, Edward-"_

_David had been standing with their father, a few feet ahead, Dad's hands on his shoulders. They were talking quickly, though Ed couldn't tell about what. Something about football, which he didn't understand much of._

_Mum didn't understand, either, but she and Dad always turned up. Football's something boys do. Something British boys do._

_A ball had bounced onto the grass next to them, hitting Ed's shoe gently. Ed had blinked owlishly, staring down over the book at the ball._

_Looking up, he'd seen David staring at them, too. Ed had stared back at his brother, then down at the ball._

_"Come on" one of the boys, only a bit older than him, had been yelling, and Ed had fumbled with the book, fingers tangling together, his feet already knocking into each other, nudging against the ball awkwardly, because he couldn't kick it straight, he-_

_"Here-" David had been there, suddenly at his side. Ed had noticed the warmth of his arm, almost, but not quite touching Ed's, the rapid heat of his breath. "Here. I'll do it-"_

_David's foot had already been there, catching the ball as Ed stumbled and missed. He'd watched as the ball bounced back to the other boys, felt his shoulders sink a little, fingers pressing into the pages of his book too hard._

_His mother's hand had been back around his wrist, a little gentler this time, but tugging him on. "Come on, Edward" she'd said, her voice more forcibly cheerful than before. "You've just got funny feet, that's all. David doesn't."_

_Ed had put his nose back in his book, something heavy and aching swelling his throat shut._

_It had been later, in the middle of the game, that Ed wandered._

_He didn't mean to. He was always being told about wandering while he read or thought to himself, and for most of the game, their mother had kept a close eye on him, a hand always ready to dart out and close around his wrist. But then David had scored a goal and his mother had cheered and then there'd been orange slices to prepare for half-time, and after that, she'd forgotten to hold Ed's hand so much._

_Ed didn't know he'd started to wander. The other children stuck watching at the sidelines had been scuffling, ducking and diving in an impromptu game of tag. Ed had watched them for a bit, the thought occurring that he might be expected to try to join in, but it had looked boring and he didn't get asked to play, anyway._

_So he'd been reading, and he'd wandered._

_He'd just been wondering whether or not the St Clare's boarding school was one of those ones you had to pay money to go to, and whether or not he should ask Dad about it, when his mother's voice, shrill and sharp, had sliced almost painfully into his musings. "Edward!"_

_Ed had looked up, confusion scrambling his senses, so he became aware of the footfalls making the ground shudder beneath his feet as he was yanking his thoughts out of boarding school and Dad and Matron._

_He'd wandered onto the pitch. Now he was standing right in the way of a herd of players stampeding down the field towards him, the ground thudding like thunder, all of them in mad pursuit of the ball rolling towards Ed._

_Ed had just stood there. Weakly, he'd raised one leg, then lowered it again. He was standing still, staring at the herd of players thundering towards him._

_Then someone's hands had been fastening around his arms, fingers pressing bruises into Ed's skin. His feet had been dragging along the grass and he'd been half-pulled, half-carried, his left arm twisting a little, and then the ground had thudded into his back, slamming the breath out of him._

_The ground had thundered, but the feet had been passing him, and Ed had looked up then, his chest aching, to see his brother looking down at him._

_Ed had looked up at him, still reaching for breath. David's fingers had still been biting into his shoulders, leaving those deep purple bruising marks that would still be there when Ed stared into the mirror for weeks afterwards, no matter how long he stared at them. Whether he was waiting for them to vanish or not._

_"What were you doing?" David had barked the words, saliva hot on Ed's cheek, their faces flushed, both of them panting._

_Ed had opened his mouth, even as the feet of the grown-ups racing for them made the ground shake under his head._

_"I-"_

_David had just been looking at him. His fingers were gripping Ed's shoulders hard enough that it must have hurt, but sometimes, Ed thinks he can't remember the pain, but he'd pulled him out of the way. He'd pulled him out of the way, but he was staring at Ed. He was staring, shaking his head slightly, but his face was twisted in something furious, something furious and fierce and-_

_"What were you doing?" David had asked again, those words carrying above the grown-ups and the shaking ground and the bounce of the ball and the shouts of the other players, the footfalls of the rest of the world around them._

* * *

Cafe de la Post is the kind of place that'd make any Tory swoon, Ed thinks uncharitably, glancing around, and then hates himself for it.

But it's true. Erected in smooth brown stone, with overhanging striped awnings, the place could easily be mistaken for a little tea shop.

"It used to be a post office" Cameron had explained, as he led them inside. It looks utterly wholesome, innocent, right down to the crayons the waitress tosses onto the table for the children. (Nancy gives the crayons an offended look.)

Now, Ed finds himself glancing at Samantha, sitting next to him. She's tucking her hair back, but he can almost feel that same awareness-the one he noticed earlier. She's effortlessly carrying on a conversation with Cameron about some of the repairs needed on the house, while at the same time settling Flo into one of the booster seats the waitress has just handed them. Ed, with a start, only now realises he should be doing the same for Sam, only to realise when he starts out of his seat that Sam's already propped in a booster seat next to Florence, dark curls bobbing as the little girl lifts his hand to make him colour. Ed glances at Daniel, popped between Nancy and Cameron, only to realise that he's been contented with a smaller cushion, without Ed noticing. Ed feels a twinge of something he doesn't recognize.

Before he can notice it more, Samantha's giving him a grin. "They're sweet, aren't they?" she says, nodding to the crayons. "Dead kid-friendly-when we brought my friend Plum here, it was one of the only restaurants her little one, Tess, would eat out at-what is it, sweetie?" because Sam's tugging at her wrist. "You want to-oh, do you want to tell me what that is?", pointing to Sam's unidentifiable scribble.

Ed wants to smile, but it's hard. He realises, suddenly, that he's searching for the last time he looked at one of Sam's pictures, asked him to tell him about it. He can't remember where all the kids' coloured paper, curling at the edges, sagging under the weight of too much glitter, are at home, instead of covering the fridge, held up with brightly-coloured plastic magnets spelling out the alphabet, like on Cameron's.

"Look!" Ed jerks out of his reverie and into a jump as Flo punches his arm hard. "I _drew."_

Ed tries to recover both his composure and the feeling in his arm at once. Cameron, across the table, notices.

"Flo-" He reaches across and taps her hand. "No-_no-"_

"But I want _show-"_

"No hitting-"

Samantha gives Ed a grin over Florence's head as Daniel tugs at Cameron's arm. "Are you all right?"

Ed's about to answer, but something seems to swell in his throat and he presses his lips together to try to swallow it down.

But hearing Samantha talk so easily about her friends-she'd mentioned an Allie and a Venetia in the car-has suddenly jolted something into place-Cameron has a whole life that Ed isn't part of.

It sounds stupid. Of course Ed isn't _part_ of it. Why would he be?

But he's just never thought about it before.

And it's not just Ed-it's politics in general.

If Ed thought about Cameron before-well-

Ed colours.

Before this-well, it was generally political.

Well. Maybe.

Maybe sometimes-when they were sitting next to each other or-

But that's not the _point._ Politics is only a _part _of Cameron's life. A big part, but still, a part.

And he can, like a child taking turns with his toys, put it down and walk away, for a while-Ed thinks of Nancy's birthday, of his lunches with Cameron in his office. They hadn't been talking about politics then. There's a whole other world out there for Cameron, that doesn't seem rooted in Parliament and the Commons and policy and debate, at all.

Ed's not sure why that feels like such a jolt, but it's-

He tells himself it shouldn't be-that it shouldn't even be a surprise.

After all, _he's _got a life outside politics, too. A family. Everyone does.

Except-

The fact is, when Ed tends to think of his friends, he tends to think of politics. They tend to be in politics. Stewart, Bob, Anna-they're all in politics.

Sure, they have dinners. They've been to each other's houses. He's met their kids. It's just that somehow, round the dinner table, the conversation always tends to come round to politics, sooner or later. A line for an interview they should go over. A figure Alex dug out for Balls this week. And Ed will feel his shoulders relax, his breathing ease, back on familiar ground.

Ed blinks. He's always assumed that they just talk about politics because it's there-it's interesting, but it's _there _and necessary-it's what they talk about, what they need to be thinking of.

Now, suddenly, it niggles, that maybe politics is all they _have _to talk about.

Ed takes a sip of his water, teeth clinking too loudly on the glass. He suddenly can't quite remember the last conversation he had with his friends that wasn't about politics. The last time he called them up just to talk about whatever came into his head.

Suddenly, Ed feels lonely.

Samantha's watching him, head on one side. Suddenly, as if she knows exactly how he feels, she reaches out and puts her hand on Ed's arm.

Ed's never had a sister, or anything like one. The closest he's ever come to it is when he shared a flat with Yvette, and she would sometimes sit him down when he was agonizing over some policy detail for Gordon, push a cup of tea in front of him, and tell him it wasn't the end of the world. The only other person he can think of is Catherine, when they were at Oxford, who was the first person to look at him and say "You need to lose the jumpers. _Jesus_, someone could have _died _in that, darling", but somehow say it with a laugh so that it didn't sound mean at all.

Ed's never really thought about what it would be like to have a sister, but if he had, he might have pictured it as something like that squeeze of the arm. The warm pressure of Samantha's hand is gentle and firm but sends a rush of comfort through Ed, slows his heartbeat, and his shoulders slump without him even realising he's been holding them stiffly.

Samantha smiles at him. The smile's so sweet, it's disarming; Ed can't help but smile back.

But then why wouldn't he be able to smile back-

Cameron's watching them from across the table, his blue eyes flickering. "Everything all right?"

Ed blinks, unsure if Cameron's talking to him or Samantha. But it's him Samantha glances to for confirmation as she nods, and when he looks up, it's to find David's gaze fixed on his own.

David's gaze flickers away immediately when Ed catches it. Something leaps in Ed's chest-as though he's just caught Cameron in the act, though he isn't sure why.

"Yeah" he says, his voice a little breathier than usual.

And then, well-

Cameron's hand just comes out and-

Cameron just touches his hand. One quick, warm touch of his hand. Then it's gone.

Ed stares at him. Cameron's looking back at his menu, leaning over to look at what Elwen's pointing at.

Ed has to give himself a little mental shake. His cheeks are burning. He hastily stares at his own menu.

He keeps replaying that touch over and over.

He can feel it again. The warmth of Cameron's hand rubbing circles into his back that morning in Paris. The warmth of his hand a moment ago.

Ed wants to smile. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. His heart's beating so fast it hurts.

He keeps his eyes on his menu and so feels rather than sees Samantha's gaze linger on him for half a second, just that.

* * *

"Rock." Nancy always throws rock.

"Paper's supposed to beat rock" Elwen complains, taking a bite of his pizza.

"How would paper beat rock?" Nancy folds her own slice over, examining it. "Paper would get _ripped_ by rock."

"I don't know, paper just beats rock, it's in the rules-"

Nancy rolls her eyes, leaning back in her chair. Daniel, next to her, is holding up the crust from a slice of his own smaller pizza and apparently chatting to it. "And this is _mine"_ he says, waving the pizza crust. _"My_ pizza-"

Nancy catches it when it promptly falls off his fork. "Here-"

Daniel takes it back. "Thank you. And _this-"_ He bites at the crust, kicking his legs uproariously. "Is _mine-"_

"Yes-" Dad's saying to him, tapping him with his own pizza crust. "Is that-is that going to fit in your mouth, then-"

"Yes-" Daniel's biting. "It's big enough for _this-"_

"Right-" Dad's guiding the crust into his mouth. _"Aaah-"_

Daniel's laughing. "What are we-what are we doing after lun-lunch-"

_"What_ are we doing after lunch?" Dad takes a bite of his own pizza. "Well, we might go for a bike ride-"

"I ride _bike_" Daniel announces. "When we-" A shadow falls across his face. "And Daddy says we have to ride scooters-when we leaflets-"

His face looks darker, suddenly. His lips purse together. Dad's gaze only sharpens for a blink of an eye, but Nancy can tell that he notices.

He doesn't say anything, but Nancy, looking at Daniel's pursed mouth, says "Don't you like leafleting, then?"

Dad doesn't look at them but Nancy watches his shoulders tense just slightly.

Daniel, frowning at his pizza crust, shakes his head hard.

Nancy frowns. "Then why do-"

She doesn't get any further before Dad grabs her shoulder. "Right. Everyone look at your shoes."

Nancy stares at him rather than complying. "Why-"

Dad grips her shoulder and steers her so Nancy finds her face suddenly about an inch away from her lunch. "He's just come in."

"Who?" Mr Ed Miliband looks up from across the table.

"Enright."

"Enright?" Mr Ed Miliband's eyes widen. _"My _Enright?"

_"Your_ Enright? What is he, your _husband-"_

"Oh, don't be th-stupid, of course not-"

_"Your_ Enright-"

"My Enright, my, our candidate for-"

"Shall I book the chapel-"

"Oh, shut up, Cameron-"

Nancy and Elwen are glancing between them. Flo, apparently not noticing or caring, throws a pizza crust into the air, and giggles as it promptly lands on her head.

"Look, everyone just-" Dad makes frantic flapping gestures with his hands. "Everyone just-"

Mr Ed Miliband, rolling his eyes, manages to lower his own eyes to the table. Mum rolls her eyes. "Oh, for goodness' sake, just go and say hello-"

"We are _not saying hello."_

"Who is it-" Daniel only manages to look halfway round before Dad grabs him and steers him to look at the table. "Look. Pizza."

Elwen cranes round to peer past Nancy at the man they're all trying to avoid being seen to peer at while they all try to peer at him.

"Don't bring up the bake off" Dad's muttering. "Don't bring up the bake off, don't bring up the bake off-"

"What bake off?" Nancy hisses, past Daniel's face.

Dad avoids her eyes. Nancy feels a sense of foreboding stir the hair on the back of her neck. "What Bake Off?"

"OK." Dad keeps his eyes down as John Enright speaks to one of the waiters. "In a moment of ill-consideration-"

"Oh Christ."

"When he challenged me to a bake-off, I might have said, in a moment of madness-"

"Oh God."

"That Nancy could beat him in a bake-off any day."

Nancy smacks the table furiously. Dad ruffles her hair. Nancy glowers at him. "Are you _kidding?"_

Dad shakes his head. "He challenged the family baking skills."

"David!" Mum rolls her eyes. Mr Ed Miliband is watching Dad with his head on one side.

Dad shakes his head. "I made an executive decision, you weren't there."

Nancy rolls her eyes. Elwen bursts out laughing next to her, prompting a storm of furious _shhs_ from the rest of the table.

Dad frantically beckons them all to look down. "Don't come over....don't come over...don't come over...."

"Oh, for God's sake" mutters Mum. Mr Ed Miliband just smiles. His eyes flicker up, taking Dad in for a second, before they flicker down again.

After a moment, Nancy risks a glance up. She can't see Duncan Enright anywhere.

Dad snorts. "Ah. Look who's too go-"

"Hello, David-"

Dad closes his eyes for a long moment, before he looks up to see Duncan Enright standing behind him.

Duncan Enright smiles around the table. "Not interrupting anything, I hope?"

Everyone stares up at him. Flo, sitting with a pizza crust right in the middle of her head, giggles loudly.

* * *

"You brought it on yourself" Mum mutters a few moments later, kicking Dad under the table, once Duncan Enright has gone on his merry way. Daniel, Flo and Sam are already chattering again, Sam holding out another piece of pizza crust to Flo.

"How on _earth_ did I bring it on myself-" Dad's cutting his pizza with a knife and fork, a quirk peculiar to her father. "I was defending my daughter's good name-"

_"Defending-_we're not in the _seventeenth century,_ she doesn't need a _dowry-"_

Mr Ed Miliband's still looking at Dad, head on one side. Nancy watches him watch her father. There's a small smile playing at his mouth. His cheeks are flushed. He looks almost fond.

Mum shakes her head and turns back to the pizza. Dad sticks his tongue out at her when she isn't looking. A small dimple creases Mr Ed Miliband's cheek as he reaches for his glass of orange juice.

Then, in the short silence, Daniel pipes up "When did Ivan go away?"

Mr Ed Miliband promptly chokes on his juice. Orange juice splatters the table.

Mum sits very still for a second. Then she's moving so rapidly that it's like a blink, banging Mr Ed Miliband on the back, while Dad reaches across the table for a napkin. On Nancy's other side, Elwen hums uncomfortably in his throat and stares out of the window. His foot drums under the table, as if searching for a football that isn't there.

Mr Ed Miliband stops coughing, sinking slowly back into his seat. He touches Mum's hand awkwardly, eyes darting around. "Th-thankth-" His eyes settle on Daniel. Only Flo and Sam seem merrily unperturbed, now engrossed in piling pizza crusts on each other's shoulders.

Dad takes a gulp of his glass of wine. "Ivan died five years ago" he says to Daniel as if it's a perfectly normal question. He even carries on eating his slice of pizza.

Daniel, picking up his slice again looking untroubled, does the same. "OK."

They all sit in silence for a moment.

"How old was he?" Daniel's biting into his pizza again.

Once again, it's Dad who answers. "He was six, Daniel."

_"I'm_ nearly six." Daniel nods once. "OK."

He starts eating again.

Dad carries on eating. Mr Ed Miliband's eyes are darting about, before he says, in an undertone, "David-"

"It's OK." Dad's voice is gentle.

"David, I-"

"It's OK." Dad's voice is as gentle as before, but there's a steadiness too. He sounds calmer.

Mum, across the table, seems to jerk back into movement at the sound. She reaches across to Flo and begins gently removing the pizza crusts from her and Sam's shoulders. Nancy stares at her, stares until she's sure that Mum's not going to go still again, until Mum's wiping Flo's face while Flo beams happily, blissfully absorbed in playing her fingers through Sam's hair. Elwen begins eating his pizza again as though having received silent permission, with a sense of relief at being allowed to do so.

Nancy looks down at her pizza. She isn't hungry anymore.

Abruptly, she slides her plate away, pushes her chair back and, grabbing her hoodie, heads for the door.

* * *

Nancy doesn't go far-she never _can_ go far. The second she'd headed for the door, one of the protection team had almost kicked his chair over in his haste to go after her.

Outside, he doesn't approach her-just hovers at a distance, keeping her within his line of sight. Not that Nancy can go far anyway. She'd be stuck waiting by the car.

Nancy eyes the benches up on the grassy mount that's just across from the restaurant, where there are fairs and races in the summer, but, deciding that isn't far enough, she turns back down Horseshoe Lane. The grass and leaves are covered in the kind of ice which crackles when you touch it.

There's no cars coming and Nancy would hear one from behind from miles away so she walks down the centre of the road they've just wandered down, careful to pick her feet up carefully so she doesn't slip on the ice. She can feel the protection guard following at a distance. She's not planning to go far, and she doesn't.

After only a few feet, pulling her hoodie tight around her, she spots a set of steps she's perched on before, tucked almost out of sight if you were heading in the direction she is, in a small bay area at the side of the road, next to a small outhouse. She can see, very faintly, the big sign for Chadlington Garage in the distance, which is about where they've parked the car.

Nancy perches on one of the steps pulling her hoodie tightly around herself. She almost immediately feels the cold soaking through her jeans and shivers, but she'll go back in a bit. In the meantime, she taps her wellies on the step below, thinking. Quietly, she catalogues some of the things she remembers about her brother.

His eyes were exactly the same colour as hers', so they matched.

When she put her hand on his cheek and turned him to look at her, his eyes would move about a bit over her face, as if he could only look at her a bit at a time.

When they were swimming, Ivan liked to float on his back and look at the ceiling or the sky, and his eyes would widen like it was filling them up.

Sometimes, his fingers would curl around hers' when Nancy gripped his hand.

"Hi."

Nancy looks up. Mr Ed Miliband is standing at the side of the road.

"Hi" she says after a few moments, and then looks away. She wonders briefly how he knew where to stop, and then remembers the protection officer.

She feels a pang of guilt as he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. Nancy's about to offer him a seat when he seems to make up his own mind and sits down on the step below her.

"It'th-um-" He's playing with his fingers. "Well. It'th a nithe place here, isn't it?"

Nancy tries not to roll her eyes. It would be mean.

They sit next to each other, Mr Ed Miliband's elbow brushing hers', not looking at each other.

"Um-" Nancy feels rather than sees Mr Ed Miliband glance at her. "Well-Daniel-Daniel didn't mean to upset you-" His first name sounds awkward in his mouth.

"I'm not mad at him." Nancy pulls her hoodie tighter around her, slides her hands into its' pockets.

"Um." Mr Ed Miliband chews his lip. "That'th OK."

"I'm not."

Mr Ed Miliband purses his lips, curls his fingers. "Um-you know, he didn't to, though. About. Ivan."

Nancy folds her arms tighter.

After Ivan died, she wouldn't sleep.

She wouldn't eat when she was meant to.

She wouldn't go to school.

She wouldn't go to the toilet when she needed to.

She wouldn't have a bath.

She wouldn't talk properly.

Nancy doesn't remember much about it. She remembers trying to reach up to a chair, tugging Mum's arm. "Mummy" she'd said, over and over. "Mummy. Mummy. Mummy."

She remembers Dad lying down with her one night, shushing her over and over. "Shh" he'd said. "Shh, shh-"

"Mummy-" she'd said into his chest over and over. She'd been pressed tight into his chest. "Mummy. Mummy-"

"Shhh-" He'd had his arms tight around her. She could feel him shaking a little but his heart had been beating hard against hers' and Nancy had closed her eyes and listened to it, feeling his arms stay tight around her the whole time.

Mr Ed Miliband is watching her worriedly. "Are you all right?" he says, as though she's a bomb that might go off. Nancy takes her hands out of her pockets, then blows on them, wincing at the cold.

"Here-"

Mr Ed Miliband awkwardly reaches out and puts both his hands on either side of hers'. Nancy stares at him.

"Um-" Mr Ed Miliband slowly moves her hand without looking at her, and tucks it into his pocket.

Nancy stares at him even more, even as her fingers flex in the unexpected warmth.

Mr Ed Miliband blushes. "I juth-st-someone did that for me when I was cold" he mutters, staring down at his knees like he wants to disappear into them.

Nancy doesn't think she's ever seen anything more awkward in her life.

"Um-thanks."

Mr Ed Miliband glances at her, then away. "You don't have to-"

Nancy shoves her other hand in his pocket to spare him having to say anything else. His eyes widen a little, and he gives her that stare again-the same one he gave her earlier.

Nancy stares back. Mr Ed Miliband looks at her for another moment, and then awkwardly squeezes her shoulder.

"It'th all right" he says, apparently to himself as much as to Nancy. Nancy shrugs but not enough to shrug him off.

"I know."

Ivan's theirs.

They sit there in silence for a few moments. Nancy's hands are warmer, and she shifts closer so that she's pressed into Mr Ed Miliband's side. He keeps his hand on Nancy's shoulder. Nancy lets him.

* * *

Cameron keeps stopping to talk to people as they wander back to the car. He's carrying Florence, who's decided that she's tired now and he keeps stroking her hair and cheek, which lies against his shoulder.

Everyone he chats to seems to just _like_ him. They stop and beam at him when they see him. Cameron seems to know everyone. He's always asking about someone's vegetable garden, the holiday someone went on over Christmas, how one of their kids is doing in school. Some of them stroke Florence's cheek. A couple of teenage girls nudge each other when they spot him, and dissolve into shrieks of giggles when he gives them a grin, his blue eyes twinkling.

People in this place _like_ Cameron.

And Cameron introduces him too.

That's the other thing.

Every stranger who he stops to chat to, he always gestures to Ed. "This is Ed Miliband-you'll recognize him-"

Or sometimes, "This is Ed."

Ed isn't sure which he prefers. But the second makes him feel oddly warm inside.

Another thing.

Cameron keeps-touching.

And once Ed notices, it's all he can think about.

Not overtly. Just one hand on his arm when he introduces him. Or a light touch on his back. Once, as they walk away from someone, Cameron's hand touches Ed's shoulder and then drifts down to Ed's waist, brushing his sleeve on the way.

It's the quickest of accidental touches. Ed shouldn't really notice it.

It's something he notices, though.

"What?" Cameron says, with a grin, as they're heading away from another constituent. "What are you smiling at?"

Ed hadn't even realised he was smiling.

"Nothing" he says too quickly. "Nothing. Just thinking."

_You're so nice._

The words jolt Ed.

He gulps. But-

Cameron smiles, with his head on one side. Ed's heartbeat stutters.

He bites his lip.

_You're so nice._

* * *

Ed manages to wait until he's in the guest bedroom before he starts to panic.

It's fine. It's fine. Everything's _absolutely fine._

The kids' laughter is echoing up from downstairs.

It's fine.

But-

Ed takes a deep breath, in and out, trying to calm himself down.

So what if Cameron was _nice?_

Cameron's been nice hundreds of times before.

It doesn't mean he should be _Prime Minister._

But that's-that's not-

Ed shouldn't be _noticing._

He presses his face into his hands, and takes a deep breath.

Once. Twice.

What if Cameron wasn't the Prime Minister?

This thought doesn't occur in the usual election-preparation mode it usually does. It pops into his head with a little wriggle.

What if Cameron wasn't in politics at all?

What if _he_ wasn't in politics at all?

But that's ridiculous. Ed gives his head a little shake.

He can't imagine Cameron without politics. He can't imagine _himself _without politics.

Take that away, and there's something gone, wrenched out.

He's not _him._

But what if-

What if Cameron was on his-

No. If Cameron was on his side, he wouldn't be Cameron.

But what if Cameron-was outside politics? What if he hadn't _met _Cameron through politics? What if he'd met him somewhere else?

Would he have liked him, then?

Ed blushes, even though he's alone.

(Would he _still _have liked him then?)

If he'd seen him when they first met, just how he was today, just how he-

How _nice _he was.

Would he have liked him then?

Would Cameron have liked _him?_

What would it _be_, if you took politics out of the equation? What would they have without politics, as safe ground for their feet to find when conversations get-

Something else wriggles into thought, then, suddenly alive and energetic and not willing to be ignored. Would they _need _it?

If he'd met Cameron how he was today, on the first day they met-

When was the first day they met?

No. If he'd met Cameron the way he was today, instead of the _way _they met. If he could have met him through here, instead of through the House Of Commons and debates and the chamber-

Ed groans, pressing his knuckles into his forehead.

God, what's he _doing _here?

But he-

He_ wants_ to be here.

It would be so much easier if he didn't.

Ed groans again.

He remembers something, suddenly-a time when he'd got the better of Cameron at PMQs. He'd been triumphant, almost bouncing, as he made his way out of the Commons. Balls' hand had squeezed his shoulder too tightly. "Brilliant. Fucking_ brilliant."_

Ed had been beaming, triumphant, and then Yvette had turned round, the chatter dying quietly around them.

Cameron had been standing there, flanked by Osborne and a few aides. Ed had stared at him, searching his memory for a meeting they were supposed to have.

"Miliband." Cameron had touched his arm. "Well done. You were good today."

Ed had blinked. "What?"

Cameron had just grinned, as though that response was precisely what he'd been expecting. "You were good. Today."

"Oh-"

That's all that had come out.

Cameron had just given him the flicker of a wink. "Don't get used to it, though."

His hand had brushed Ed's arm again and then he'd moved off, already talking away to Osborne, as though he'd done nothing peculiar at all.

Ed had stood, staring after him, until Balls had burst out "What the hell was _that?"_

Ed had shrugged. "Don't know" he'd managed, trying far too hard to sound casual, his heart beating far too fast.

"Do you think he's-" Yvette's voice had trailed off.

Ed had shaken his head again. "Don't know" he'd managed. "Just-"

He'd been trying to ignore the sudden flipping of his stomach, the rapid beat of his heart.

"It'th probably nothing" he'd said, to reassure himself as much as them. "He'th just being-"

He hadn't been able to finish. He'd just stared after him, his stomach flipping, trying to ignore the rapidity of his heartbeat, the smile pushing at his mouth.

There's a knock on the door.

Ed jerks a little. Part of him hopes it's Cameron. Part of him hopes it isn't.

He almost groans again.

"Miliband?" Cameron's voice is muffled by the wooden door. "Can I come in?"

Oh God.

Ed shifts awkwardly, glancing about, as though there's something he needs to shove under the sheets. But it's not as though he's _doing_ anything.

"Yeah" he calls, his voice wavering a little.

The door opens. Cameron leans against the door frame.

He's pulled off the navy jumper, so now he's just in his open-necked shirt. The sight makes Ed's fingers curl into the duvet.

Cameron tilts his head to the side. "Hi."

Ed manages to smile back. "Hi."

Cameron shifts from foot to foot. "Um-"

If Ed didn't know better, he'd think Cameron was _nervous._

"Just came to see if you were all right-" Cameron gives him a grin. "You seemed a bit quiet."

"Oh." Ed shakes his head. "No. No, I'm fine, I juth-st-"

Cameron nods. "Good, good-"

They stand and sit, David on his feet, Ed on the bed, their eyes darting to and away from each other.

"Well, we're thinking of going for a walk in a bit-let the kids take their bikes" Cameron says.

"The boys have their scooters-"

"Yeah, I think Flo will go on hers'-" Cameron nods. "But-um-are you-is that OK?"

Ed was meant to work. But somehow, that's seeming more and more like something he could do tomorrow.

He likes this. He thinks it with a jolt. He really-

"Look-"

Somehow Cameron's moved across the room. He's taking a seat on the bed next to him, the mattress sinking a little under his weight. His leg almost brushes Ed's. "Are you all right, Miliband?"

Ed's heart's beating too fast. Cameron's too close.

"Yeah-" he thinks he says, but his voice is too small.

"Are you sure? Because-"

_"Yeah._ God, I-"

Ed bites his lip. His fingers are curling into the duvet.

There's a moment of silence, during which Cameron takes a slightly deeper breath, as if reminding himself to be patient.

"Look." His voice is deliberately calm. "If you don't want to-if you're not happy being here-"

Ed's head jerks up. "When did I th-say that-?"

Cameron meets his gaze. Ed stares back.

"You didn't." Cameron's voice is soft. "But-I thought-"

"Well, you're wrong." Ed's voice is a little louder than he means. "I'm, I'm-"

Cameron's watching him, and something about the look in his eyes makes Ed's breath catch in his chest.

"Happy" Ed finally manages, heart stuttering. "I'm happy."

And Cameron's stare just-

_Lightens._

He stares at Ed. Ed stares back.

"Good" is all Cameron says, but he's smiling.

_"Good"_ Ed says, a little more defiantly.

Cameron looks at Ed, then away. Ed glances at Cameron, then away.

Their eyes meet. Something dances in Ed's chest. They're both smiling.

Cameron grins. "Bike ride?"

His hand brushes Ed's.

* * *

Miliband stops dead when he sees the bikes. "Oh. Ah. Bike ride."

David, who's retying Flo's ponytail, glances up at him. "Yeah. You said the boys have scooters-"

"Oh. Oh, yeah, they do, but erm-" Miliband's staring rather anxiously at David's bike, leaning against the house.

"Oh-you didn't bring-it's all right, we've got plenty of spare helmets-" David kisses Flo's cheek, then taps her hand as she promptly begins to tug at her ponytail again. "Here, careful, it'll fall out-"

"No-no, that's-ah-"

David glances at the children-Nancy's fastening her helmet, Elwen's kicking at a ball with Daniel-to check they're out of earshot. He lowers his voice. "Can you ride a bike?"

Miliband's head jerks up far too quickly for someone telling the truth. _"Yeth."_

He sounds far too indignant. His cheeks are flushed.

David stares at him. Miliband's eyes dart away, his cheeks crimson.

David lowers his voice even more. "Miliband. It doesn't _matter-"_

Miliband's biting his lip. His cheeks are burning. David feels like the worst person in the world.

He hates it when Miliband does _that _look.

The fact that he's become aware of when Miliband does _that _look hits him like a slap in the face.

God, when did that happen?

Miliband tries to huff, to kick a stone along the ground moodily.

It's _Miliband._ Practically-a-Marxist, utterly-sanctimonious, geeky, pedantic _Miliband._

God, how has he managed to get under David's skin?

Or has he always been there and David's just _knowing_ it differently....

Maybe that makes his tone a little sharper. "Oh, for-"

Miliband's eyes narrow and he glares at David. But David's already seen the slight crumple of his brow, the flinch in his face, and now he feels like he'd need to stretch up to reach the ankle of the worst person in the world.

(Miliband's stupid big dark _eyes,_ making him think like _that.)_

"Well_, fine-"_ and oh God, how typical Miliband, complete with the huffy look and the raised, aiming-to-be-condescending tone. "If I'll th-slow you down, I can stay behind, that's perfectly _fine, _I-"

"Turn around and look at me, you idiot."

Miliband's back stiffens, and for a moment, David freezes, but then Miliband turns slowly and the expression on his face is so affronted that David's face breaks into an irrepressible grin. It gives him a pleasant crinkling sensation in his chest, like paper crumpling pleasantly.

"I'm _th-sorry?"_ Miliband attempts to draw himself up to his full height. He's still not as tall as David.

As it is, brown eyes flashing, and anger pouting his mouth slightly, he looks-

Well, he looks-

David doesn't need to worry about that.

"I said, turn around, you idiot." The words come out far more softly this time. More softly, perhaps, than David expected them to.

Ed sniffs. "Well. Well, typical of _you_ to-" and David's had enough.

"I want you to come with us, you idiot. I _like_ you being-"

His mouth snaps shut.

Miliband's staring at him. David notices that even as his own cheeks burn in the icy air.

Thank God the kids don't notice anything.

Not that there's anything _to_ notice.

Oh God oh God oh God-

Miliband's staring. "You-"

"I want you to come" David says, before Miliband can say anything else.

Miliband blushes. David tries to ignore the heat of his own cheeks.

God, how pathetic.

He turns round. "Kids" he says, so that the children, scattered at various points along the driveway, turn to look at him. "Just one bike between two. Less hassle with the weather."

Miliband frowns, and then David pats his own bike.

Miliband's eyes widen. "Camer-_no."_

"Come on, they're bikes. They're bipartisan."

"_No."_

"Why not? Elwen'll go on Nancy's-"

"I'm not_ eight."_ Miliband looks around frantically, as though searching for a way out. "I-I-"

"Miliband." David isn't sure why he steps towards him. "I want you-"

Ed's gaze snaps to his own. David feels his breath falter.

"Ed, please." His mouth is dry. The name feels unfamiliar, like it might crumble between his teeth.

Ed's staring at him as though trying to read his mind. David doesn't blame him. He's having trouble understanding it himself, and it's _his._

As if the situation could get any weirder, Ed nods.

For a moment, David's sure he's seeing things. He blinks. "You're-"

Ed just makes an impatient noise.

David swallows. "Ah. Um. Well-"

He gestures to the bike. Miliband steps over to look at it. David hands him a helmet cautiously, skin tingling at the slight brush of their fingers.

What the hell's _wrong_ with him?

"Here-" Maybe he should just touch Miliband as little as possible.

Maybe.

Maybe-

Miliband turns the helmet over, looking confused, and David's hastily-thought-out resolution crumbles on the spot.

"Here-"

He doesn't want Miliband to nick himself, he tells himself.

He settles the helmet on Miliband's hair. He pulls it down, tugging the fastenings below his chin, snapping them gently into place. The entire time, he tries not to meet Miliband's eyes.

But he can feel the heat of his skin as the tips of David's fingers brush his chin.. He can feel the slight tremble in his own fingers. He can feel the moment Miliband's dark eyes lock with his own for an instant and something jumps a little in David's chest.

"Here-" His voice is hoarse. He tightens the helmet a little. His knuckle is pressing against Miliband's chin. He can feel the slight movement of Miliband's throat as he swallows. He can feel-

"Is this OK?" His voice cracks a little as his eyes find Miliband's.

Christ, Miliband's eyes are so dark.

"Yeah." Miliband's voice is almost a whisper. David nods too quickly, pulling back.

But his fingers linger, testing the straps to make sure it's tight enough. It's better to be on the safe side, sometimes.

Miliband's eyes meet his again.

David's hands drop. "Right." He turns away from Miliband too quickly, telling himself it's just to cast an eye over the kids. "Right. Well-we-"

He manages to climb onto the bike, the kickstand down. He sits on it, takes a deep breath of the icy air. There's a second seat on his bike for precisely this reason. It shouldn't be strange at all.

"Right. Um. You see the little footholds, sticking out-"

"Yeth-"

"Well. If you step onto them, you can-" David's cheeks shouldn't feel warm. "Put your hands on my shoulders-"

"Yeah-" Miliband says it far too quickly. "Yeah, yeth, I-"

His weight shifts the bike a little. And before David can notice much, his hands fasten into David's shoulders, digging in pleasantly. If David glances at the right angle, he can see Miliband's fingers.

God, his fingers are long.

"Good" he manages, his heart leaping oddly as Ed's finger brushes his neck. "That's good. And-" He clears his throat. "If you want to-sit on the seat-"

"Yeah-" The bike shudders a little as Ed lowers himself. David tries to focus on Flo picking up Sam's scooter, keeps his eyes fixed on that as he feels Miliband press slowly against David's back. His warmth is against David's whole body, pressing through his coat and jumper and shirt to his skin.

"And-" David's sure his voice isn't usually this low. "Just-um-put your arms around my waist."

He says it as quickly as possible and fixes his gaze elsewhere furiously, as the words sink in, focuses on Elwen clambering onto Nancy's bike in exactly the same way, without a care in the world.

It has to be the same. It's normal. It's _normal._

Miliband hasn't said anything. Why hasn't he said anything? Why isn't he-

David feels a slow warm pressure as Miliband's arms slide forward-first around his hips, then around his waist. They loosen, then tighten. Ed is pressed against David's back now.

"Right." David clears his throat. "Right. Well." His heart is banging.

"Yeah-" Miliband's voice is breathy in his ear. It's a relief to hear it and it isn't.

David's heart is far too fast. His entire body seems to be alive, bristling for a touch, a-

They sit there.

(Miliband is right-)

(Right against his-)

"Is th-Samantha coming?" Miliband's voice tickles David's neck. His grip tightens on the handlebars.

"Um-" David never _umms._

"Nah. She just-fancies a bit of time on her own before dinner. So we can get the kids out of her hair for a bit." His heart thumps for a different reason now. "She just needs it, sometimes. Some time on her own."

* * *

Ivan's room could be any space, now. They've talked about it, a few times-taking out the bathroom, at least, or the kitchen area, or changing half of the room, turning it into a den area for the kids-but somehow, they haven't got round to it.

In the London house, it's easier. There's an excuse. It's rented out, they can't make any adjustments now. Not until they're back there.

Sam looks round the room carefully the way she always does, as if something might have changed since the last time she was in here. She sometimes cleans up, dusts a bit, cleaning around Ivan's furniture the way she was always careful to when he was here, to make it easier for him to breathe.

The basements were always the most practical rooms to renovate for Ivan-he needed everything on the floor but to take him up and downstairs as he got bigger was too dangerous. It had been someone from the social services who'd suggested a lift being put in the house and it had been Dave who suggested that they put the kids' playroom down there, too.

_That way, they can talk to him,_ he'd told her in bed one night, one hand on her rounded stomach, both of them waiting for the little flutter of movement that meant Elwen, though they didn't yet know his name, had kicked. _He won't be cut off._

Sam hadn't objected; the only objection she might have raised would have been about whether they, her and Dave, might find it harder to get to Ivan. But it's not until your children are in another room that you realise how much time you spend with them-it's not until you find yourself poised, waiting to hear them, and getting more and more anxious as the seconds tick by in silence, that you realise their voices have become intertwined with your own breath as the backbeat of the world. They spent most of their time with Ivan, whether that was in their basement or wherever in the world he happened to be.

Sam sits down on the end of Ivan's specially-designed bed-a cot at one end, with bars to keep Ivan from falling out during a seizure, and a semblance of a normal bed at this one, but with specially padded mattress, sheets and duvet, in the unlikely event his nappy should ever leak. Twinkling stars dot the ceiling and walls overhead and around, so that Ivan's gaze could track them as he lay in bed, blue-eyed and passive and waiting for sleep.

They've given away some of Ivan's things, over the years. Some of his clothes, after long discussion with the psychologist, and some of his toys had passed to Flo when she was born. Even some of his equipment-Ivan's was state-of-the-art, expensive-has been donated to social services or deprived hospitals, struggling to function.

Sometimes, Sam looks at photos down here, but not today. Instead, she looks around Ivan's room, which hasn't held the person it was brought into being for for nearly six years.

It still smells like Ivan, a little.

When she'd heard Daniel's voice, she'd frozen just for a second. Her spine had juddered once, as though she'd just been hit. Her stomach had turned over. Her hands had curled slowly into her trousers, fingers digging into the black fabric.

It had only lasted a second, but she'd felt that old absence-the feeling of her emotions receding like a tide going out. A dizzying blankness, her fingers tightening, first in her trousers, then in the tablecloth.

It used to come more often. When she least expected it-shopping in the middle of Waitrose, sitting in the audience at one of the kids' school plays, pressing her forehead into the hard edge of a shelf or her curled knuckles, elbow digging into her thigh, waiting for the world to swim back into reality around her.

It had been five months since Ivan died. They'd always had to use the word _died_-any other made Sam cringe, feeling empty, saccharine, sugar tickling her tongue, surging in her stomach.

They'd been in Brittany. It had been one of the only places they'd been able to go with Ivan, which had been why they'd chosen it. They couldn't go on holiday somewhere they couldn't have taken him.

But that day, they'd been on a beach, half pebbles, half sand. Nancy had been kicking the stones up, Elwen throwing them occasionally, Nancy's laughter high on the air.

It had all reached Sam vaguely, like she was watching through a pane of glass. Or rather, like she'd been thrown slightly off-kilter, jolted out of time, so Nancy's screams of laughter would slap her in the face a second too late, so that the salt in the air made her tongue curl and the stones crunching under her shoes made her wince.

She should have been feeling something about Nancy laughing, but she hadn't. What was scary was that she hadn't been able to feel anything about the fact that she hadn't.

It had been that evening at dinner back at the villa, while one of the staff was pouring drinks, that the girl had slipped or jostled and half a glass of juice had spilt over Sam's bare arm. Sam had waited for the jolt to hit her.

"Oh God!" The waitress had dived for a napkin. "Oh God, ma'am, I'm so sorry-"

Sam had already been wiping herself down she'd noticed vaguely, staring at the napkin that had somehow ended up in her hands. The waitress had been holding one out. Sam had stared at it, still wiping her own arm, not able in the slightest to work out what the waitress had been wanting her to do with it.

The girl had still been talking. "I didn't mean to, honestly-"

Sam had known she was supposed to say something-something reassuring, to wipe the crumpled look off the girl's face. But the words wouldn't come. They were on the other side of the room. She could hear them, but they just hovered there, out of reach. Her mouth couldn't fit around them.

The waitress had kept talking. "Honestly, I didn't mean-"

And then Dave had been leaning over and saying "Please don't worry, it's fine-" He'd patted the girl's arm, taking the napkis from her, saying something reassuring, his hand brushing Sam's arm comfortingly.

Sam had sat there. She hadn't said anything. She hadn't been thinking anything. She could hear the conversation clattering around her, but the words hadn't reached her. They might as well have been on another planet.

Later that night in their room, she'd sat on their bed with her arms around her knees, chin resting on her kneecaps. Sarah's dark eyes had met her over her legs.

"Sam" she'd said gently, testing. "Sam."

The words had hovered there, familiar but the wrong shape, something known but alien. Sam couldn't have fit them in her mouth if she tried.

Sarah had looked at her and hadn't tried to make her. Instead, she'd just lain her dark head against Sam's knees, her shoulders rising and falling in time with her breathing. She'd sat there, her head against Sam, breathing with her, waiting it out.

Now, Sam lies back on Ivan's bed. She lets her eyes close, remembering another beach, in Cornwall this time.

Dave had had Nancy and Elwen down by the water, but they'd been worried that Ivan was tired and in any case, his wheelchair couldn't be pushed that far, so Sam had perched on a rock with him. His dark head had lain against her shoulder, carefully supported by her arm, the arm that now curls itself carefully when she sits down without her noticing, ready to hold or cuddle or kiss.

"Can you feel that?" she'd whispered to him, kissing his warm cheek, gently tracing the salt on his lips, very carefully letting the tip of her finger touch his tongue, hoping that Ivan would at least get a taste of the sea.

She'd held a stone up for him, the waves crashing in the distance, the salt on the air making her tongue tingle pleasantly. She let the stone stroke his fingers, watched his eyes for any movement, any reaction. She put the stone to his cheek, stroked it gently. Ivan made a sound in his throat.

"Do you like the stone?" The sea mist was settling in his hair. She wondered if Ivan could feel the freshness of it on his skin. "Shall we keep that one for your sister, when she comes back-" Sam had folded the stone into her pocket, kissed Ivan's forehead, propped Ivan up more closely against her. Ivan's eyes had wandered to the sky. It was too cold to swim in the sea today-plus, they wouldn't risk putting Ivan in the sea. If he swam, it had to be in a pool, usually a heated one, like the one back at the cottage they were renting.

Ivan's eyes had followed the sky then very vaguely, and Sam had felt the leap that always came with Ivan spotting something. "What are you looking at?" She'd rocked Ivan very carefully, so as not to jolt him. "What are you looking at? Hey? Looking up at the sky-" A bird had wheeled overhead, some weak sunlight breaking through the iron-grey of the British summer sky. "Looking about?"

Ivan's gaze had fallen down and Sam had lifted him gently, propping him up. "Shall we wave at Daddy down by the water?" she'd said softly, waving at Dave, who was carrying Elwen, Nancy holding his hand at his side. "Can you see Daddy?"

Ivan's gaze was somewhere in the distance. Samantha stroked his soft, dark hair, kissing it breathing in the warm smell of him, love cracking open her chest so she could press his face right up against her jumping, beating heart.

"There's Daddy" she'd said. "Nancy and Elwen-"

Ivan's gaze hadn't been near them but he'd made a sound in his throat-an inaudible, involuntary sound-but his mouth had twitched slightly on one side, in the tiniest hint of a half-smile.

Sam had had to stop her arms from squeezing too tight, she hugged him so quickly. "Good boy-good boy, Ivan-that was a lovely smile for Daddy, wasn't it-"

Ivan had made the sound again, eyes still off in the sky, but the smile still there.

Sam had never known what it meant to have to be careful not to kiss too hard until she had Ivan. How you have to kiss them hard because otherwise, you think you might slowly wrench yourself inside out, crack open your ribs with how much you love them.

"Daddy" she'd said gently, stroking Ivan's cheek with one finger. "Nancy. Elwen."

Ivan had made the sound again, almost proudly. Sam's heart had moved, palpably. She held him tighter, her arms wrapped around him so that she couldn't tell where she ended and their son began, she remembers as she pulls Ivan's pillow closer, buries her face in it and breathes him in, wraps her arms around it and holds it to her beating heart.

"Mummy" she said softly, to Ivan's tiny crooked half-smile. "Mummy."

* * *

"Can I ask you th-something?"

David's almost tempted to say no. Not because he doesn't want Miliband to ask him anything. But Miliband's nasal voice in his ear is just...

Distracting.

Miliband's arms are warm around his waist. His hands are joined around David's stomach. It's sending a strange, swooping sensation through him.

David shakes his head a little. "Yeah, of course."

He feels a sigh of relief escape Miliband, his breath tickling David's neck. He's pressed against David's back and David can feel a faint thump-thump every time Miliband presses closer against him, which, he realised with a pleasant jolt a few moments ago, is Miliband's heartbeat.

"Um-"

David keeps his eyes on the children. Elwen is holding onto Nancy's shoulders while his daughter peddles slowly, so the three little ones on the scooters can keep up. David consciously slows his own speed, so he doesn't overtake them.

"Do you ever think we're weird?" Miliband's voice is almost defiantly quick.

David frowns, brain jumping a little at the question. "I'm sorry?"

He can picture Miliband's grimace, his silent wish that he'd never brought the subject up. "Do you-" He clears his throat, his arms tightening around David a little self-consciously, sending another jolt through him. "Think we're weird?"

David frowns. He can feel Miliband's cheek brushing his own. As they take a corner, Ed's cheek presses against David's, a sudden press of heat and skin, Miliband's cheekbone almost bruising his own.

"What for?"

"You know-" Miliband sounds almost painfully embarrassed, as though David's forcing him to describe his last full medical examination out loud. "Thith-s."

David feels him cringe at the lisp. It sends a protective pang through him.

"You mean riding bikes?" he asks glibly, trying to ignore his own heartbeat quickening.

Miliband lets out an audible huff and David takes pity on him.

"It's all right, I-no. Not weird. Why would it be-" His own tone is deliberately almost _too_ casual, as though in defiance of the heat flaring in his cheeks.

"Well-"

David then, of course, feels bad, as though he's put the onus of the conversation on Miliband, which is just plain stupid since Miliband _asked the question._

"You know-"

There's a moment of silence before Miliband wrenches the words out of his mouth as quickly as possible. "It's _uth-s."_

He blushes. David _feels_ him blush, where their cheeks are brushing, and something about that's-

David blushes himself. It's so near. Like watching him sleep. Or hearing him cry without him knowing.

David's heart's banging almost painfully. His fingers flex on the handlebars.

"Well-" and David's no idea how his own voice sounds so smooth. except for the fact that if it doesn't, he'll-

"You never used to mind."

Again, he feels Miliband's blush-really feels it. He feels Miliband's arms tighten too. "Um-"

David had been talking generally, but a sharp branch of memory jabs suddenly, snagging his thoughts.

_It was before he was an MP. Before the children were born, even. He'd been working at Carlton._

_He and Green were at White's, after a late lunch-Dad might have been meeting them there, though years later, those details might have escaped a little._

_He'd been taking another sip of wine, savouring the coolness of it, expounding a little upon what Annabel had been up to, when Green had nudged him. "Here comes Blair's worst enemy-"_

_David had glanced up, let a grin flicker as he spotted Gordon Brown stumping into the room. "Looking for his leadership bid."_

_Green had laughed softly, even as he waved, and David had rolled his eyes. But Green had shaken his head-presuming he knew what David was rolling his eyes at-it was New Labour's heyday. Carlton, like every other advertising business, needed to keep them onside._

_And then Brown had been there, all the Scottish grumbling bluster of him, shaking Green's hand a little too roughly._

_"Gordon. Good to see you-"_

_David had extended his own hand as Brown had pumped Michael's hand up and down, characteristically avoiding his gaze and muttering a "Hullo" deep into his chest. David gave him a grin along with his own hand. "Hi. David Cameron-Michael's PR boy-"_

_His grin had been met by a suspiciously cloudy look and a rough grasp of the hand. "Hullo-"_

_David had held the smile, but Brown had already dropped his hand, taken David's chair and gathered himself into it, pulling his suit around him as though he thought it might fall to the floor if he didn't keep hold of it. David permitted himself an arch of the eyebrow. Be like that then, he thought to the then Chancellor Of The Exchequer._

_Michael and Brown had only talked briefly, but it was long enough for David-rather keenly protesting the loss of his seat, albeit silently-to sigh and amble away for a bit, leaning in between them to put out his cigarette-he hadn't managed to give the things up yet-wondering whether to make a call and put Dad off a bit, when there'd been a scurry of movement at his side, an aide David hadn't noticed at all hurrying into the room catching his eye briefly as he accidentally brushed David's arm. David had glanced back over his shoulder only to see the aide hovering around the back of Brown's chair, tapping it nervously. David's eyes had lingered on the exchange for a moment, noticing smooth olive skin under too thick, rumpled dark hair. And glasses, which the man kept pushing up with his finger._

_David hadn't spoken to him, but then the aide hadn't spoken to him-just made a noise in his throat as he brushed past David, barely acknowledging that he'd just bumped into him. Something about that should have irked David, and it did, but the aide had barely seemed to look at him-barely seemed to notice or take in the rest of the room. Something in that had made David look at him a little longer, the irked feeling battling with a slight amused interest._

_He'd only looked for a second, and then headed towards the door, loosening his tie a little, but he'd just caught the sound of his voice-"Gordon, I was juth-st-" and the heaviness of the nasal tone, and the thickness of the lisp had made David's mouth twitch in a small smile._

He slams his hand down on the handlebar. "That was _you."_

Miliband jumps, and David feels his arms tightening nervously around him. "Cameron!"

"Sorry-" David aims him a grin over his shoulder. Miliband jumps a little. "Keep your eyes on the road!"

David grins, as he does as he's told. "God above, Miliband. You're a terrible backseat driver, aren't you?"

In the short silence that follows Miliband's impatient "Hmph", David reflects that that's oddly appropriate.

"What was me?"

"In White's." David's so surprised by the memory that he brings his feet down to the ground, bringing the bike to a stop-the kids are slowing a little, anyway. "I wasn't an MP. I was working for Carlton. But Brown was Chancellor, then. He was there-"

"Brown-"

"Brown-yes, Brown-and you were, you came to get him." David turns to stare at Miliband, still perched on the seat as if he thinks it might bite him. "I only saw you for a few, a few seconds. But it was _you."_

Miliband frowns, mouth wibble-wobbling in that way it does. David feels his own mouth twitch in the same way it did years ago, hearing that nasal tone.

He feels a grin break out over his face. "God, you were so-"

Ed's eyebrow arches. "What was I _th-so?"_ He stresses the last word challengingly.

David just beams at him, grinning, remembering something else from that day, something his memory had only just been vaguely grasping at until now, when it's caught it firmly between it's fingers, holding it tight and certain.

_He'd been lounging against the door into the room, hearing the muffled chatter of other members, keeping an eye out for Dad, idly smoking another cigarette-God, you could smoke indoors in those days-when a movement out of the corner of his eye had caught his gaze and he'd glanced up to see that aide again, marching back towards the door. He'd had a sheaf of documents stuffed under his arm, and one finger had been pushing at his glasses again, which were making another bid to escape down his nose. His hair looked even more rumpled than it had a few moments before. His pace slowing a little, he'd been glancing around the room, big dark eyes darting about behind his glasses mistrustfully-as though expecting everyone and everything in there to want to bite him._

_He'd given an odd, slightly haughty little sniff, and then promptly walked right into an armchair, spilling his documents everywhere._

_David had resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Most of the rest of the room hadn't been so kind. Even Brown, glancing up for the source of the commotion, hadn't been able to suppress a wry smile._

_David had avoided the aide's gaze as the younger man had crouched on his hands and knees, cheeks blazing, gathering up his papers. But no one else had been moving and something about the sight of him crouched there was so pitiful that David had pushed himself off the door frame and made his way towards him._

_"Here." He'd gathered up some of the remaining papers with ease, held them out to the other man. "Got them."_

_The other man's eyes had met his and David had been taken aback at the look. His dark eyes were glittering furiously, his teeth were gritted. He hadn't looked grateful for the help. He'd looked more like he might take a bite out of someone._

_"Thanks." He'd spat the word more than said it, gathering the rest of his papers up, stuffing the ones from David to the bottom of the pile and shoving himself to his feet. He'd almost stormed to the door, cheeks flaming._

_David had been left half-crouched on the floor, slightly taken aback. Wondering if an utter disregard for courtesy was somehow airborne and working for Brown left one infected, he'd straightened himself up, tugging at his own suit, moving his cigarette back to his mouth._

_"Oh, you're welcome" he'd half-shouted after the aide who'd just reached the door, not expecting a reply._

_He didn't get one. But the aide, who'd been pushing the door open awkwardly with one shoulder, had caught his eye over his shoulder. David had raised his eyebrow ostentatiously._

_The aide had just looked for a second, and then away like a flinch. He'd pushed the door open, nearly hitting himself in the face with it, and then he'd been through, leaving David watching his retreating back._

_"Unbelievable" he'd muttered loudly to himself, partly for the benefit of those around them listening._

_But as he'd turned back to-an empty-chair and taken his seat, smoking his cigarette with renewed vigour, that look the aide had given him had flickered like a punch-a defiant, hurting look, with something utterly petulant about it._

_But something about it hadn't been entirely unpleasant, and that had been the oddest part of the whole thing._

Now, just as David opens his mouth, Miliband sniffs hastily, as though reminding himself of just what kind of institution they're talking about. "Whiteth. _Elitist-"_

He trails off at the sight of David's amused grin. "What?" he demands, and when David doesn't say anything, just keeps grinning-"What was I like?"

It hadn't been entirely unpleasant. It had been what this is now.

Endearing.

_"That-"_ and David's finger comes out and taps Miliband's nose. "You were like _that."_

Miliband stares at him. David stares back, grin still aching at his mouth. With the childrens' shouts echoing from further down the road, and the faintest hint of weak winter sunlight struggling through the clouds, Miliband uncertainly smiles back, and something cracks happily open in David's chest.

* * *

_David hummed happily to himself as he swung his legs in a chair that, he had no doubt, Brown had left there in the hope of making him feel like a schoolchild. David, in cheerful defiance, was fulfilling the role, therefore, swinging his legs and occasionally breaking into a cheerful whistle, giving one of the Garden Girls a grin when she glanced up at him that made her blush._

_There'd been a rumbling from inside the room that David might, if he hadn't known better, assumed to be the opening claps of thunder or a cow prolapsing but which, he knew from experience, was merely Brown yelling at some poor adviser presumably cowering in his wake. Whichever way you looked at it, getting to hear Brown's fallouts with his party could only be the icing on the cake of a day._

_David had just been wondering if he should ask one of the Garden Girls just how long the Prime Minister was likely to be-he was starting to get rather bored, waiting for Brown to tire of yelling-and was just debating over whether or not it was unchivalrously unfair to expect one of them to take her life in her hands-when suddenly, blackened by the bellow of Brown's voice, David had heard his own name._

_"Siding with fucking Cameron-"_

_One of the Garden Girls had winced. Another's eyes had flickered to David immediately, though whether it's because he's the aforementioned Cameron, the Leader Of The Opposition, or both, David couldn't tell._

_David had winked. She'd blushed. He'd tell Sam about it later, and she'd pretend to slap him._

_But David's ears had pricked, and after a few moments, he turned to face the door, deciding not to bother to disguise his interest._

_He couldn't hear the aide or adviser's voice, and Brown's too dropped after that. David waited, going through all those names read out gleefully by Steve in Tory HQ of those who are cheering Brown on at PMQs in public and screaming at him in private._

_David's grin had widened. If it was one of the ones they suspected, and if he knew Brown at all, it was no coincidence that Brown was having this argument now. Or-David had glanced down, amused-that this chair was where it was. If he knew Brown, the man had been hoping to see the look on David's face when Brown walked out practically arm-in-arm with whichever adviser or minister the Tories had been counting on patting Brown's shoulder in public and hating his guts in private, planning to have David sitting there like a schoolboy, a little demoralised ahead of their meeting._

_The mistake had, apparently, been not to inform his aide or adviser of this plan._

_David had been grinning to himself, already trying to make a mental bet about which it might be-or he could just text George, who soaks up gossip like a sponge-when, without warning, the door was flung open._

_David managed to only jump a little, but it hardly mattered. The other man didn't even stop to look at him, the door swinging behind him, as he almost took off running down the corridor. His glasses were hanging askew, eyes strangely blotchy._

_David had recognized him with a jolt. Ed Miliband. Mili Minor. Miliband Major's little brother. One of Brown's loyal little right-hand men. Much to his brother's displeasure._

_Though, perhaps, not so much anymore._

_David had told himself that it's only because he knew Miliband that it felt like a jolt._

_Well. Had conversations with._

_(Miliband had been interested in the huskies thing. Innocently too interested, with his big dark eyes, which had made David suspect him immediately of being one of Brown's little brownnosers, sent out to root around for tactics. Until he'd started asking questions, that is, and launched into a happy extrapolation about the dangers of greenhouse gases, which somehow became more interesting in his voice.)_

_"Miliband" David had said now, more out of surprise than anything else._

_Miliband had stopped, stood still for an almost comically long moment, and then turned to stare at him. His glasses had been hanging crookedly from one ear. His lip was swollen, apparently from being chewed. His hair looked as though he'd been running his fingers through it._

_ Siding with fucking Cameron. _

_Miliband had stared at him for a moment-then, abruptly, made an impatient sound, turned around and walked on, running his hands through his hair again as though he hadn't known he was doing it. David, staring after him, had become aware that he'd ended up standing up without realising it._

_Only the clearing of a throat at the door had him turning round. Usually, Brown would have been thrilled to catch David in any state of surprise. Today, he'd hardly looked better himself, grey hair dishevelled, eyes bloodshot, his eyes too skittering after the door through which Miliband had just stormed._

_"Cameron" was all he'd said, and David hadn't even managed to feel triumphant for a few moments, casting another long look down the corridor, before stepping slowly into the room that Miliband had just vacated._

* * *

"So-" David says, a few minutes later. He's leaning against the fence, watching the children play a few feet in front, their wellies occasionally requiring a firm yank in order for a child to extricate themselves from the determined mud.

Miliband is perched on a sort of makeshift stile next to him. He's wearing gloves-David had checked before they'd left after the chill on the walk to the restaurant-but he's still blowing his fingers every few moments or so.

"Th-so-"

David gives him a sympathetic look. "They'll get fed up in a bit. Then I'll be able to take you back. We can warm up."

He might be imagining it, but he thinks he spots Miliband blush slightly at those words. Perhaps in simple defiance of this, David sits down next to him. "Here-"

He takes Miliband's hand by the wrist, and lifts it into his pocket.

Miliband blinks, looking comically stunned. "C-Cameron!"

"What?" David manages to sound nonchalant, even as his cheeks burn a little at Miliband's tone. "It's warmer." He levels Miliband with a firm gaze. "Isn't it?"

Miliband blushes, which David takes as a "yes".

"But aren't you-"

Even when trying to show concern, Miliband manages to come off as petulant, David thinks fondly.

He blinks. Fondly?

"Nope. Country boy, remember? Used to it." He waves his own gloves at Miliband, and thinks but doesn't say that it's nothing compared to the Heatherdown dormitories in the depths of winter. Instead, he reaches into his other pocket for an E-cigarette and takes a puff.

Miliband stares at him. "Are you..._vaping?"_

It's just the word in Miliband's voice that makes David crack up laughing. He can barely speak for a few moments, putting a hand on Miliband's arm to reassure him, shaking his head. "Oh God, Miliband-"

"What?" Something twinges fondly in David's chest at the sight of Miliband's pout.

"Nothing" he manages, pulling himself up straight. "Nothing, just-gave up smoking a few years ago, sometimes want to do something with my hands-" He eyes Miliband with interest. "Want to try?"

Miliband gives him an almost affronted look, which makes David laugh more. "I don't _smoke."_

David thinks, with another bout of rueful laughter, that nobody would need to be told that.

"I know" he says, recovering himself more quickly this time. "That's why I offered. This won't do you any harm." _And I bet you never sneaked cigarettes at school._

Miliband blinks. "I-well, I-I don't think-"

_"Miiii-llllliband."_ David stretches out his name, singsong. "It won't bite."

Miliband stares at him, then, curiously, reaches out to take the E-cigarette. David laughs, guiding Miliband's hand up to his mouth. (Miliband's hands are so soft. It always surprises him.)

"Here-you put it up-" Miliband's fingers temble a little in his own-"And-just take a breath in-"

Miliband frowns a little distrustfully at him. David grins. Miliband keeps frowning. David softens his look.

"It's OK" he says, instead.

Miliband frowns more, brow crumpling-and then takes in a cautious quick gulp.

His eyes widen a little. David laughs softly. "OK?"

Miliband shakes his head. "You're a bad influenthe" he mutters (he doesn't let go of the E-cigarette, though.)

David eyes him steadily. "You're not the first to say that" he says, a little more quietly. "Especially about you."

Miliband stares back at him, the faintest hint of colour pinkening his cheeks.

_"So-" David had muttered, stepping up behind Ed Miliband in the queue in Portcullis House. "Brown not eaten you alive, then?"_

_Miliband had stiffened for a moment before he'd remembered it was David he was talking to, and sniffed. "I don't know what you mean."_

_He'd positioned his sandwich fastidiously on his tray, and sniffed again. David had sighed, lounging casually against the counter._

_"Hmm. Siding with fucking Cameron not a crime in the Cabinet these days?"_

_Miliband had flushed furiously. He'd huffed, grabbed his tray and turned away, colour still rushing into his cheeks as he went. David had watched him go, an odd tugging sensation in his chest._

_He'd have thought that would be enough, but, a few moments later, he'd found himself picking up his own sandwich and following him._

Now, David takes the E-cigarette back and takes another drag. "So, enjoying sharing your first cigarette?"

Ed eyeballs him. "Who says it's my first?"

"You" David informs him cheerfully. "You don't have a clue how to smoke."

Ed sighs."It's hardly a desirable th-skill."

David holds it out to him. Ed takes another cautious drag, eyes widening sweetly again.

"Still a bad influence on you then, Miliband?"

Miliband gives him a very long, steady, annoyed look. David grins.

"Terrible" Miliband manages. "Awful. Appalling." Something about the purse of his lips is hilarious.

David snorts. "I'll remember to repent later." He turns back, keeping an eye on the kids. "So. How come you never learnt to ride a bike?"

Miliband looks affronted. "I _can_ ride a bike!"

David grins. Miliband glares at him.

"Have a go, then."

Miliband blinks. "What."

"Have a go. On my bike."

Miliband blinks again. "No way."

David steps towards him. "Go on."

Ed's hands scrabble at the helmet, pulling it off frantically. "Can't ride without a helmet." His eyes dance with something-the mischievous glint that David sometimes catches at PMQs.

David dives for it. Miliband ducks, laughing, and David grabs him-half by the shoulder, half by the arm.

"C-Cameron!" Miliband gasps his name in a sort of helplessly amused disbelief. "Get-get off-"

David's foot slips and, with him leaning his weight on Miliband, they both stumble, managing to angle themselves as they fall and half prop themselves up so they only half-land, and on their sides, so neither of them gets a faceful of mud.

Ed's shaking with laughter, high-pitched giggles breaking free every few moments, totally different from the slightly canned laugh he does in interviews. David's arm is caught halfway around his back.

When he turns to look at Miliband, their faces are almost pressed together, their noses an inch apart. David's breath catches. He can still hear the childrens' laughter echoing, but it seems further away now.

He rolls over, trying to angle himself above Miliband instead of being so close next to him, but his elbow slips. They're lying on the slightly muddy grass and he's got hold of Miliband's shoulders from the playfighting and somehow-

Somehow, his hands are digging into Miliband's shoulders, holding him down gently. Miliband thrashes, his legs tangling with David's own, but his cheeks are flushed, as he lies there, panting with laughter, making David laugh too, but quieter, his eyes moving to Miliband's big, dark eyes.

David's heart is beating very, very fast. Miliband's eyes are huge. His chest is rising and falling. David can almost feel it against his own. If he leaned in a little further, he could.

Miliband laughs uncertainly but the sound dies away. His eyes are on David's. David could count his long eyelashes. Something's falling away inside his chest.

David's hand moves slowly up to Miliband's cheek.

A shout from one of the children makes David look up, snatch his gaze away from Miliband's, choking air back into his lungs. His gaze searches for them, his heart too rapid until he spots them, as merry as before-the shout was of laughter, nothing else. None of them are looking at either of their fathers. David wonders why he noticed that.

But he still shouts "Everything okay?" as he pulls himself upright. And he still keeps his gaze studiously away from Miliband's as he half-pulls him up too.

And he still doesn't notice Miliband's flushed cheeks and long eyelashes and big dark eyes , as they stand, Miliband dusting off the retrieved helmet, David clutching the E-cigarette, watching their children play in a field covered in winter, with Miliband's sleeve brushing his own, their hands a breath away, where they could just reach out and link their fingers around each other.

He doesn't notice.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Ask-The Smiths-"Shyness is nice and/Shyness can stop you/From doing all the things in life you'd like to/So if there's something you'd like to try/If there's something you'd like to try/Ask me, I won't say no/How could I?/Ask me, ask me, ask me/Ask me, ask me, ask me/Because if it's not love, then it's the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb, the bomb that will bring us together"_

_Desire-The Gaslight Anthem _ _-"What does it feel like inside?/Does it hurt you at night?/Or does it keep you alive and set you on fire, on fire?/I would give anything for the touch of your skin/Yes, I would burn here for years/Up in desire, desire"_

_ Opening The Gates-Chequerboard- _

_Deer In The Headlights-Owl City-"Tell me again, was it love at first sight?/When I walked by and you caught my eye/Didn't you know love could shine this bright?/Well, smile because you're the deer in the headlights"_

_ The Nicest Thing-Kate Nash-" _ _All I know is that you're so nice/You're the nicest thing I've ever seen...I wish you couldn't figure me out/But you'd always wanna know what I was about/I wish you'd hold my hand/When I was upset/I wish you'd never forget/The look on my face when we first met..Look, all I know is that you're the nicest thing I've ever seen/And I wish that we could see if we could be something/Yeah, I wish that we could see if we could be something"_

_The Painting-Rhian Sheehan _

_Treacherous-Taylor Swift _ _-"Put your lips close to mine/As long as they don't touch/Out of focus, eye to eye/Until the gravity's too much..And all we are is skin and bone/Trained to get along/Forever going with the flow/But you're friction...This slope is treacherous/This daydream is dangerous/This hope is treacherous/But I, I, I like it"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photo Florence points out to Sam of David and Samantha with Ivan and baby Nancy:https://bit.ly/3deDyy5  
Elwen playing for Chadlington Under-9s:https://bit.ly/39bL4GF  
http://dailym.ai/2UqsOnE  
Sarah taking Bea's phone away:http://dailym.ai/2Uvr0tq  
Nancy wanting her ears pierced:https://bit.ly/3dhC3yZ  
Sam revealed that the children and her had counselling after Ivan's death and how she got her tattoo:http://dailym.ai/3abRA1x  
Nancy being "mortified" by looking round schools with her dad:https://bit.ly/3dkigza  
Nancy was very strongly affected by Ivan's death:https://bit.ly/2UvoLqh  
https://bit.ly/2wsicN4  
https://bit.ly/2xcvrl0  
https://bit.ly/2J7m9cM  
https://bit.ly/33zBOem  
https://bit.ly/3dl3Uyo  
https://bit.ly/2wh4v3z  
The basement of David and Sam's London home was converted into medical rooms for Ivan and a playroom so he could be with Nancy and Elwen:https://bit.ly/2wtFzpl  
https://bit.ly/3dkjDxO  
David Miliband was a keen footballer as a child-Ed's excuse about having "problems with his feet":http://dailym.ai/3dl0yeM  
The restaurant they go to is Cafe de la Post:https://images.app.goo.gl/CKMRbDxZorZGmXXAA  
The lane Ed and Nancy walk down, Horseshoe Lane:https://images.app.goo.gl/JYUUKkZcyS9qHAv26  
Plum is Plum Sykes, a close friend of Samantha's-Tess is her daughter:https://bit.ly/39bLPzv  
https://bit.ly/2WuRXjL  
https://bit.ly/3979jG4  
https://bit.ly/3bihscc  
Allie and Venetia are two of Sam's close friends:https://bit.ly/3a9sboZ  
https://bit.ly/2U9XM4s  
https://bit.ly/2wrJOSr  
https://bit.ly/2J2nv8G  
Ed shared a flat with Yvette in the '90s while they worked for Gordon Brown:https://bit.ly/2QBWbSI  
David's statement that Nancy would beat the Labour candidate for Witney in a bake-off:https://bit.ly/2vESdBA  
The Camerons' love of Bake-Off:https://bit.ly/3dDxpLX  
The restaurant incident at the villa on holiday after Ivan died:https://bit.ly/2WFFeum  
Ed arguing with Gordon about David:https://bit.ly/2y1ZvjT  
David using E-cigarettes to give up smoking:https://bit.ly/2U8Cp3k  
Justine claiming the boys liked leafleting on their scooters:https://bit.ly/3abcH40  
Daniel claiming they don't enjoy leafleting but being contradicted by Justine at 02:37:https://bit.ly/2wuGKF3


	16. Fajita Fraternization, Retroactive Recognition And An Involuntary Intertwining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which one should never ask to see one's opponents baby photos and The Great British Bake Off has unusual effects on hands."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Therese (on the phone): I wanna know. I think. I mean, I wanna ask you things. But I'm not sure you want that._

_Carol (crying): Ask me things. Please._

_-Carol _ _(2015)_

_"I honestly thought" he said, as I finally stopped talking. "You were like..just some quiet, work-obsessed, study machine person. Not that there's, like, anything wrong with being that but, er, I don't know. I just.... thought you were really boring. And you're not."_

_The way he said it was so frank that I almost blushed. Almost._

_He shook his head, and laughed at himself. "Sorry, that sounded way less mean in my head."_

_I shrugged and sat back down on his bed. "I thought you were boring too, to be fair."-Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_"It was a sad, sad tale, wasn't it?....She was a confused, desperate little being. She was going to do whatever the hell she wanted to get her happy ending."-Juno Temple on her character Lola Quincey, in Atonement (2007)_

_"I took him to see the play for the same reason I wrote, deleted and then rewrote the description of him in the first sentence of this piece, first abandoning the too-plain descripter of friend, then the overly-sentimental designation lover, before settling on the vague description of a boy. He was special to me."-Tova Benjamin, "The End Of My Rope", Rookie Magazine_

* * *

The shower is blissfully warm after the winter day. One of the advantages of Cameron's house being so large is the number of bathrooms-Nancy and Elwen had each been granted the use of a warm shower-Elwen in the main bathroom, Nancy having commandeered her parents' ensuite-while Cameron has taken the downstairs bathroom, allowing Ed to use his own guest room's ensuite.

Ed sighs in relief at the warmth of the water, enjoys the spray drenching his shoulders, warming him to his bones. He hadn't realised just how cold he'd been until they stepped into the warmth of the cottage. He lets his fingers comb through his hair gently with the shampoo, relishing the sensation. Slowly, it occurs to him that right now, Cameron might be doing the same thing.

The idea jolts pleasantly in Ed's chest and stomach. He lets it sit there, tries to just skate around it. But he finds himself staring at the soap in his hands, turning it over as it slides about his palm, wondering if this is the same soap Cameron uses. He closes his eyes, wondering if this is the same shampoo.

He wonders if Cameron's ever used this shower. Ed closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of the soap, wondering if it's that that makes Cameron smell so sweet.

Ed's eyes snap open.

What the-

What was he-

Ed shakes his head.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean _anything._

He carries on scrubbing with renewed vigour and tries not to wonder if Cameron's doing the same thing right now.

* * *

When Ed's dressed in one of his softest jumpers and tracksuit bottoms, he begins to make his way down the landing, but stops, attracted by the sound of children's voices from the main bathroom.

He taps on the door a little nervously only to be greeted by the sight of his own sons, accompanied by Florence, in the bathtub, with David Cameron's back to him.

Sam spots him first, his dark curls dripping, but he just makes a wet gurgling sound and Cameron turns with a grin. "Oh, hi-"

"Hi." Ed tugs at his jumper sleeves. "So-we're all, erm-"

"Hey." David gives a grin over his shoulder as Florence wriggles like a little minnow in between his hands, splashing the water loudly. "We kind of thought the kids could do with a bath, before dinner-"

"No-yeah-no-" Ed curses himself, kneeling down beside David, reaching for Daniel, who he can see's had his shampoo rinsed, freshly damp hair slicked to his head with Loreal. "No, I-where'th Samantha-"

"Mummy downstairs" Flo says, while David carefully rinses her hair clean. Sam's is already glistening free of shampoo, curls combed and wet.

"Sam started the hair washing" David explains, off Ed's look. "I took over when she went down."

"Are we getting them in their pyjamas?" Awkwardly, Ed takes the shower head David offers him and sluices Daniel's head one more time with it.

He can't remember the last time he washed either of the boys' hair. He bathed Daniel sometimes as a baby-Zia showed him how to do it one Saturday afternoon, Daniel usually being in bed by the time Ed got home-but he doesn't remember bathing Sam during his baby days. Maybe once or twice. He remembers bathing them even less once they'd got to the toddling stage-maybe sluicing them down under a shower on holiday, giving their hair a quick rinse with the baby shampoo, fumbling his way through it. He'd wondered if one day he was supposed to teach Daniel and Sam how to do this themselves and if so, how.

Cameron, watching him, moves Florence over, all the wet, wriggling little inches of her. Ed takes her awkwardly, as Florence beams cheerfully up at him.

"Here, do you want to just entertain her while I finish the boys' hair-" David is carefully holding Daniel's shoulder, sluicing his hair again.

Ed stares at Florence worriedly, adjusting her so that she doesn't slip and knock her head on the side. "Um-"

He casts his mind about frantically for what to do. What entertains a four-year-old? Florence is too old to simply have a toy waved in her face that'll distract her with the colours. Ed's never been entirely sure what enjoyment children derive from throwing a toy off the side of a bath again and again-he doesn't remember doing it himself.

Suddenly, kneeling here, bathroom tiles digging into his knees, he realises that he has no idea how to entertain the little girl he's holding. It feels such a painfully inadequate thing to admit, even only to himself, that Ed's eyes prickle, to his horror.

He looks around frantically, blinking, only to find Cameron's gaze quietly resting on him. Daniel is lifting a Peppa Pig toy on and off the side of the bath, swooping it through the water.

"Well, she'll have to be careful" Cameron's saying to Daniel, even as he watches Ed. "Because those big blobs of shampoo might-pose a _bit _of a problem for him-"

Daniel splashes loudly. "No, they're puddle of-puddles of _quicksand-"_

"Quicksand, right-" David's watching Ed again, even as he hands Daniel back the toy.

How does he _do_ that?

"Ed" David says very softly. "She won't bite."

His blue eyes hold Ed's, and then Florence puts her arms up, damp and warm around his neck.

Ed isn't used to being hugged like this. A child's hug is different from an adult's-they're sudden and fierce. An adult will be careful not to hold on too long; a child just doesn't want to let go. Maybe that's what the difference is; an adult balances the sudden surge of love with practicalities, decorum, comfort, filtering it through carefully; a child's love smashes straight through all of them and steals your breath.

Florence just hugs tight, Ed's face in her wet hair. His arms are around her and he gets a confused sweet scent of Loreal shampoo, and that unique childlike smell-warmth and sweetness, like their laughter leaving a scent. Florence's giggles are high-pitched in his ear, little bells dropping. Her cheek presses against his. It's only when she pulls back into the water that Ed realises that he's been hugging her back, caught her in his arms against his chest.

Florence is back almost immediately. "This is my Elsa" she says, holding out a small plastic figure with a long yellow plait.

Ed clears his throat. "What does she do?" His voice is oddly hoarse.

"Turns things to ice and-" Florence splashes, grabbing at a bubble on Sam's back. "But water warm so the ice is melted-ice is gone-"

David, over the boys' heads, smiles at Ed briefly.

"But" he's saying to Daniel, swooping Peppa through the air himself. "If she gets in the quicksand, maybe if she asks, someone can pull-pull her back out...."

* * *

The kids are curled up with Sam, watching a film when David wanders in to start dinner. It's only something simple-fajitas, which the kids all like-but he's joined, once the chicken is sizzling in the pan, by Miliband, who, when David looks up, is hovering nervously in the doorway.

"You can come in, you know." David says it a little too gently.

Miliband pushes the door wide and peers round, smiling a little. "Juth-st wondered if you needed any help" he says, with a small grin.

David returns it, the oil sizzling between them. "Not much. You can help me chop the peppers if you like."

Ed smirks a little. "Like the kitchen th-staff?"

David gestures round the kitchen. "Only staff's me."

Ed smiles a little, eyeing the peppers with interest. "Can you eat them raw?"

David manages to hold back a snort of disbelief. "Yeah. Course."

Ed's eyes widen and he lifts a piece of pepper slowly to his mouth. He bites at the end of it curiously, and his eyes widen a little.

David grins. "Told you."

He passes Miliband a knife and a red pepper. He can see Miliband reaching for another piece when he thinks David isn't looking, and David deliberately doesn't.

"How?" Miliband asks after a moment or so.

David nicks a slice of pepper himself. "How what?"

"How did you. You know. Cook?" Ed takes another slice of pepper. "I mean-I juth-st wouldn't have thought you'd-"

"Hmm?" David grins again. "Thought Old Etonians couldn't cook?"

Miliband rolls his eyes. "Does everything come back to Eton with you?" he asks waspishly, crunching another slice of pepper.

"Don't know. It certainly seems to with _you."_

Ed blushes. David winks.

"Anyway" he says, issuing Ed with another knife, and carefully sliding a pepper in front of him. "I just always liked cooking. Even when I was a kid. And in the common room at school-I always liked learning restaurant menus, that sort of thing. And so I just set out to try it for myself. And once I was at university, I just got used to it."

Ed watches him, head cocked to the side.

David cocks his own. "Yes?"

"What?" Miliband's smirking a little.

"What? _You're_ looking at _me."_ David nudges him, just slightly.

_"You're_ looking at _me."_ Miliband nudges him back, and promptly nicks himself with the knife. "Ow!"

"Oh!" David grabs his hand, tugging him round. "Oh, shit, come here-"

The knife goes skittering over the work surface as David tugs Ed over to the sink, hand wrapped around his wrist. "Here-"

He tugs Miliband over gently, rinsing the tap until it runs cold. He guides Miliband's hand under the tap, holding it there. Now that Miliband's fingers are open, he can see that it isn't quite as serious as he thought-it's a small nick, but blood wells up into a ruby blot.

"You OK?" David's holding Miliband's hand still under the tap for him. They're both breathing hard.

"Yeah." Miliband bites his lip. "Just-hurtth-"

Something odd happens in David's chest, then-a slow squeezing sensation. His chin's nestled just over Miliband's shoulder, and he's holding his hand gently under the tap.

"My hand'th really cold" Miliband murmurs, which makes them both laugh a little too loudly.

"I know, but we just need to make-make sure the cut's clean. Here, only-only a minute more-"

They hold it there, while David tries to tell himself it's normal to count Miliband's breaths. His chest presses against Miliband's back, warming him a little.

He wraps Miliband's hand carefully in a piece of kitchen roll, turning the heat down on the chicken bubbling in the pan. He sits Miliband down at the table, squeezing his hand tight, trying to stop the bleeding. Miliband hisses.

"Sorry-" David pats his wrist, and gets up, rummaging through one of the cabinets. "Here-we've got a first aid kit somewhere-"

When he sits down again, Ed chews his lip. His eyes are huge, dark. David notices the paleness of his cheeks.

Before he knows what he's doing, he reaches out. "Let me see-" His hand closes tentatively around Miliband's, coaxing at his fingers. They slowly open, letting himself see the small cut on Miliband's palm.

Miliband draws in his breath, wincing, and David winces too, for him. His fingers close around Miliband's hand again, his thumb stroking his palm a little.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to nick you-"

"It'th not your fault-"

"Looks sore-" David strokes more slowly, rubbing Ed's hand gently, noticing the length of his fingers. His hand is soft, warm, as David's thumb traces his palm.

Ed's eyes catch his own. They stare at each other. David's breath catches in his chest.

He looks away, quickly preoccupying himself rummaging through the first-aid-kit. Ed clears his throat a little too loudly.

"I think we can get away with a plaster" he says too quickly. "I don't think you need stitches or anything-"

He reaches for the wipes, the plasters. "Here, let me-"

He tries to ignore his own rapid heartbeat. He focuses very hard on just wiping carefully around the edges of the cut, but the bleeding's already mostly stopped. David examines it carefully, which of course, means he has to keep hold of Ed's hand.

"Here-" He doesn't let himself look up instead, reminding himself how important it is never to take your eyes off first-aid. You never know what might happen, without anyone meaning it to.

He smoothes out a sparkly plaster, and senses Ed's eyes narrowing without even looking up. He smiles a little.

"They're Flo's" he says, to the silent question.

"Right."

David carefully unpeels the plastic. "Yeah-yes, not some-glittery Chipping Norton special set of plasters that only the elite know about-"

He feels Ed's laugh shake through him. "You bring everything back to Chipping Norton."

"Pot. Kettle. Black." David smoothes out the plaster over Ed's cut, runs a finger over it, flattening it gently. Then, he sits, looking at the silver sparkles, just holding Miliband's hand between his own.

_"Come on." The boy was lying on his side on the rugby pitch, arms wrapped around himself. As though, if he curled hard enough, he might disappear into himself. "Come on."_

_"Can't breathe." The boy was gasping. "Can't breathe-"_

_The other team-Harrow or St Paul's, David can't remember which-were sending the ground thundering under their feet. Tom spat furiously, dragging his hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed. "Fuck-"_

_He'd looked at David. "They're going to fucking murder him-"_

_David looked down at the cringing kid, footfalls shaking the ground under them. The boy was lying there, arms wrapped around himself. Like he was asking to be kicked. A lamb to the slaughter._

_David could feel his bedsheets twisting around him, a hand rough on his shoulder, voice in his ear. Fucking look at me, you fucking faggot._

_He looked down at the boy. He heard the footfalls of the other team._

_He kicked the boy in the ribs. Hard. "Get up" he said._

_The boy whimpered._

_"Get up." And David kicked him again. "Get up." He'd been shouting it. "Get up. Fucking get up. Fucking get up and deal with it before you get us fucking-"_

"Cameron?"

David jumps, sensing Ed's wince before he sees it. He's squeezing Miliband's hand. Hard.

"Shit" he manages. "Sorry-" He loosens his grip.

Miliband eyes him oddly. "Are-are you all right?"

_Fucking get up and get on with it._

David blinks, shakes his head hard. "Yeah. Sure. Course I am."

"Why courthe you are?"

"What?"

Miliband blinks. "Why "course you are?" Why _course?"_

David blinks. "I-"

He pauses, searching for the words.

Miliband blinks too. "Um-th-sorry-I was juth-st-"

"No, no, it's-"

"Ignore me." Miliband shakes his head, cheeks pinkening, still looking a little stunned at himself. "I just-I wath just-thinking-"

David shakes his head. "It's fine, I-" He still has hold of Ed's hand.

He touches the plaster again, and then his fingers slide away from Ed's. They both look away from each other too quickly.

"Thank you" Miliband blurts out all of a sudden.

"What for?" David begins tidying the first aid kit away with renewed vigour. "Just-just a plaster, really-"

"But thanks." Somehow he's met Miliband's eyes again. And Miliband's gazing at him more intensely now, those eyes big and dark and-

"Thank you." Miliband's voice is lower, now. "For-thith."

David's heartbeat is suddenly very, very rapid.

He busies himself, fiddling unnecessarily with the first-aid-kit. "No need to be flattered" he says flippantly, before he looks up, meeting Miliband's gaze with a small jolt in his chest. "I just didn't want you ruining the peppers."

Miliband stares at him for a long moment, before a slow grin breaks out over his face. "Bullingdon Boy."

David bursts out laughing at the same moment as Ed dissolves into a sound remarkably like giggling. "You can't stop bringing that up" he remarks, pushing himself to his feet. "If you're not careful, I'll be starting to think you like that picture, Miliband."

Miliband's mouth twitches and he sniggers again, shaking his head. "You're such a-"

He doesn't finish but he's watching David with a slight smile as David turns to put the first-aid-kit away, a small, softer smile that makes David's heartbeat quicken again.

* * *

"Sorry" Ed manages again, plaintively, as David places another pepper in front of him.

"I said, don't worry." David's stepped up behind him, and Ed waits, expecting him to step away. "Happens sometimes.

_Probably not to you._

Ed's cheeks burn, but David still doesn't move. Ed swallows hard.

"I'm all right" he says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. "You know. I know how to-"

He trails off as David's fingers wrap slowly around Ed's hand. Ed can't breathe. He stares down at his hand stupidly, as if it might be someone else's hand he sees there.

Then David's hand lifts his and moves it to the knife. "Told you." David's voice is a breath in his ear. "I'm worried about the peppers."

Ed can hear the smirk in his voice. He laughs, too loudly. "Typical Tory."

"What?" Cameron's breath tickles his neck as he pulls a pepper towards them. "I wasn't aware that it was a particularly Conservative trait to be protective of peppers. Maybe I should put that as one of our pledges in the manifesto. _To continue to uphold and preserve the rights of vegetable produce-"_

"You're not half as funny as you think you are, you know that?"

Ed doesn't mean his voice to sound so soft.

He definitely doesn't mean it to sound so _fond._

But it does, and Cameron stills against him. His chest's against Ed's back.

Ed becomes aware that both their hearts are thudding.

David clears his throat. "And how funny do I think I am?" His voice is low, but he steps back a little, his hand still on Ed's arm, but the warmth at his back gone. Ed feels an odd lurch, as though he's reaching out for the contact again.

He blinks. Drags his mind back.

"Um-more than you are-"

He can sense Cameron's grin. He rolls his eyes.

"You took a while to come up with that one." Cameron nudges him playfully. "Were you trying to think of what conceivable amount of amusement I could possess-"

"I really don't need to-"

"Do you not-"

"No, and it wath me who told you-who _asked_ you-"

"Who asked you-?"

"Th-shut up, I'm-"

"Who asked you-?"

"Th-shut up." Ed can't stop laughing, shaking a little, even as Cameron's arms fasten around him, carefully lowering the knife.

Their laughter trails off, Cameron's arms still encircling him. Ed can feel heat creeping up his cheeks.

"Anyway-" Cameron taps the knife, his own hand a little less steady than usual. "You-um-might want to be-"

"Yeah-"

Cameron manages a smile. "Though no doubt you think we sadistic Tories would want you to get, get hurt-"

He winces a little as he glances, apparently unconsciously, at Ed's hand. Only the tiniest flicker, but Ed notices.

"Th-sadistic Torieth-s" he manages, his voice a little fainter than usual. "G-good campaign slogan-"

Cameron's eyes hold his own for a second too long. "I'll suggest it to Lynton."

Ed manages to laugh. The sound's high-pitched. Cameron's hand is wrapped around his own, and he carefully reaches for Ed's other hand, moves it to hold the pepper.

Ed becomes aware that his heartbeat is far, far too rapid. He takes a deep breath.

He's being ridiculous.

_He is._

"There-" and David manages to bring the knife down through the pepper in a short, sharp sound, fingers lingering at Ed's wrist.

Ed searches for words, but can't find any. He gulps, fixes his eyes on the peppers instead.

David gives him a curious look. "Don't you cook at home?"

It's one of the questions interviewers use. It adds colour, paints a picture of family life.

_Just say you cook something basic. Sounds like you pull your weight, but not like you're overcompensating._

But this isn't an interview.

Ed shrugs. "Well. I can do a th-stir-fry. And potato latkes. But-" He chews his lip. "Zia usually cuts the food though. She does the cooking."

Cameron gives him an odd look, and Ed braces himself for the line.

But instead, Cameron just tilts his head. "Can I ask you something?"

Ed feels as if he's just been shoved under a microscope. He fixes his gaze on the peppers.

"You juth-st did" he says flippantly, instead.

Cameron nudges him. "Can I use that one at PMQs?"

"You alwayth need my help at PMQs."

Cameron nudges him again. This time, Ed meets his eyes. "What?"

Cameron takes a deep breath. "How come you have a nanny?"

Ed blinks. "You have a nanny-"

"No, no, no-" Cameron's hand lands on his arm for just a second, before it jumps a little too quickly to his hair. "No, it, I meant-you're against all this privilege-privilege and stuff, blah blah blah-you go on about the evils of the rich, all that-"

"I never th-said the rich were evil, I th-said it's about morality-"

_"But-"_ Cameron raises a finger, talking over him. "You talk about the immorality of the rich, blah blah, etc, all of that-" He tilts his head and stares at Ed. "But _you_ live in Dartmouth Park and _you_ have a live-in nanny."

Ed's already rolling his eyes, but Cameron's hand lands on his arm. "No, no, hear me out-listen-"

Ed sighs impatiently, the words already scrabbling at his mouth.

"You're against ingrained privilege, the ruling elite, nepotism, all the rest of it-" Cameron's voice is lower now, his eyes seeming a slightly deeper shade of blue than usual. Ed stares at him, the peppers forgotten. "But how come you're so willing to have it yourself?"

Ed blinks. "With all our own money, th-so-"

Cameron just arches an eyebrow.

Ed lets the knife skitter onto the sideboard impatiently. "Oh, for Chrith-st's sake, if it's about that again-"

"Miliband-"

"We've paid all the taxes we're meant to pay, so I don't th-see how that's any-"

"But so have we" Cameron points out, suddenly very keen. "So do we. So do my Cabinet."

"Congratulations. I never th-said otherwise-"

"But you imply it." Cameron taps Ed's hand. So quickly they could pretend it never happened. "Or that the background we come from affects it, when you come from much the same-"

"I've never th-said-"

_"Cabinet Of Millionaires-?"_

"I don't write the headlines, Cameron-"

"But you give them the lines."

"I can't believe _you're_ giving_ me_ complaints about getting bad headlines." Ed grabs at the pepper and chops at it viciously, staring at it but not seeing it.

"Is that the reason?"

Ed takes in a long, shuddering breath. He lifts his head to meet Cameron's gaze.

"I don't have any problem with where you went to school." He tries to keep his voice calm, not let it waver. "The-the only beef I have is with-"

"The only _what?!"_

Ed blushes.

Cameron splutters into incredulous laughter. "The only-"

Ed huffs, tearing his arm away from where it's been lying against Cameron's. "Typical of you to-"

"But honestly_, beef-"_ Cameron, abruptly, holds up a hand. "Look, just forget it. I don't want to argue. With you."

Ed snorts before he can stop himself. _"You_ don't want to argue?"

Cameron's mouth twitches. "That so hard to believe?"

_"Yes."_ Ed laughs before he can stop himself. "It'th what we do."

The words hang between them. Cameron's eyes find his own.

Their gazes hold. Ed's breath catches in his throat.

Cameron's mouth twitches again, slightly deeper. "Maybe" is all he says, before he turns back to the peppers.

Ed stares at him for another moment, before he turns back and resumes chopping the pepper himself, a little more slowly. The silence between them is odd, slightly huffy, slightly amused. And something else too, something that confuses Ed a little, something that's pushing at the edges of the silence, making his fingers curl a little tighter around the handle of the knife.

His cheeks are very warm. His heart is beating very fast.

* * *

The first time her parents had left them alone, Alex had started to cry.

Justine hadn't known what to do. She'd tried giving him one of the Marathon bars their parents had bought for them. She'd tried to crouch down and speak slowly, the same way Dad did when he talked about his lectures or Grandpa did whenever Mum was telling him that crying wouldn't change the situation. She'd tried going through the list their parents had left them item by item, so that Alex could see that Mum and Dad had written very clearly that they weren't going to be calling from their hotels until Saturday night, and it was their job not to be crying then because Mum and Dad had to do their jobs.

Alex had kept crying, his little face crumpled and wet and red. Justine had stared at him, exasperation rising, pulling tight in her chest, and she'd crouched down, putting her hands on his shoulders, to hold him at arms' length.

"Alex" she'd said firmly, making her voice louder than Alex's crying. "Mum and Dad are away. They need to concentrate on their work so they can help people. They're making a difference" she'd added, because that was what Mum and Dad talked about when they talked about the lectures they had to give and the conventions they had to go to.

"They're important" she'd said firmly, holding Alex away from her a little stiffly "and they can't just stop because you're crying."

Alex had just kept sniffling. Justine had stared at him, mind scrabbling for the next words, stringing them into the correct order-she pictured it like sliding a key into a lock and turning it, Alex's tears sliding back into his eyes, the red draining from his cheeks.

"There's nothing to cry about" she'd said eventually, the way Mum used to tell her when she was little, holding her out in front of her so that Justine couldn't quite touch her. "We've got everything we need. You're not hurt, so it's silly to cry, isn't it?"

Alex had looked away from her, tears sliding down his cheeks. Justine had let go of him and stepped away in relief, her hands curling a little, relishing not having his shoulders under her hands.

"I'm going to go and do my homework" she'd said, nodding a little to herself, and then she'd turned and walked up the stairs. Alex would be OK.

Upstairs, she'd dragged her clothes basket up against her door and sat down at her desk. When Alex had started to cry again on the landing, Justine had stared at her maths homework, until the black ink had wavered in front of her eyes, and the sums had started to chant themselves under her breath. She'd traced the numbers over and over with her pen, making sure they fitted in the squares just right.

When she'd heard Alex sit down against the door, she'd started chanting the numbers out loud. Alex had sat outside her bedroom, little whimpers creeping through the wood, and Justine had sat at her desk, staring at her homework, the answers wavering in her little voice over and over in the darkening bedroom, making sure she'd got every one right.

* * *

Flo inspects the plate carefully, then glances at Nancy. "Salsa smile?"

Nancy shakes the salsa bottle obligingly, and manages to eke out a wobbly smile on Flo's plain wrap. "There. Dimples."

Flo promptly tries to inspect herself in the back of a spoon, trying to push her own face next to the wrap for comparison. Nancy turns to Daniel, automatically adding a smile to his too.

Daniel props himself up to try to examine the face. "It's smiling" he says, tracing his own mouth so that Dad has to wipe him clean.

"Yeah" Nancy says, trying to scrabble past Elwen's arm for Sam's plate. "You want it to smile bigger?"

Daniel tilts his head, trying to get another look at the face. "It's smiling" he says again, looking confused.

"So Auntie Venetia and Uncle Chris might be able to come down in the next-over a weekend soon" Mum says, tucking her hair back and dabbing at Flo's mouth carefully. "And bring the boys-"

"Chrith?" Mr Ed Miliband nudges Dad gently-they're sitting next to each other, with Mr Ed Miliband cutting his fajita up carefully. Dad grins when he catches him.

"Yes. Lockwood."

Mr Ed Miliband does an odd quirk of his eyebrow, which makes Dad laugh, and Mr Ed Miliband's fork send a chunk of pepper flying into Sam's head. Nancy manages not to snort.

"So Xandie's coming?" Elwen asks, biting into a piece of chicken. Nancy manages to cut her own wrap, while Flo's kicking her legs back and forth in her chair. Xandie's her age, but looks two years younger, with a mop of bright golden hair.

"No, he's planning to die in a car accident halfway there."

"Nancy." Mum gives her a tap on the arm. Nancy shrugs. "It was a stupid _question-"_

"Don't call your brother stupid-"

"I didn't call him stupid, I called his _question_ stupid-"

Mr Ed Miliband is watching the conversation with an odd look. It reminds Nancy of the moment earlier when, bored with Florence accidentally kicking her in the side every time she leapt up to execute one of the dance moves to the Disney music on the screen, she'd wandered into the kitchen to see if Dad could show her how to cook chicken-Mum won't let her touch raw meat yet, which leaves the array of meals Nancy can cook awfully small.

She'd been too late-the meat was already sizzling in the pan. Nancy had turned to frown.

"Sorry." Dad had ruffled her hair, carefully moving her out of the way as he seized a pepper and chucked it to her to catch. "You were too slow."

"What if I cook something, and I poison you because you never taught me how to cook?" Nancy had glared at the pepper, as though it held some personal responsibility for said hypothetical poisoning.

"Then I'll have you prosecuted, Nance." Dad had squeezed her shoulder. "And thrown in jail."

"Wouldn't it be your fault?" Nancy had pulled herself up onto the work surface, crunching the pepper. "Technically, it'll be your-your fault for not teaching me-ow-" She'd moved the fork digging into her leg as Mr Ed Miliband scrabbled to remove it, patting her shoulder awkwardly as he did so. Nancy had managed not to laugh, especially when she spotted the slightly bemused look that had been crumpling Mr Ed Miliband's forehead.

Reconciled to the fact that she wasn't going to be learning how to avoid food poisoning, Nancy had contented herself with watching Dad tilt the pan back and forth. Mr Ed Miliband was watching too, his head tilted, his forehead creased again.

"I didn't know I was so fascinating" Dad had said, without looking round.

Nancy had rolled her eyes, nicking another slice of the leftover pepper, but Mr Ed Miliband had just grinned, his eyes lingering on Dad's back.

"Typical" he'd muttered, or something like it, almost too quietly for Nancy to hear. There'd been a tiny smile on his face, the crease in his forehead smoothing out.

Dad hadn't even turned round to look at him, but he'd muttered "Pot, kettle, Miliband."

Nancy's quite used to adults making pronouncements that they find hilarious, so had carried on crunching the pepper. But Mr Ed Miliband had just stared at Dad hard for a moment, and then laughed, very softly. But his cheeks were a little flushed and a small dimple had dented his cheek.

It's the same smile Nancy notices again now when Dad gives him a nudge, but she's distracted by Elwen yanking the salsa out of her hand, squeezing it, and sending a spray of red drops over her shirt.

"You _idiot."_ Nancy grabs the bottle out of her brother's hand and smacks him in the arm with it.

_"Ow!_ Mum-"

"Nancy-" Mum tries to wrestle the bottle out of Nancy's hand, as Nancy manages to send it into Elwen's shoulder again. "Stop _hitting_ him-"

"He's _wrecked_ it now, _look-"_

Daniel and Florence are creased in laughter, Dad throwing his hands up as he gets up, Mum already dabbing at Nancy's shirt. "Jesus, it would have to be white-"

Elwen's still sniggering even as he takes a gulp of juice and nearly manages to spit it all over Sam. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Why did you grab the bloody bottle, El-" Dad manages to haul Florence back into her chair, quietening her down with "Shh, please, Flo-"

"She was taking all the salsa-" Elwen's still giggling a little. Forgoing the bottle, Nancy manages to land a punch on his shoulder, twisting in her mother's grip.

_"Ow!"_

"Were you _dropped_ when you were born?" Nancy asks him, prompting her mother to seize her shoulder. "Oi. That's enough."

"He's-"

_"That's enough."_ Mum grabs Elwen's shoulder and pushes him back down into his chair. "Here. You sit down and shut up for a bit."

Nancy fumes, plucking at her shirt. Salsa is blooming slowly, like a bloody flower. "It's got to be _washed-"_

"Here-" Dad throws his hands up. "Just-go and take it off, and I'll wash it for you-"

As Nancy heads for the door, managing to whack Elwen again as she goes past his chair, she notices Mr Ed Miliband glancing about the room, with an odd, fascinated look, as though he's watching a new TV programme. He looks happily bewildered, and then, blinking hard, glances at Dad. "I'll give you a hand."

* * *

Ed had asked her if she wanted to come this weekend. He'd tried to seem sincere as he said it, threading his fingers, shifting from foot to foot. It had reminded Justine of the first times she'd seen Ed, when she'd spotted him standing alone in the middle of Stephanie's living room, shuffling awkwardly, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. Justine had watched him then that night, fingers curled around the glass of too-warm orange juice she'd held.

"It'll be fun" he'd said, shooting her a worried look, as if she was a stream he was trying to navigate his way around. "The kids'll be there."

But his voice had sounded tired, as if he was too busy trying to sound excited to feel any excitement for the prospect.

Justine had thought about it, the whole idea seeming vaguely unreal, the way the idea of going home to see Daniel and Sam sometimes seems, when it creeps, unwanted, into her head at work.

"I've got to finalise that brief" she'd said slowly, trying to give the impression that she was feeling her way to this conclusion reluctantly. "I'll need to be in court again soon, and it's important we get more of the evidence submitted."

Ed had nodded too quickly.

Justine's not entirely sure what they'd have mentioned outside of the trial. The trial and the campaign seem to occupy most of their thoughts at the moment. Usually, it's work that's always in the back of Justine's mind. A the moment, work creeps in over everything, like a blanket that's too big, but Justine wants to pull it in, the same way she'd recited her homework answers over and over again that first night alone as Alex lay curled up asleep, cheeks still flushed and damp, and Justine stood, with her cheek pressed into the door frame, her eyes fixed on the staircase, her fingers gripping the handle of a kitchen knife tightly, until it had nearly carved a groove into her hand.

Their first few meetings, she and Ed had talked about work. It's what you talked about; what you were meant to talk about. What you were meant to be looking for-someone like you. Following a recipe.

And so they'd talked about work. Ed, it had turned out, wanted to work around climate change.

"I've juth-st alwayth thought it was a little known crisith" he'd said earnestly, on their second or third meeting. His hands had been gesticulating a little too much, eyes overlarge and overearnest. "It just seems like not enough people th-see it" and Justine had had to stop her head snapping up, grabbing onto the words like a life raft.

When she had been in Brussels, it had been one of her mentors who'd said to her-almost a throwaway remark, tossed over her shoulder as she went by, "Environment's really the poor man in law when it comes to voices, though."

Justine had stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, hearing the woman's footsteps recede, and then she'd spun round, and asked, her voice tight and wavering, "How do you work in that?"

Her mentor had stopped, glanced over her shoulder. "Sorry?"

Justine's fingers had curled tightly around the folder she was carrying. "How do you progress into that career?" She'd cleared her throat, already folding down the sharp stab of feeling she'd felt at the word _voice._ "You know-what qualifications would I need to work towards-I mean, more than my Law degree or-"

Her mentor's face had bowed into a frown as she'd stared at her, as if trying to work out whether or not Justine was serious. "Well-I can get the information over to you later-you wouldn't need any further qualifications, but it would be wise to read up on the areas involved-but you-you would be one of the very few-"

Something almost painful had risen in Justine's throat, then, without her being quite sure why. "No" she'd said, when she could speak again, clutching her folder tight to her chest. "No, that's-I want to do it."

"Well, make sure you're clear on what's involved" the woman had been saying, but Justine's thoughts had already been fixing on digging her fingers into her folder, to swallow down the pain in the back of her throat, but she'd already known she'd study it, even before her mentor turned around, with her voice hanging around the word _environment_, in the casual throwaway tone and look that sounded and looked exactly like Justine's mother when her parents left for a conference.

That first weekend, when her parents came home, Justine had told them that they'd been fine. Her fingers had been curled into Alex's shirt, digging into his ribs, until he'd said it too.

If their parents had noticed, they didn't say anything about that or the fact that Alex's pillow was soaked through or the dark circles under their eyes or the knife that hadn't yet found its' way back to the knife-box, where it belonged.

* * *

Several minutes later, dressed in her pyjamas and still glowering, Nancy carries her shirt back to the utility room.

She stops, shaking her shirt out a little, and it's then that she catches Dad's voice from inside the utility room. "Have you never done this before-"

There's a snort, then Mr Ed Miliband's voice. "You're one to talk."

"As you can see, Miliband, I am able to use the washing machine-"

"Well, I could-"

"Go on, then."

A pause, then "Wouldn't want to intrude."

Dad laughs. Nancy hears one of them thud something. Then the sound of the washing machine door opening. "Honestly, it's like herding cats some days..."

"Muth-st be quite like your party, Cameron."

"This is coming from the Leader of the Labour Party, Miliband-"

Mr Ed Miliband laughs again, and there's another thud; the sound of someone fiddling with the washing machine.

"Might be you could be grateful to learn something-"

"Oh, how kind of you. Maybe you could be leth-ss resistant to absorbing information every week, then-"

"Well, if-since you're so keen on asking questions, you could ask one right now-"

"I don't want to have you have to answer, and then have the th-sky fall in, or th-something-"

""The sky fall in or something?" _That's _all you came up with-"

"Th-shut up-" There's a giggling sound, and then another thud.

"Ow!"

"What the hell did you do-"

"Did you bring me here to try-try and injure me-"

"Judging by tonight, I don't think anyone has to _try_ and injure you-"

"Ath concerned ath ever-" Mr Ed Miliband's voice is breaking into laughter, when Dad says, a little quieter, "What did you want to ask me?"

There's a short silence. Nancy leans against the wall, knotting her hands in the shirt.

"What do you mean?" She can hear Mr Ed Miliband moving, a couple of footsteps that seem too loud in the winter evening. The chatter from the dining room seems further away than it did a few moments ago.

"You said I never answer your questions. Why don't you try asking me one?"

There's another laugh. "What, you mean like I try to every week-"

"Might surprise you."

Nancy frowns. There's something odd, pushing at the edge of the conversation, something that Nancy knows without quite knowing that or how she knows, is something she can't quite grasp yet. It's got a weird tingle of grown-upness to it, something that makes Nancy frown, uneasiness edging at her stomach.

"Ask me."

There's a long silence. Nancy grips the shirt tightly, her ear pressing very hard to the door.

"Why did you invite me this weekend?" Mr Ed Miliband's voice is very quiet.

There's another silence. Nancy tilts her head, trying to see through the crack in the door. She can just see Mr Ed Miliband-half of his face. He's looking up at Dad, but Nancy can't see her father's face. All she can see is Mr Ed Miliband, and his eyes are huge and dark.

"Because I wanted to." Dad's voice is different from how Nancy has ever heard it before-lower. Something about it makes Nancy want to cover her ears, and something about that makes her want to wrap her arms around herself.

There's another silence, then "Did that provide you with a sufficiently detailed answer to your question, Miliband?"

Another silence. Then, "More than usual."

"Did it provide you with your de-desirable levels of insight? The one you constantly remind me-"

"Maybe."

"Learning from me?"

This time, Mr Ed Miliband's voice breaks into laughter. "You arrogant-"

He doesn't finish, but then says, in quite a different tone, "I never said I didn't want to learn from you."

There's a silence. Nancy hears one of their shoes shift a little, as if they've taken a step.

Something about the silence means she pushes the door a little too quickly, letting it hit the wall.

Dad spins around a little too fast, and Nancy holds out the shirt. "Here-"

She doesn't notice at the time-and won't remember until much later-but Mr Ed Miliband has stepped back a little too fast, and when Dad's eyes flicker to his, his flicker away.

* * *

Justine looks between her two selections of work, carefully spread out on the brown couches around her-getting some furniture that was too decorated, felt too showy, too materialistic, and that's what they aren't-weighing up the words. She knows the trial-knows the ins and outs of the complaint, the degree of erosion measured in the soil, the exact date of each stage of installation of the Ocensa pipeline, the type of dirt spread in each area. She knows the names of each farmer, the themes of the complaint. She knows the arc of the case, the rise and fall of each argument, the David and Goliath sewn through the middle of each line.

(With them being the David, of course, the underdog, the one that always, always comes out on top in the end, if you just put in the work.)

The other work is the photographs.

Ed had brought a selection home from the office but they were mostly just of Daniel, from that year before Sam was born. Justine doesn't remember most of them being taken. One of them's on Hampstead Heath, Justine thinks, but she's not sure.

It was Bob who suggested they find some photos. "For when they do the at-home interviews. We've managed to get some of his office pictures in in the past when he's been filmed in his office, but a few unseen family photos would look good to get in the shot..."

It was a good suggestion, but they'd run into a problem when they'd discovered that they don't _have _many photos of the children. Ed had that couple in his office that he'd taken to use as part of the backdrop when they'd realised how often he'd need to be filmed in his office. They've had to ask Zia for any photos of the boys she has, as well as the posed shots they have of them at conferences and the wedding.

The one photo Justine's managed to pick out that seems to be one of theirs' is one of the boys in a park. She can't remember which one or if it was them or Zia who took it but it looks like summer. Sam's a baby with curls, dangling in the baby chair they used to use. He looks similar to how he did when they'd had them photographed on the train going to Manchester for the conference, when Justine had insisted on running the comb through his hair again before they stepped onto the platform, because curls could make him look more appealing. So it must have been around summer 2012.

Daniel's leaning back, behind the seat, hands gripping the arms on each side. He's not smiling, his head tilted back, chin jutting out stubbornly. He looks as though he's halfway through saying something. Or frowning. Or both.

Justine looks at the photo, squinting at it. She tilts it, trying to see it from each angle. Although they usually tell the kids to smile for photos, maybe it could work for something a little more natural.

Something about Daniel's look jolts Justine's memory-something about the day they were walking to the Brunei Gallery, when she was still getting used to the idea she was pregnant with Sam-and perhaps deliberately, her mind scrambles away from that day and back to when she'd found that out.

She'd been worried about the timing. A perfect timing for two children would have been two years, maybe two and a half. 17 months was too soon, really; not for a nuclear family.

Justine had wondered, what with the leadership contest, if it was really the right time; but she'd gone over the dates enough in her head and with the IVF, it would have looked odd to want to get rid of the baby she'd insisted to the doctors they wanted to have-she'd insisted on starting the treatments again once Daniel got to three months old, based on all the warnings the doctors had given them.

"It'll take a while" one of the doctors had told them the first time, while Justine had made sure to nod in the right places and Ed had glanced at her a couple of times, hand hovering once as though wondering whether he should take hers'. "You need to really be sure this option is for you. It can be emotionally gruelling for couples-you need to know there's a good chance it'll take several cycles to work, and the wait can be difficult, emotionally."

They should probably hold hands at a moment like that, Justine had thought, so she'd picked up Ed's hand without looking at him and placed it firmly in her lap. "We know" she'd said firmly. "But this is the best option. And the sooner we start, the more chance we've got."

She'd been 37 when they'd started the treatments. That already put her in the "geriatric pregnancy" range. A part of her seethed quietly when she thought of it. She'd told Ed, two years in, that they should be trying, but by that point, the chances of conceiving naturally were minuscule, and they'd always been small for them anyway. A part of Justine seethed even more at herself for not recognizing earlier on that she should make more of an effort with Ed; that they'd make a good combination. That would have meant they started trying a year earlier, or more.

It had taken a while with Daniel, and so Justine had insisted, once they'd got into a routine with Zia, and the weather was creeping towards autumn, that they try again.

"Look" she'd said to Ed on her birthday, Daniel plonked in his high chair at the end of the table, grizzling quietly. Justine supposed he was a bit too small for it, but she wasn't sure what else to do with him. She'd tried waving a toy at him a few times, but he hadn't stopped. Eventually, she'd just pushed his dummy into his mouth, which would muffle his sounds at least, until Zia could take him downstairs for a bit. "I'm 39. If we leave it a couple more years, we're going to find it doesn't work."

Ed had stared at her, frowning. "But they can do things these days, and-"

"That would be harder and take longer and by the time we got there, there'd be too much of, of an age gap-" Justine had already marshalled her arguments, gone over them in her head so that their dinner conversation was planned out, the way she does on the tube home from work sometimes, so they'll have something to talk about when they see each other. "We can't have them too far apart."

Ed had looked between her and the baby, bemused-the way he often did around Daniel. The first time Justine had given the dummy to Zia to put in Daniel's mouth, Ed had asked what it was for.

"Well-" He'd swallowed, chewing at his lip. Justine had known what he was thinking-the election was less than eight months away. If Labour didn't stay in power, there'd be a leadership contest.

Justine had debated whether or not to say anything then, watched Ed stare at his plate for a moment, but it wasn't the right time. Two birds with one stone was all very well, but two lines of attack can get confused, knock each other off course, so they both end up missing their targets altogether.

Ed had glanced up. "Isn't Daniel already a lot of work for Zia?" He'd patted their baby son's head nervously almost as though asking his permission. "He might still be a baby really when the th-second one was born."

Justine had tried not to sound impatient as she sighed. "But he'd be older by then. Remember how long it took to work with him? And say-just say it took that long again, he'd be two-two coming up to three or something by the time the, you know, the other one arrived." She'd taken a sip of her wine-she usually hates wine, but it had seemed like the sort of thing you should drink on your birthday, so she always makes herself have one. "And I've read that that's a good-a good age gap, you know. It's good for their separate development, two-two or three years. I was nearly two when Alex was born."

Justine had left out the fact that David had been four and a half when Ed was born. She wondered if she should have left out Alex too.

Ed had worried at his lip, but Justine knew that he'd leave it to her. All he had to do was produce the required sample-which she's never seen Ed do in any other circumstances, and she imagines he applies the same approach to it as he does when signing off documents-and then she could take care of the rest herself, and somewhere along the line, there'd be another baby-hopefully a girl; one of each matched a little more-and that would be a nice, contrasting pair. Dark and blonde would be even better. Daniel already had a few strands of blond hair which was a pity, Justine had thought, looking at him-a dark little boy and a blonde little girl would have been a good set, though Justine had supposed it was a happy chance that blond hair had appeared at all.

And so they'd agreed-Justine had made sure to ask Ed that, to be certain. "So we're agreed?" she'd said expectantly, with another sip of wine, her eyes holding his.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah" he'd said too quickly, fumbling with his own glass of wine, in what he clearly felt was an appropriate moment. "Yeah. We can start-we can book an appointment, if you want-"

Justine had smiled, knowing they should be able to save this as a happy moment, the moment they decided to have another baby together.

They'd eaten a little more, their forks clinking too loudly. Ed had tried to chuck Daniel under the chin a couple of times, while Daniel had strained away, eyes not settling on either of their faces, even when Justine had waved the toy at him again half-heartedly. And they'd both been too relieved when Zia came and took Daniel back downstairs.

* * *

The room's warm and dark, a fire crackling in the fireplace. The kids are curled together over two armchairs, Nancy idly stroking Florence, Sam or Daniel's heads every few moments, sometimes all together. Elwen's legs are draped across the arms of the chairs, which have been pushed together to create a makeshift nest, his own hand alternatively patting Florence's arm when she waves her toy rabbit at him, one or other of them toddling over to the couch with their arms up for a hug. Samantha's half-asleep at the other end of the couch in her dressing gown, with her make-up wiped off, eyes occasionally fluttering shut in a doze. She looks younger, almost as young as Nancy, her arms wrapping around whichever of the three younger children toddles up in a sleepy cuddle. Her feet are in David's lap, with her almost curled up, her head on a cushion.

Ed can only glance at her every few moments, because looking at her means looking at Cameron. And he doesn't need to look at Cameron because he can feel Cameron, can feel the heat of his body pressed up against him, even as he tries to fix his eyes on his screen, his heart beating uncomfortably fast.

They're watching _The Great British Bake Off_, but Ed's lost track of whatever's going on on the screen. He's not sure why or how he ended up sitting next to Cameron. He's not sure if he's cursing himself for that or not.

Cameron's leg keeps pressing against his own just slightly. Ed isn't sure if he's noticed. Maybe _Ed_ shouldn't have noticed.

Every time Cameron leans forward to take a few kernels of popcorn, his arm presses into Ed's. How did he get so close? When did he get so close?

Ed feels a rush of heat as Cameron's shoulder brushes his own, sending a strange tingling shiver down his back. Cameron settles back into the couch, his arm stretching out, and Ed almost lunges forward to grab a handful of popcorn, just so he doesn't have to feel Cameron's arm, which could almost be around his-

Ed stares very hard at the screen and tries to ignore the odd look Cameron gives him. He crunches the popcorn, not tasting it, his mouth suddenly far too dry, his heart thumping hard enough to hurt. He feels odd, taut, plugged in. Every time Cameron moves slightly, his leg presses slightly into Ed's own. Ed can smell his aftershave. Every time he moves, his arm nudges Cameron's.

Ed's breath is caught in his throat. He shifts nervously, folds his legs.

Maybe he should just-he unfolds his arms-maybe if he wriggles out a little-maybe if he lifts his arm a little-

Cameron shifts closer and Ed freezes, because in a moment, his arm's going to be around Cameron's-

He snatches it back with a mutter of something and feels Cameron nod.

Right against him.

Where he's ended up nudged into Cameron's chest.

Ed can't move again. He squeezes his hands together in his lap. He tries to look at the screen, but now all he can focus on is the rise and fall of Cameron's chest right next to him.

_God, what's he doing?_

Ed doesn't get a chance to reconsider this because right then is when the back of Cameron's hand nudges his own.

It sends a small jolt through Ed. He only just manages to hold still, to not pull away.

(Or he thinks, pull away.)

Cameron's hand only lies against his own for a second, but Ed's aware. His whole body prickles, alert to every inch of the heat down his side, of the slight press of Cameron's knee against his own.

* * *

David just keeps his eyes focused on the screen, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady.

It's Miliband. That's why he keeps glancing at him.

It's just Miliband, and it's-

He can feel Sam's hair tickling his shoulder as she sleeps, curled up like a cat. He can still hear Nancy and Elwen muttering to each other, occasionally shoving each other out of the way to grab a handful of popcorn. Every so often, he'll hear himself call out a warning if the shoving's getting too vigorous, but he can barely focus on his own words, he's trying so hard not to notice every time Miliband moves next to him, every slight brush of their arms.

It's ridiculous. He's overthinking it.

He's sat next to Miliband a hundred times before. At events and ceremonies and-

He's sat next to him.

It shouldn't matter.

It shouldn't.

Miliband's hand touches his again. This time, just for a second, before it pulls away, and David senses Miliband's gaze flicker to his own.

David keeps looking away, furiously trying to focus on the cakes. The fact that this, of all things, is not easy does nothing to settle his mind.

But he leaves his hand where it is.

Where there's nothing _wrong _with it being.

It's his couch. He can sit exactly how he likes.

He just wonders what Miliband will do, a little.

David tries to swallow, his mouth unaccountably dry. His heartbeat is far too fast. He feels Sam shift slightly against his shoulder and, for a wild moment, prays she'll wake up.

Miliband's hand touches his again.

*

He moved away last time, so he waits for Cameron to this time.

Ed waits, trying to ignore the prickles of heat racing up his arm, the tingling sensation in the tiny places that are pressed together.

He waits.

Cameron's not moving.

Ed's stomach swoops. He bites his lip hard, keeping his eyes on the screen, because if he-

If he looks at Cameron right now-

His heart's thundering. He can feel sweat dampening under his arms, heat reddening his cheeks. He almost curls his hand into a fist, but doesn't.

He-

He-

He puts his hand back a little, and feels a wave of relief that makes him exhale shakily, feeling oddly off-kilter.

He doesn't look at Cameron, but he knows, just knows somehow, that Cameron hasn't moved.

Ed stares at the screen, heart pounding, an odd irritated itching in his chest, because Cameron hasn't moved an inch, and he-

He-

Cameron doesn't move. Ed can't look at him, but he pictures that Cameron smirk denting his cheeks, that-

Ed almost holds his breath. Slowly, so slowly he's not even sure he's doing it deliberately, his hand crawls an inch closer.

He doesn't look.

Another inch.

Another.

His hand touches Cameron's.

Ed's breath steals out of his lungs at the warm touch. He sits very still, trying to breathe steadily, blink steadily, sit steadily, just not _move._

He waits for Cameron to pull away.

Cameron doesn't pull away.

*

David can't move.

Miliband's hand is touching his. He pulled it away, and now-

Did he-

Is he doing this-

Is he-

David's breath catches.

He keeps his eyes on Sue Perkins on-screen. She's a Labour supporter, isn't she? She must be. Maybe not. Maybe-maybe-

Miliband's hand is still against his.

David tries to swallow, to adjust his weight slightly without pulling their hands apart. His hand presses harder into Miliband's for a split second.

He feels Miliband tense. He stares harder than ever at the screen, but even without looking, he can _feel_ the rigidity of Miliband's shoulders, the unnatural stiffness of his chin tilted towards the TV. He's not sure if the too-loud breaths are Miliband's or his own.

He shifts again, just slightly. It's just the sides of their hands that are touching. Just there, and it's enough to send David's heart throwing itself against his ribs, his shoulders wanting to shake with his breathing, his cheeks burning in the dark, and how can they be the only ones noticing this, how-

He shifts a tiny bit, and his little finger nudges Miliband's, just slightly.

Miliband tenses. David can hear his breathing, too loud in the dark room. He feels Miliband's leg tremble slightly, and fight to keep itself still against his own.

He can't look. He can't.

Slowly, very slowly, Miliband's finger nudges his back.

*

Ed's thoughts are gone. His face seems to be getting hotter with every second. The crackling of the fire is only making it worse. He shouldn't have worn this stupid jumper.

He doesn't know why he's letting his finger move. But it is. Like a jostle to the shoulders in return in a corridor. But smaller, quieter.

But a jostle doesn't send Ed's heart into his mouth, leave him trying to ignore the way his breathing's slowly quickening. Trying not to notice Cameron's leg, nudging slightly against his own, or trying to notice.

Ed doesn't know what he's doing, or if he means to do it, or if it's just some long-buried innate impulse to just respond whenever Cameron does something now-

But his finger nudges the tiniest bit.

Their fingers are touching, almost overlapping.

Ed stares at the screen, heart thumping so hard he feels sick. He stares straight ahead, no longer trying to focus on the programme, no longer trying to focus on anything but waiting, waiting for the moment he knows Cameron will-

Cameron's finger moves very slightly over his own.

For a moment, Ed thinks he's going to scream. Or cry. Or burst out laughing. Or throw up. Or jump up and run out of the room.

He stays sitting exactly where he is.

His heart is going to break out of his chest, he thinks wildly, a drop of sweat meandering between his shoulder blades, and then he bites his lip, trying to tell himself to _calm down, calm-_

He doesn't know why he's doing it. But his finger moves very slightly. Very, very slightly.

Under Cameron's own.

He feels Cameron tense very slowly. Ed stares straight ahead, every inch of his body taut and still, fighting to pull away, fighting not to. Held taut in a silent dare.

The entire room, under the burble of the TV, feels silent, as if the whole world's taken a breath.

*

David can't breathe. Sam's head is heavy on his shoulder. He can feel her hair tickling his skin, smell her shampoo. He wants to turn his face and kiss her head, bury his face in the warmth of her sweet-smelling hair that's as familiar to him as his own.

His finger is on top of Miliband's.

He can't look at him. He absolutely cannot look at him.

He doesn't know what he's doing. It's like he's waiting for the next words of a conversation. For Miliband to fling an argument back at him across the House. It's falling into that rhythm.

David's heart is climbing into his throat. He's holding his breath, or it feels like it. The rapid fluttering in his chest is growing, swelling like a balloon, until David thinks he might just explode.

His finger moves, as though it can't take it a second longer. It curls just slightly.

His finger settles over Miliband's.

David's heart's breaking through his ribs. His breath stutters into a tiny, shaky little gasp. His entire body is electric, almost quivering, as though he's very slowly lighting up all over, as though he might open his mouth and have light just pour out.

His finger's curled around Miliband's. They're sitting in the dark, legs pressed together, fingers interlinked.

David can feel every inch of Miliband that's pressed against him. He can feel Miliband's breath, taut and held. He can feel the tiny hairs on his arm, one of them brushing David's wrist, sending an electric whisper through him. He can feel that electricity, that stillness, that Miliband being as alert of him as he is of Miliband.

Their fingers are still interlinked.

Miliband's seems to move the slightest inch, pressing deeper into David's.

David's curls a little tighter.

Their fingers are curled around each other.

David's sure he's not breathing.

They sit there, the clatter of dishes being put into ovens and the soft chewing of popcorn and the crackling of the fire too loud and too quiet at once. They sit there, neither of them seeing the screen they're watching, legs pressed together, hearts pounding, stomachs hollow with a strange, swooping longing, fingers curled around each other.

Ed feels Cameron's finger tighten around his. His head swims for a second.

And like he always does to Cameron, he responds. His finger squeezes just gently.

Slowly, pressed up against him, he feels Cameron's shoulder start just slightly to relax.

Neither of them looks at the other. Neither of them breathes.

Their fingers are curled around each other.

* * *

"It worked" she'd told Ed calmly, sitting on the sofa. Zia had taken Daniel out for a walk. It was important for Daniel to get regular exposure to fresh air. It would help develop his intellectual potential, the research said.

"The treatment."

Ed had stared at her blankly. They only had an hour or so-Justine had checked his calendar very carefully to check that this hour would be free, and then Ed would be back to the office, to carry on writing the manifesto. Justine still had governing proposals to look over for Brookfield. (It was a good idea, she'd decided, to apply to become a governor when they'd moved here. It had the right touch of a progressive ethos-it would be handy for ensuring Daniel was exposed to the right amount of diversity. And it was never too early to improve his chances of getting a place.) If she looked over her latest brief afterwards, Zia might be able to put Daniel to bed. She had already known they wouldn't see Ed again until the next day once he left for work.

Then, Ed's head had jerked slightly. "Oh. Oh. So. You're-"

Justine had nodded, running through the dates again in her head to be sure. "I know we're supposed to wait until we do the test at the hospital, but I decided to take one at home to be sure. Since it's the February cycle that worked, it means I'm a couple of weeks along, but I'll have to tell the doctors to be sure."

"R-right." Ed had nodded to himself, staring off into the middle distance. "Right. Well. That-that'th fabulous news, I-" He'd tugged at his fingers, slid them in and out of each other, eyes wandering around the living room as though he might find a response there. "I-well done."

The words had hung there, ringing, sounding faintly ridiculous. Justine hadn't done anything to be praised for. She'd lain there, and an embryo had been placed in her womb. Nothing more or less. It was like how sorry the doctors had looked when they'd been trying to conceive the first baby, with each test that showed up clear of a blue line.

"I'm sorry" the doctor had said, dropping the third clear stick in the bin, watching the way Ed bit his lip and glanced at her, then away, as though waiting for her reaction. "I know how upsetting this must be for you."

Justine had frowned. She wasn't upset. It was irking, of course, that it was taking so long-they'd need to work out when to get the second one, after all. But she wasn't upset. The embryos hadn't survived, hadn't implanted. Discard them, create more.

"For couples, this is normal. It's perfectly usual to go on to conceive after many failed attempts-"

"I understand that" Justine had told him too calmly. "We'll just have to start again. The embryo that was fertilised didn't implant, did it?"

The doctor had looked at her very gravely. "No. I'm afraid not."

"Well. We'll just have to discard the embryos from this cycle. We knew some would be-be defective, it's best to get it out of the way, I suppose."

The doctor had stared at her, but only for a second too long. Justine had reached for Ed's hand, placed it firmly in her lap, where she put her own hands around it, like holding a stone.

"I thought it probably wouldn't happen thith fast" Ed had said suddenly, that day in the living room.

Justine had taken a deep breath. "I know. It's not ideal. I was hoping these cycles would just be the practice ones, but...it worked."

"Well-when-when are you due? You know, when will the baby be-"

"I don't know yet for sure, but I worked out that if it was February, then around October-October, November, it should be-"

"So Daniel will be-16, 17 months-"

Justine had taken a deep breath, the same way she had in the bathroom when she'd first done the maths in her head, fingers pressing into her temples. "I know. It's not ideal-but we had no way of knowing it would happen so quickly, and-"

"It'th a close age gap-"

"Yes, I know." Justine had snapped the words out, because it was _too_ close. It should have been one of the later cycles.

It_ should_ have been. After all the trouble David and Louise had had had, Justine had almost been relying on it. Two years was a good age gap-two or three. And now they'd be too close together.

"Well, why did you want to-th-start so early-"

"Because I didn't _know." _Justine had been more and more infuriated by this thought, that'd niggled and niggled under her skin all day, jabbing at a throbbing _It worked_ over and over again. She'd done all the research, she'd planned it so carefully, and yet she hadn't _known_ and it hasn't _worked._

For a moment, her hands had clenched, wanting to grip at her stomach, her fists wanting to pound. Because it was in there even now, growing and thriving, and too _soon,_ jolting everything out of plan.

"We won't have an abortion" she'd said to her stomach, barely realising she was speaking out loud. "We pushed too hard to start the treatments."

Ed's head had jerked up violently, his face almost twisting with shock. "We don't need an abortion!"

The shocked reproach in his tone had been enough for Justine to stare at him and then quite suddenly, her hand stiffening at her side, to want to slap him.

He wasn't the one who was pregnant. He wasn't the one who'd been planning it all carefully, right from when they'd been together about a year and Justine had noted quietly that they made a good combination.

When she'd stared at the third pregnancy test in the bathroom that afternoon-one for each cycle that _shouldn't have worked_-she'd found herself drawing deep gasps of air, her hair yanked hard between her fingers, the flare of pain in her scalp a quiet little scream, not enough.

It was ruined. It was too soon, wouldn't work properly, and it _wasn't how it was supposed to be._

Justine had dug her nails hard into the back of her hand, the ledge next to the toilet digging into the back of her thighs, forcing herself to breathe slowly. It wasn't a disaster.

There would be two. That had been the first priority, getting two. She'd squeezed her eyes shut, finishing up, washing her hands slowly, clenching them when they shook.

It wasn't the plan, but they'd work around it. They'd work around it.

She'd felt her shoulders shake a little, drawn in a long, quavering breath. _It's all right. It's all right._

She'd looked down at her stomach, picturing it in there, growing. Growing and growing, until it was a baby curled up, ready to come out, but early, just a few months too _early._

She'd been drawing deep gasps of air, her hands digging into the cabinet. _It's gone wrong. It's gone wrong._

Justine had pushed herself upright slowly. She'd stared at herself in the mirror, taking in her flushed cheeks, the muss of her hair. Her eyes, too wide and frightened, grasping for what came next.

Justine had looked at herself for a long moment, forcing her eyes to roam every inch of her face. Then she'd taken a slightly deeper breath, straightened her shoulders, stiffened her hand at her side and, staring into her eyes staring back from the mirror, she'd lifted her hand and slapped herself once, hard, round the face, sending her gaze snapping round, the room spinning around her.

She'd managed to stay upright, hanging onto the edges of the sink, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths, one by one. She'd stayed there, standing still, until she was sure she wasn't going to fall or cry or both.

Then she'd run the tap carefully. She'd splashed her face with cold water, blinking it out of her eyes, taking deep, slow breaths, until she could stare straight back at herself in the mirror and not cry, her left cheek stinging bright red, the shape of her own hand burning back at her.

* * *

Ed tries to turn over, but his cheek presses too deeply into the pillow. He tries lying on his back, but he can only lie like that for a moment before something itches or he kicks at the covers and then he's uncomfortable again.

He can't sleep, which is ironic since this is one of the most comfortable beds he's ever been in.

Brilliant. Now if he can't stay awake at breakfast, he can add Cameron worrying Ed doesn't think much of his hospitality to the list of things to dwell on-and _bam,_ he's back to Cameron.

The same way _every other thought_ has been since-

Ed still doesn't know how they let go of each other's hands. He's still not sure how he managed not to _faint_ when the episode was over, when Elwen switched the lights back on, making them all squint in the sudden brightness, throwing Cameron's face into sharp relief. Ed's eyes had caught a startled, stolen glance of the soft lines under Cameron's eyes before he'd yanked his gaze away, fixing it on the floor, his entire body trembling very slightly, as though he'd been plugged into something.

Thank God that they'd let go before the lights came back on.

Thank God, or whatever, because-

Because-

Ed can't think about it without his heartbeat drumming in his throat.

He feels _plugged in_. He lies here, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, trying to keep his mind empty and calm and so not let it touch that lightning-flash moment of Cameron's finger bumping into his own.

Not to touch that tingling, fluttering-heartbeats moment of the heat of Cameron's finger creeping over his own. That key-in-a-lock feeling, a key being turned by Cameron's finger settling around his own, like it was meant to be there all along, opening up-

Ed takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut.

His heart's pounding hard enough that Ed's stomach swoops with each beat.

He feels plugged in. Taut. Wired. Even though his eyes are heavy, each time they close, his brain seizes that moment in a shriek of wakefulness.

Cameron's finger wrapping around his own.

Ed shrinks back from it, while prodding at the edges of the memory nervously, like a cut he's not sure will hurt or not.

He digs his fingers into the duvet, tries to think.

It doesn't have to mean anything. It-

It could have been-

He tries frantically to think-

Maybe Cameron was just-

_What?_

Why would he-

Maybe Ed had imagined the whole thing.

A part of Ed soars wildly with hope at that thought. Maybe-maybe it's just-

But-

The way his heart's pounding-

The electric, taut, awake feeling-buzzing through his entire body-

Just imagined-

Maybe-

Maybe it had just been automatic? Maybe Cameron had felt Ed's finger touch his and just-just automatically gripped back? The same way he glances at Ed when Ed glances at him-

It could be.

It _could_ be.

Ed doesn't feel any better.

But why else would Cameron-

Ed feels Cameron's finger tighten around his own again. His own curls.

Why would _Ed-_

Ed turns over firmly, staring into the dark. It's nothing, he tells himself firmly. It's just-

Just one of those things.

They'll never talk about it again.

But-

Ed nearly punches his pillow.

_Why-_

_Why_ did Cameron-

Why did _Ed-_

He feels his own finger, circling around Cameron's again.

Ed shoves his head into the pillow with a groan.

He-

He didn't mean-

He just _did_ it.

Ed drags his thoughts back from the press of Cameron's leg against his, from the warm nudge of his hand-

Why did Ed-

He didn't even _think-_

He just-

_Did_ it.

Ed flops over onto his back, stares up at the ceiling. His eyes prickle.

_Why?_ Was it just automatic-Cameron did it, so-

Was he-

Did he-

Ed can feel that swooping in his stomach. That balloon swelling in his chest as their finger brushed, then flinched back from each other.

Did he-

Did he want to-

But why would he-

Ed sees those lines under Cameron's eyes again. He can picture that Cameron smile deepening them, creasing them into his skin with each grin.

Is he picturing or is he remembering-

And that just reminds him of-

Did he _want-_

Ed's breath rises in a swift, hard sob.

He squeezes the pillow hard.

Shut up. Shut _up._

It's _stupid._

All Cameron _did_ was-

_He's _probably not lying awake worrying.

It's probably just a _Cameron_ thing. _He_ didn't act any differently after.

Maybe he-

Maybe he just-

Ed rolls over, presses his face into his hands.

God, what the hell was he _thinking?_

Ed yanks the other pillow over his head, groaning. What does it-how can it-

Why didn't he just yank his bloody hand_ away?_

Ed groans, flops over onto his side. But his heart's beating rapidly, thinking about that moment, the moment Cameron's finger tightened around his own, the way something soared in Ed's chest, the way his cheeks had burnt, he-

Ed opens his eyes, lying very still in the dark. His heart is pounding. His stomach is swooping. His breath catches in his throat, his skin prickling as he feels their fingers tightening together, both at once, and the jolt in Ed's heartbeat, Cameron's skin pressed against his-

This is ridiculous.

Ed sits up, knowing it won't do any good, but too restless to carry on trying to sleep. He needs something to occupy him.

He'd asked Cameron about any alarms they put on at night, so he knows they don't need to worry about heading downstairs. (The alarms, apparently, can be left off when kids are staying, the security guards outside providing ample protection.)

Ed almost curses at how cold it is as he makes his way down the stairs-even wrapped tight in a dressing gown, his bare feet flinch at the cold of the flagstones, so he almost hops as he makes his way over to his coat. It takes a couple of seconds of cold rummaging before he finds what he's looking for, and then he hurries back up the stairs as quickly as he can.

He reaches the landing, glances down at the little bundle in his hand, and someone's hand touches his arm.

The only things that prevent Ed from screaming out loud are the sheer cold still aching in his bones and the fact that at the exact same moment his chest almost smacks into the other person's. As it is, he manages only a shocked little gasp before he hears the voice.

"Miliband, it's me."

_"Cameron-"_ Ed smacks his hand over his heart. _"_Jesus _Christ,_ Cameron-"

Ed can make him out in the dark now, the light from the window giving him an almost ghostly look.

"What?"

"You almothst gave me a fucking heart attack!"

Cameron's mouth twitches in the Cameron smirk, familiar even in the half-darkness. "Think I was a ghost, Miliband?"

Ed glares at him. _"Wish_ you were a ghost" he mutters, and Cameron's smirk deepens, hand still clutching Miliband's wrist.

They both look down at the same moment and pull apart instantly. Ed stares fixedly down at his hand, while David clears his throat ostentatiously and tugs at his dressing gown.

"Um-"

"So-what were you-"

"You th-said the alarm was off, th-so-"

"Oh-oh, yeah, course, I just meant-you know, what was-"

Ed's shivering. So's Cameron, even in his dressing gown. "Um-I-er-"

He's cold and his teeth are chattering, which is the only reason Ed can come up with for what he does next.

Which is manage to stutter "D-do you want to come in?" while pointing towards his half-open bedroom door and for the sound of the words only to hit him a few moments later.

Oh.

"Um-" He can feel himself blushing furiously. One of his feet hits Cameron's, and he pulls it back, nearly clashing their heads together in his haste.

"Um-th-sorry-"

"N-no, it's-"

"It'th your house-"

As if _that's_ the most objectionable part of what he just said.

"Ah-" Cameron falls silent and Ed fixes his gaze on his feet, wishing he could sink into the carpet.

"Um-" Ed looks up to see Cameron glancing at his room meaningfully.

It takes him a moment to click-

"Oh-"

He feels himself blush again at his own tone and awkwardly gestures Cameron in ahead of him. Cameron gives him the quickest of glances as he goes by, a look that makes something jolt pleasantly in Ed's stomach.

* * *

Justine is always thankful when Ed's away because it means she can carry on with some work in bed. It never feels right to be sitting there, reading or listening to music, when she could be getting more work done. Plus, Ed seems to glance at her sometimes, when he's sitting on the bed still fully-dressed, marking at one of his speeches, as though thinking they should talk about things, and it's a distraction. It's a relief when he stays downstairs working, doesn't think he should try and put an arm around her, making her have to fight not to tense up, pushing her head deeper into the pillow.

Tonight, her work's been productive. She's managed to narrow down a couple of photos that they might be able to use in a backdrop. The one of the boys in the park seems to be the best one-it looks natural, and maybe that will overrule the worry about them both not smiling.

Justine places it on the bedside table cautiously, as though it might bite her, before she hastily sweeps the rest into the plastic bag, dropping it down beside the bed out of sight with a sigh of relief. She looks at the photo again, eyes holding her sons' faces for a moment before they dive away.

_They'll be listening. Make sure you talk to him about something innocuous. Safe._

Justine had wondered just how that would work, but it was all right as long as everyone thought that it had.

She'd tried to bring the conversation round to it, telling Ed as they walked down the street that day, the cameras just coming into sight. "It looks better" she'd said, and he'd given her an odd look, but then she'd already been talking. "Daniel's with Zia" she'd said, which he'd known already, but she wanted to give him some impetus.

She hadn't been nervous that day. She'd known Ed thought she was and so she'd let him think that. It was easier if he thought it was her who was nervous.

She'd still been getting used to the idea that she was pregnant with Sam. They didn't yet know that he was a boy. Justine wonders what she'd have thought then if she'd known what would happen less than two months later, when she'd wondered too late if Ed should have held her hand, while she turned her face away, dealing with the indignity of having the cold jelly rubbed on her stomach, telling herself it was a means to an end, the way she would say calmly and firmly to a witness before she put them on the stand to save her case.

_It's a little boy_, the doctor's face splitting in a smile, and something hadn't thudded exactly in Justine's chest-more like the echo of a thud. A door slamming shut almost out of hearing range.

Not a girl. Not the right pair. Not a contrast.

She'd lain still for barely a second, fighting down the prickling at the corner of her eyes. Not a pair.

"Right" she'd said, brightly, with the smile she'd already been unfolding deep in her chest, waiting for the cue. She'd turned to look at Ed, with that big, too-wide smile she's seen new mothers give, that she's practiced a few times in the mirror. _What do you think, honey_ the look always seems to say, as if either the woman's brain is so frazzled with happiness that they need to experience it together or it's left her utterly stupid. Justine has no idea what either of these would feel like.

Ed had been looking at her as though waiting for some instruction. Justine had wanted to shake him, just for a moment.

But then he'd managed to do a half-crumpled, half-bewildered smile and she'd realised he was looking at the picture of the baby, Sam's head mostly a blob, then. Justine had forgotten to look before, and she'd turned her head and focused her gaze on the blob on the screen, trying to arrange her face into the rapt gaze necessary, and for once, she'd followed Ed's lead.

She didn't know Sam was a boy, but she could feel him in there, despite the fact she knew it must be imagination at this stage. The baby was a few cells jammed together, barely a blob inside her-there was no way she could feel it jostling inside her with each step she took as though it was already determined to remind her how well the treatment had worked. Maybe that was what had been making her grit her teeth slightly, her jaw wanting to tense as she ran through the list in her head once again of the foods she was supposed to eat at this stage in the pregnancy to maximise the child's potential for intellectual capabilities, and the thought of the maternity leave she'd have to take, jabbing at her over and over, and of how awful it had been last time she'd stood at the window of her office, hearing Daniel bellow angrily, his little fists beating over and over on the bars of his cot, pulling her hands up over her ears, willing it to just shut _up, shut up._

She'd go, lift him under the arms, holding him out in front of her, so the hot, wet force of his outraged crying couldn't smack her in the face, checking his feeding times, patting his nappy, checking the thermometer for the room temperature, yanking up his shirt with one hand, pressing his stomach for signs of bloating or discomfort, ticking off the list before almost pushing him back down into the cot, plonking him down, backing away to the door, turning and almost stumbling in one movement to the door, so she was spared the sight of his angry, crumpled little face.

"He's there for now, with-"

"Where?" Ed had been asking, one eye already on the reporters ahead.

"The farm, because it was last time-it's the City Farm-" off Ed's confused look, making sure to smile, aware of the camera lenses ahead of them. "They went there last time, but it was shut-"

In her mind's eye, she'd seen her own hand almost slap at Daniel's, smacking it away from the bars as he reached for her, his little face red and hating.

"So I said-she might do that-"

"Ed, are you going to stand?" The reporter's voice had been close, much too close, and Justine had clutched her brown handbag tighter automatically, her head ducking hastily, reconsidering the long blue shirt she'd put on. It was in fitting with Ed's genuine, no-spin message, but she wasn't sure how it would look on camera.

Ed had done that awkward smile of his back, trying to see past her. "Looking forward to my speech" he'd said a little too quickly, and it had been all Justine could do not to let her shoulders sink in relief as he gave the answer she'd needed to hear.

"Are you going to _win?"_ the reporter's voice had asked, teasingly, but Ed had ignored this, and so Justine had followed suit.

"Or-" she'd said as they split apart to round a tree, forcing themselves closer together as they came back round for the benefit of the group of cameras now flanking the steps up to the Brunei Gallery.

"Yeah-"

"To, erm-the park-that's where they always go-" before Ed could give her that confused look again-Justine couldn't afford to let it be as much of a mystery to her as to Ed how Daniel spent his days with Zia. She had the odd feeling she was meant to know more than she did, no matter how irking it was. "So, erm-"

She'd been snappish when she'd told Zia that she'd need to take Daniel out that afternoon, having bundled him over as quickly as possible, so that he mewled a little as he was jostled, his chubby arms wrapping around Zia's neck. The sight of him cuddled into Zia, smile denting his chubby baby cheeks as she cooed, had made something clench tightly in Justine's chest.

"He needs fresh air" she'd said, rummaging too fiercely in her handbag "It's meant to help his intellectual development."

"Sure" Zia had said, bouncing Daniel on one hip effortlessly. "We love Hampstead Heath, don't we, Dan-Dan-"

Daniel had made a loud, mewling, happy sound. Zia had cooed at him, pressing her lips to his cheek, and snuggling him into her side.

Justine had pressed her lips together, wondering at the ease with which Daniel cuddled in. He held himself stiffly when she tried to cuddle him, tried to pull his head away when she pressed a self-conscious kiss to his cheek. For a moment, she'd been tempted to ask Zia what she _did _with Daniel. Justine had tried taking him to the park once or twice, the pram feeling awkward and unwieldy under her hands, Daniel's eyes drifting around, never meeting hers'. She's tried talking to him, commenting vaguely on the weather or pointing at the trees, but Daniel had just glanced around, occasionally burbling vaguely and Justine had given up. She'd seen other mothers pushing their babies like she was, smiling at them like she was trying to, talking to them like she was trying to, but it was working for them. It was working. They didn't have to try.

Justine had looked at them, and then pushed Daniel out of the park and home, jostling the pram too hard so that he made a loud, wailing noise of protest, and Justine had just gripped the handle tighter and looked up and past him, so she wouldn't have to not know what to do, and she hadn't brought Daniel back to the park.

Ed had been tilting his head then, no doubt imagining he was distracting her attention from the cameras gathering ahead. "And what-was he feeling-?"

Justine had tried to clamp down the sudden stab of annoyance that had lanced through her chest. She knew that Ed imagined he was trying to protect her, keep her eyes away from the cameras, because in his pre-scripted, pre-planned picturing of this scene, he's always imagined himself protecting someone-not her, but someone. Justine's never needed him to tell her that-the sheer_ wanting_ of it pours out of him like sweat, clinging to him like a stench.

She'd brightened her voice, but the bile had almost spluttered out in a little laugh, anyway. "Well, basically, he couldn't get to _sleep_-I mean, she just said, er-I got him up-

They were nearing the steps, cameras flashing a little faster. "I got him up, and, er- particularly-"

They'd needed Zia to work later than usual, and so Justine had taken on the job of watching him that morning. She'd made herself smile when Ed suggested it, her nails already carving grooves into her palm as she thought of what she'd do with him. Of what she was meant to do with him.

In some ways, it would have been easier when he was tiny, when all he needed was the basic necessities, plus sleep. When she could leave him in his crib and tell herself it was good for him to sleep.

So that morning, she'd got Daniel up half an hour earlier than usual, fumbling awkwardly as she lifted him, still half-asleep, out of his cot, trying to smile as his cross little face swam into consciousness, wondering whether to try to jolt him awake a little more, consoling herself as she awkwardly unfastened his nappy, tried to give him his bottle, juggled him back and forth in her arms.

Once it was time for him to sleep, she'd be able to put him safely back down.

But he hadn't slept when it was time. Not when Justine tried to rock him back and forth, not when she tried prising open his fingers and folding them closed again around his toy rabbit. Not when she'd tried singing to him, mouthing songs she half-knows but doesn't remember ever being sung to her.

Daniel had just stared back at her, eyes big and grey-blue, long lashes blinking, and something about it had made Justine almost shudder.

He wouldn't sleep. He was awake, his eyes darting and alert, and just too open, and she'd have to stay with him.

Justine had heard herself make a half-frightened sound in her throat, holding Daniel out in front of her as far as possible. She'd taken a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, and Daniel, slipping a little in her grasp, had mewled with fright, indignant at being allowed to slip.

Justine had taken a deep breath, and then another. "Daniel" she'd said, her voice firm and steady and low, because if she let it wander higher, it'd crack. "You need to go to sleep now."

Daniel had made a wet, angry sound, blowing bubbles, little legs kicking slightly back and forth.

"Daniel. This is an important day for Daddy" she'd tried, gripping him harder, even as she held him at arms' length, stopping his hands from reaching her.

"You need to go to sleep for Mummy." Even then, she hated calling herself _Mummy_-it was like honey flooding her mouth, stoppering her throat, slowly crushing the air out of her in sticky sweetness.

Daniel had made a grizzling sounds, hands curling into fists, and Justine's eyes had fallen on her own doing the same, fingers digging into his little baby-dungarees, both of them clenching at the same time. Daniel's eyes had found hers' again when she looked up somehow, staring back at her. Justine usually thought of babies' gazes, especially her own baby's, as vacuous, empty, drifting from one thing to the next like an object buffeted by the world. But right then, Daniel had stared back at her, watching her hold him out in front of her and feeling her hands shake and watching her mouth quiver because he wasn't _working._

"I got you up" she'd said to him, her voice low, though she didn't realise until later it was shaking. Her hands gripped him tighter, as though she could squeeze exhaustion into him. "I got you up early. I know you're tired. So _sleep."_

She didn't realise how loudly her voice had pealed, how hard she was gripping him until Daniel's grizzles peaked suddenly into a small wail, his little face scrunched up, his eyelashes spiky wet, his little legs thrashing.

Justine had stared at him, the sobbing angry little mess of a baby, and through the tears smearing his cheeks and the red, angry little cave of his mouth, he'd looked back at her, grey-blue eyes wider, grabbing her own so she couldn't look away. She used to try to convince both Ed and herself that Daniel's eyes were like her own.

"You need to rest" she said, and though she loosened her grip on him because good mothers didn't squeeze babies, her voice had stiffened as though she was holding herself in a freezing wind. "You need to go to sleep, Daniel." Because she needed to get work done, because she needed to go to Ed's speech, because she needed to make sure he got there, because he needed to make his announcement, because they needed to get it done.

Daniel's wail rose suddenly louder, almost in defiance of her eyes. Her eyes and her hands and her voice, and he was seeing and hearing and drawing them in, and she couldn't put him down, she had to be there, had to hold him, had to watch him, because she and Ed needed to get this _done-_

"Daniel, be quiet" she tried, but Daniel was wailing now, louder and louder the more she spoke, and she was saying, almost through clenched teeth "Shut up. Shut up. _Shut up"_ like her own heartbeat, louder and louder until the words were clashing with his cries, hitting him in the face as she shouted, squeezing his eyes shut as he screamed, still louder than her.

She wasn't sure how long it was before the works sank in, before she was taking a deep breath, feeling it teeter in her chest as she turned very slowly around and walked up the stairs, holding Daniel out in front of her, hearing his screams bounce off the walls, feeling them bounce off her and bounce away, and there'd be another one and another one and another one, beating with her pulse through her brain, leaving her dizzy.

She'd walked into Daniel's room, already scrabbling frantically for the baby monitor, flipping the slight buzzing into silence as she strode across the room. She plonked Daniel down a little too hard in his cot so that he screamed even more angrily at being jostled, and she'd walked out of his room without looking back, slamming the door shut too quickly behind her, leaving him alone with his screaming, away from her.

Then they'd been at the bottom of the steps, outside the Gallery, and Justine had known then that they were there, that Ed was here, that she'd got him to the speech, to the announcement, and she wouldn't have to pretend to be nervous, not the way Ed thought she was.

When Zia arrived, Daniel had fallen silent and Justine was sitting on the couch, working. He'd fallen asleep a while back, she explained. He was a little fussy beforehand, but she'd got him down all right. She'd been able to get some work done, she'd laughed. And now, she had to go and get ready for Ed's speech.

And now they were here, turning up the steps, and the cameras were swinging round, ready to focus in on them, and it should have worked, it should have _worked,_ and so she'd said casually "I don't think he slept for about an hour."

She'd laughed, the sound high and too taut while her insides had pulled tight as a drumskin, but that laugh stretched its' way out.

It had been inside, once Ed had finally remembered to introduce her to someone after she'd been left to do it on the steps and at the door with _This is Justine_, rushed out so quickly it sounded like just her name, with one stumbled gesture at her after she'd dragged her hand away from her hair, the same gesture it had perfected in those first few weeks at Cambridge when everyone else's hair had been smoothed and in place and _right_, but not hers'. It wouldn't work.

Ed had started to walk away, with barely a backward glance at her, which felt better, familiar and Justine had taken a long, deep breath and felt her shoulders slump in relief and a smile spring to her face because he was here. She'd got him here and got him in and it had worked. She'd done everything she possibly could, no matter how many times she scanned her memory.

And now that he was walking away, she smiled because now she could stop and savour the fact that she'd got him here, all the way here, that she'd got him to think of it, that she'd got him in there, thinking that it was nervousness for herself that had made her chatter so determinedly. Not for him.

She'd been waiting for him to back away the moment she saw the cameras, hovering like black wasps. (When Justine was little, she'd watched her hand once as a wasp sat on it and waited and waited, her heart thudding, and when the sting had lanced through her hand she'd screamed, her head back, mouth shrill with pain and shock and the sweet, sweet relief of knowing that someone would have to look now.)

That day, she'd known Ed was waiting, that heart-trapped, trembling waiting, and then, when she'd stepped back to him, bringing them too close together, she'd pushed him gently forward without touching him at all.

Now, Justine gathers the photos up, piles them neatly on her bedside table. The one in the park will look good. Natural, unstaged. What they want to emphasise. She curls up on her side, switches out the light.

It's as her eyes catch the glint of light on the glass of the photo as she lies there, cheek pressed into the pillow, already counting herself to sleep, that she notices Daniel's eyes. She looks for a moment, then props herself up on her elbow, her eyes tracing the photo. Daniel's head's tilted back, face almost but not quite crumpled in a frown. His eyes are fixed on the camera or whoever's taking the picture, challengingly.

It's then that Justine realises why she remembers that day-why she remembers how Daniel wouldn't sleep. There'd been a moment when he'd cried, taken a breath in heaving fits of sobs, and she'd lifted him a little higher, further away, that she'd realised he was watching her. Even through the mess of red and noise and tears of his face, he was watching her, watching her stare at him, watching her get it wrong, knowing until she carried him up the stairs and placed him in the cot and closed the door on him, on him knowing and him crying and him _needing._ He didn't stop _needing._

Justine reaches out as slowly as she can make herself and turns her sons' photograph over. She turns away on her side, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, counting louder and louder, and knowing somehow, without knowing how, from that look in the photo, the same look he'd worn the day Ed made his announcement, that it was one of them who'd taken the picture.

* * *

Ed winces a little at the click of the door shutting behind him. He hurries to the bed though, almost scrambling under the duvet, letting out a shuddering sigh at the warmth that soaks into his feet almost immediately, creeping up his body.

He's so busy savouring the warmth that it takes him a moment to notice that Cameron's still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, shivering slightly, wrapping his arms around himself.

"Oh-"

Ed looks around for a blanket. Cameron's wearing a dressing gown, but-"Oh God, I-"

"No, no, no, I'm fine-"

"Don't be stupid, it's freezing-"

Ed tugs at the duvet on autopilot, wondering if there's another duvet and then Cameron steps towards the bed.

"Oh-" He freezes.

"Oh-" Cameron steps back.

Ed glances at the duvet, still reaching for it, and then it clicks. Heat floods his cheeks.

"Oh. Oh, God, I-"

"Erm-sorry-"

"Oh God-"

"Yeah, ah-no, I-"

"No, I-" Ed wants to dissolve into the mattress. "I juth-st-"

Cameron shivers again.

"M-maybe-maybe you-" Ed stammers, still so embarrassed he can't lift his head. "I meant-a blanket-a duvet-I meant-"

"I-I know-" Cameron's teeth are chattering.

Ed tugs at the duvet. Then he taps it again.

"Um."

His cheeks are burning.

"You can-you can-use-um-th-some of the duvet-to-you-"

He doesn't know what else to do, how to ask Cameron. So he just pats the duvet awkwardly, and stares at it as though he could disappear into it.

"Um-it's-"

"No-it'th-no-you're cold-"

"I can-"

"Cameron." Ed's voice is low and firm. He has no idea where it comes from.

He has no idea where _this_ comes from, come to that.

He doesn't know if it's his tone or his voice. He's staring furiously at the duvet cover.

He doesn't look, but he feels Cameron move. Feels him step across, lift up the duvet cover, lower himself to the mattress very slowly as though it might disappear if he blinks at the wrong moment, moves a little too fast.

Ed fixes his eyes on the envelope in his hands. He stares at it, making sure, stupidly, to notice the exact crease where the folds, the slight bump of the contents. He stares at it, while Cameron settles very slowly on the mattress next to him, tugs the duvet over himself.

Ed's heart's pounding so hard nausea wavers in his throat and chest.

He can't look at Cameron. He can't look at-

He can't not-

His head darts up and he grabs a glance.

Cameron's perched almost at the very edge of the mattress.

He's-

"Oh, for pity'th sake." The irritation in Ed's voice makes his heart slow, the nausea recede a little. It's familiar, welcome, like a blanket of its' own.

"You can move in a bit" he says brusquely, trying not to let his gaze roam too near Cameron's. "I won't-"

His voice trails off.

"Fine" he mutters, face flaming. Oh God, why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut-

He can't look at Cameron but he_ knows_ his mouth is twitching, he _knows_ it.

The mattress lowers a little under him as Cameron scootches nearer. When Ed dares to glance up again, Cameron's sitting much nearer again. He can almost feel the heat coming off of him.

Ed hastily looks away, then looks back again.

Cameron's mouth twitches as their eyes meet.

Ed looks away, embarrassed. He can feel a smile twitching at his own lips.

He glances back at Cameron. Cameron's still looking at him, wrapped in his dressing gown. Ed doesn't dare look down at the T-shirt he's wearing. Oh God, what the hell did he choose to wear, he just thought it was for sleeping-

They stare at each other, and then, almost without warning, both dissolve into giggles.

Ed can't meet Cameron's eyes and can't not meet them. He's giggling, his cheeks burning. Cameron's in the same condition next to him.

"I juth-st meant-" Ed has no idea what he's going to say next, but he's giggling ridiculously. Cameron shakes his head, still laughing.

Ed rolls over, stuffs a corner of the duvet in his mouth to muffle the giggles. He has no idea why he's shaking with laughter, why the fact Cameron's in exactly the same condition makes Ed feel like a balloon is swelling in his chest again.

God, he can't stand what Cameron _does_, but, but-

Slowly, he manages to calm his laughter, roll back over to face Cameron. Cameron's still sniggering a little, but he's on his side, watching Ed quietly. Ed watches him back, feeling that smile still pushing at the corners of his mouth.

They watch each other. Ed feels shy, almost like he's not sure whether he wants to keep looking or not.

"What's that?" Cameron points at the envelope.

"What? Oh-" Ed glances at it, then at Cameron. It's not as if it's a secret. He just didn't think Cameron would be-

Slowly, he pulls the envelope towards them and lets it fall open.

* * *

David tries keeping his eyes on the envelope. It allows him to avoid looking at Miliband's face.

Or that too-big T-shirt he's wearing. Or his too-dark eyes.

His leg twitches slightly, feeling the warmth of the bed soaking into him.

He tries not to notice how close Miliband's leg could be to his own, if he moved it.

But then his eyes fall on the contents of the envelope and he blinks, forgetting, for a moment, where they are.

"Is that _you?"_

Miliband blushes, and snatches the photograph back. David grabs at his hand. "No, no, no-please, it was-"

He doesn't know whether it's the _please_ that gets Miliband's attention or not. But after a moment, and a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, Miliband slowly relinquishes his grip on the photo, allowing David to get a closer look at it.

"Is that you?" he asks again, his voice softer now, and this time, he gets a nod in reply.

The picture shows a man who looks a bit like Ed, but taller, broader. He's wearing glasses, and even though he's smiling, his face has an odd, natural sternness about it, as though afraid to let itself relax into complete happiness.

But David's eyes are fixed on the baby.

Part-baby, part-toddler, the little child in the man's arms is at the stage where they could be counted as either or both. If David didn't know, he could have made an equal guess at the baby being a boy or a girl. The baby's hair is shoulder-length dark curls, almost a bob, and his chubby cheeks are creased in a nervous smile. His legs and arms and hands all bear the adorable baby chubbiness that fills David with an urge to cuddle the baby close, despite the fact that baby is now the fully-grown man fidgeting awkwardly next to him.

The baby seems to be in mid-baby-chatter to himself-David feels a pang of something-_typical Miliband_-but he stares a second longer at the man's arms around the baby.

Not really arms. Hands. The man's holding the baby firmly, hands clasped around his waist, but not in the way David holds a baby, cuddled close into his chest or snuggled into his shoulder. The man's holding the baby against him but oddly firmly, like sliding a cog into place, and under the smile, there's a crease of confusion as if wondering quite what to do with it. He's holding it a little too tightly, like a parcel.

David takes a closer look at the photo. "Are those _underpants_ you're wearing?"

Miliband snatches at the photo. David grabs his hand, but holds it gently. "Hey-hey-"

"They were not _underpantth."_ Miliband purses his lips as he slowly relinquishes the photo, clearly struggling to salvage as much dignity as possible. "It'th baby shorts."

_"Baby shorts?"_

Miliband blushes ferociously.

He glares at David. David gives him a grin. "You are quite adorable."

He freezes. So does Miliband.

"I don't-I-" David points at the photo. "I meant in the-you know-"

"Y-yeah-" Miliband agrees too quickly. They both stare too hard at the picture.

Miliband clears his throat and reaches for another photo. This one makes David laugh out loud.

"Oh, Miliband-"

"What?"

"You're just so-"

The word hovers at David's lips. _Sweet._

But Miliband does look sweet, and it's quite clearly Miliband in the photo. He's much older now, about twelve, and with another look, David can tell it seems to be a school photograph or something like that. Miliband's head is tilted to the side, with a small, shy smile. His teeth stick out the tiniest bit. He's staring at the camera, eyes a little wide.

"How old were you there?" David turns the photo over, looking for a date.

"Um. Not sure. 11, 12?" Miliband moves over to squint at the photo. "Think it was for school, though-"

"Mmm." David smiles. "You look so-"

"What?" Miliband's eyes meet his.

David stares back at him. There's a long silence.

"Nothing. Just-" David swallows. "You look nice."

His voice is soft. Softer than he'd have expected.

He clears his throat, glances back at the photo. "Um-"

Ed shakes another few photos out, and David stares at them-

"_Oh."_ He pounces on one and Ed scrabbles for it. "Give that back."

"Miliband, is that _you-"_

"Shut _up."_ Miliband manages to successfully wrest the photo away, but David still gets another glimpse of the huge grin he's wearing in the picture.

"Oh, _Miliband-"_

"Where's the-" If Miliband was blushing before, it's nothing compared to what he's doing now. "Where-where are the embarrathing phototh of you as a kid, then-go on, get them out-"

"You want me to show you baby photos?"

Miliband pouts defiantly. "Yeah. If you're looking at mine-"

"All right." David claps his hands, swings his legs out of bed.

"W-where are you going-"

David winks. "Back in a minute."

* * *

When Cameron reappears, Ed finds excitement stirring a little in his chest. He has no idea what to do next, but somehow, that doesn't bother him.

"Here we are-" Cameron scrambles back into the bed. Ed shifts over for him, and inspects what Cameron holds in his hands.

There's a little boy staring out at him from the photograph. His legs are folded, hands resting on his knees. It's so obviously Cameron that Ed almost laughs. His face, with a child's chubbiness, stares straight at the camera, freckles all over his cheeks. He has floppy brown hair and a dimpled grin, dressed in a school blazer.

"Eton" Cameron says, in response to Ed's unanswered question. "Not sure how old I was-about 13-must have been my first year, after Heatherdown-"

Ed stares at the photo, mouth twitching. "Where-you're-"

He can't find the words.

"You're th-so-"

He trails off, embarrassed.

He pushes the photo away.

"Oh, come on, I wasn't that bad" Cameron says, a laugh still in his voice.

Ed shakes his head. "No, no, no, it'th juth-st that-"

He can feel Cameron's fingers wrapped around his wrist, earlier on the landing.

"Cameron." He says it, staring at the duvet. His voice is small, wavering.

Cameron's watching him. He can feel it. He can feel his smirk fading. "Yeah?"

Ed doesn't know. Doesn't know what, doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what he-he-

"Cameron." His voice is wavering, weak. He keeps his gaze fixed on the duvet cover. "Cameron, I-"

David's watching him. "Yeah?"

His breath brushes the shell of Ed's ear. It sends a warm shiver down Ed's spine.

Ed's head tilts and then he's looking at Cameron, and Cameron's watching Ed back. His head is tilted, his eyes very, very blue. He's near enough that Ed can feel the heat in his cheeks, the warmth of his skin.

He's near enough that-

"C-Cameron-"

Cameron blinks. "Yes?"

Ed stares at him, his blue eyes just an inch away. If he tilts his head, his nose will brush Cameron's.

Ed stares at him. And then turns his face away.

"Nothing" he says, staring at the photo, his heart racing, his whole body seeming to just _sink _with something. "Juth-st-how long were you at Heatherdown?"

* * *

David blinks. Not that the question's unusual, but-

He'd thought Miliband might be about to ask something-

Something-

It doesn't matter.

"Um-six years, I think, or thereabouts-I went there when I was seven, started at Eton the year I turned thirteen-"

Ed smiles. David knocks his arm gently. "Holding back a crack about _typical Etonian?"_

Miliband smirks. "No. Was going to ask which of them wrecked a restaurant with you-"

"And there it is." David taps his nose without thinking. Miliband jumps a little.

David stares at him, then drops his hand a little too fast.

When did he start doing things like that with _Miliband?_

Just casually.

When-

Miliband smirks at the sight of another photo of David-he thinks this one was taken in Portugal. He grins at the sight of himself, sitting shirtless at a table, eating breakfast.

"One of our first foreign holidays" he says, in answer to Ed's unspoken questions. "We were in Portugal."

"How old were you?"

David shrugs. "Teenager. Fourteen, fifteen. We hadn't really been abroad before." He squints at the picture. "Think that's Alex" he says, pointing to the older boy sitting next to him at the table. "We had to give that one to the press, that's why we cut him out, but I think that's him."

Ed smiles. "You look younger."

David nudges him. "So do you in yours. Everyone always thinks you're younger than you are."

Miliband snorts. David glances back at the photo. "If I was fifteen, you would have been-"

Miliband stares at the photo too. "Twelve."

David glances at him. "Hmm. How would you have seen me then?"

"What-"

"If we'd met then-" David nudges him. "What would you have thought?"

Miliband arches an eyebrow. "If you hadn't ignored me or whatever Etonians do-"

David sighs. "You know, it's OK for you to hate _me,_ but you are being rather unfair to the abundant number of others having their school's name used as an insult."

The words come out a little more harshly than he intends.

Miliband stares at him, but David has no intention of looking away. He stares back.

Finally, Miliband speaks.

"I didn't mean that like-" Miliband's voice trails off, and then "And I think you know by now I don't hate you."

His eyes are on David's now. David stares back at him for a long heartbeat.

This time it's him who looks away, back at the photos.

"That one-" he points at the photo of Ed with the big smile, sitting on his father's lap. "That-"

He points to the other little boy in the picture, sitting next to them on the couch. His hair is like Ed's-it's shoulder-length, but even darker. He's looking to the side in a blue zip-up jersey, as if talking to someone, lips slightly parted, not smiling at all.

"That's David, isn't it?"

Ed stares at the picture for a second, before his eyes wander away. "Mmmhmm."

* * *

Ed vaguely remembers the photo being taken, but he doesn't say that. He remembers the unfamiliar feeling of being perched on Dad's knee, the bones of his kneecap jutting into Ed's thigh. He remembers that David had had to sit next to them on the couch. Maybe that's what's making Ed smile in the picture. He's not sure.

Something about the picture makes something swell in Ed's throat.

He can feel Cameron watching him, and so he pushes the photo away a little too quickly.

He reaches for another picture and grins as he gets a look at another one of little Cameron. His hair's flatter in this one, brushed down, and he looks a little younger, but he's in the same blazer. Ed smiles a little. Cameron's not smiling in this picture, but something about his expression is endearing-he looks almost nervous, a way Ed's very rarely seen Cameron's face look in adulthood.

"How old were you there?"

Cameron glances at the picture and immediately stiffens. His eyes widen the slightest fraction.

"Oh." If Ed weren't used to scrutinizing Cameron's expressions, he might be fooled by the casual tone. "Oh. Um. About 10."

He moves the photo a little too quickly. Ed glances at him. Cameron's eyes flicker to his for barely a second, then away. Ed watches him.

"Um-"

He wavers. He's not used to asking Cameron things like this.

"Are you-are you all right?"

Cameron blinks. "What? Me? Yeah, yeah, fine-"

He smiles a little too widely.

Ed looks back at him. "You're not nearly as good at lying as you think you are" he says quietly.

Cameron blinks, looking away too quickly. "Who says I'm lying?"

Ed speaks quietly. "I do."

Cameron's eyes meet his. Ed looks back, feeling something swelling in his chest, something aching and making his eyes prickle.

He could just-put his arm up and around-

Cameron glances back at the photos, and Ed clamps his arm firmly to his side.

David hasn't seen that photo in years.

He's not sure how old he was, knows he was at Heatherdown when it was taken, but he can't seem to focus on anything other than the look on his own face.

Too-wide eyes. Blazer slightly too big. Staring straight at the camera. The grown man in front of him, shoulder almost brushing his arm.

David hasn't seen that photo in years. He pushes it away from him, a little too quickly, before Ed, next to him, lets out a muffled squawk.

* * *

"Is that _you?"_ Ed feels his own face split into a grin at the sight of Cameron, crammed into a row of other Eton students, dressed in tails with a moody pout on his face.

But it's the hair.

"Is that a_ perm?"_

"Oh, very good-"

Ed cackles in delight. "You had a _perm?"_

"_No_, I did not have a _perm."_ Cameron rolls his eyes at the sight of Ed in hysterics over the picture. "It was just a-"

"_Half_ a perm?"

"It is not _half a perm-"_

"Did you think you were in a band?"

"Oh, shut up-"

"You had a _perm-"_

"How old are you?"

"How old were _you?"_

David squints at the picture. "About-fifteen, there, I think." Off Miliband's smirk, David rolls his eyes. "Why? What was your big rebellion?"

Miliband's still laughing, but at David's words, something catches in his eyes.

"I-um-" He pushes his hair back. "I didn't really rebel, I th-suppose."

David gives him a mock double-take. "_No."_

Miliband glares at him, worries at his lip. "Actually, no."

David snorts, gives him a nudge. "You are such a geek."

Usually, this makes Miliband grin. Today, the look seems a little strained.

Searching to lighten the mood, David turns back to his own pile and places another photo in front of Miliband. "Here-"

Miliband glances at it, eyes brightening a little. "Who's-is that _you?"_

A fat, happy baby beams out at the camera, its' little fists drumming into the air. Ed stares at it, delight spreading over his face.

David grins. "Me. Baby David."

Miliband stares at him for a moment, then back at the picture. His lips purse as he ducks his head slightly.

"What?" David asks, trying for a joking tone.

"Nothing." Miliband shakes his head. "Just-you look-" He glances again at the laughing baby in front of him.

"Sweet." His voice is very quiet.

David swallows. His breathing suddenly seems far too loud in the quiet bedroom. Miliband seems far too close.

David looks away hastily, back at Miliband's pile of photos, and his eyes light on one. He grins, reaching for it. "What's this?"

* * *

Ed peers at the picture and his whole body cringes. Oh God.

"That-that'th me, I'm afraid-" Ed tries to laugh, but he can't help but cringe again as he catches another glimpse of the photo.

"Oh, _Miliband-"_ Cameron's voice dissolves into laughter. "Miliband-oh God, you were so-"

Ed tries to glare at him, ignoring the feeling of his cheeks burning. "I wath perfectly-"

"You look so-" Cameron shakes his head. "_Miliband-"_

Ed glares at the awkward, hideously huge glasses he's wearing.

"How old were you?"

"Thirteen" Ed manages to get out through gritted teeth.

Cameron grins, studying the picture. Ed winces once again.

"I can't believe that's you. Actually, I _can_ believe that's you-"

"Th-shut up-"

Cameron laughs. "You're so-"

Ed looks at the huge, plastic glasses frames and winces.

Cameron laughs. "Though, to be fair, you look rather passable for a 13-year-old."

"Oh, thank you th-so much."

"Nah. I mean, look at you. You look-you know."

Cameron's cheeks look distinctly pinker, even in the half-darkness. "Quite-"

Ed shifts awkwardly, his own cheeks too warm. They glance at one another, then away.

"I mean, you don't have acne or anything" Cameron says overbrightly.

Ed snorts so hard he actually jumps. "Oh, thankth very much."

"What? It's a compliment-"

"You muth-st have been fantath-stic with girls-"

"I was, actually."

"Is that the average line you use-"

"Why?" And Cameron's suddenly watching him closely in the dark, his eyes roaming over Ed's face. Ed stares back at him, the air suddenly a little heavier between them. "Are you saying you want me to use lines for girls on you, Miliband?"

The words hang there in the air, between Ed's heartbeats.

"Um-" His tongue traces his bottom lip nervously. "I-ah-"

Cameron's still watching him. The room suddenly seems far warmer than it did a few moments ago.

"Ah-" Ed's forgotten the words.

Cameron stares at him. "Miliband."

"Yeah?" Ed answers far too quickly.

Cameron stares at him for another moment. Then, abruptly, he shakes his head a little. "Nah, it's-"

"What?" Ed doesn't mean to speak so quietly.

Cameron glances at him. Ed's heart gives an odd leap as their eyes meet.

Cameron stares at him for a moment. Then he just reaches for the photograph. "Nothing. Is that your dad?"

* * *

David is careful not to look too closely at Ed, careful to keep his eyes on the picture. He tries not to let his hands tremble.

"Oh." Miliband lies back a little, still holding the photo. "Oh. Well. Yeah, that's, that's Dad-"

He props himself up a little on his pillow, the photo on his chest, still staring at it. David, watching him, unconsciously assumes the same position, holding his hands over his chest.

"How old were you?"

Ed considers, squinting at the photograph. "About 13, I think. It would have been the 1983 election, we were leafleting-th-so yeah, 13-"

David grins. "You mean for that lauded Prime Minister Michael Foot?"

"Th-shut up-"

David bursts out laughing, flopping onto his back. "Do you remember-"

He's remembering just last year in the House, leaning on the dispatch box, watching Miliband across the floor, feeling a strange wriggle of delight at the sight of Miliband's lips pursing.

_"In the, er-in the '83 general election-" David had had to tilt his head back to see Baldry, then peered back at his papers, Baldry taking his time with his words._

_"A 13-year-old boy delivered leaflets around my constituency, pledging that Michael Foot-er, would take Labour out of the European Union-"_

_There'd been a few "Hear, hears", but that had been enough to tip David off that something was coming. He'd glanced up, peering over his glasses at Baldry, whose eyes were already twinkling._

_"Erm-does my Right Honourable Friend find it strange that same boy-now Leader of the Labour Party-"_

_The laughter had rippled out like a wave. David had glanced at Miliband automatically, who was glaring at his notes, feeling a grin twitch at his own mouth._

_"Erm-isn't willing, er-" Baldry was clearly struggling not to laugh himself, over the growing peals of mirth around him. "Either to support, er-the renegotiation of Britain's terms and membership of the European Union, or to pledge to support to trust the people of Britain in a referendum on our membership of the European Union?"_

_Baldry was already sitting down, his last few words almost drowned out by the automatic waves of cheers rising, along with the laughter still bubbling along the benches. David had been grinning himself, arching an eyebrow across the dispatch box at Miliband, who'd been staring back, clearly trying to look as unruffled as possible, which was almost endearing._

_"Well, I-" He'd leant on the dispatch box himself, turning round to glance at the Tory backbenchers. "I-I've always thought it's terribly unfair to hold-hold against people things they might have done in their youth, and, er, you know-"_

_He'd paused, letting the little wave of outrage peak on the Labour benches, his own mouth twitching as he turned to stare at Miliband._

_"Er-I really, er, you know-" The gales of laughter were almost too loud to be heard now. He'd let his eyes linger on Miliband, trying to see if his mouth was twitching or not, but Miliband was now studiously avoiding his gaze._

_"If-um-if, if, er-" He'd had to take a breath to hold back his own laughter at the thought of what a young Miliband would have been like._

_"As a 14-year-old, if that was his idea of fun, then, ah, obviously, you know-"_

_The Tory benches had been in floods of laughter, by now-David knew without looking that even Nick's mouth was twitching._

_"We have to make room, you know-we have to make room for everybody!"_

_The laughter had swelled even more, and David, biting back his own, had glanced back down at his papers, determined to guide the exchange back to a point._

_"No, the point is this-it's in the interests-"_

_He could hear Balls shouting something-glancing at the Labour frontbench, he'd been amused to see Balls's cheeks getting more and more flushed, until his face looked like an especially stocky beetroot that had been plopped down on his shoulders._

_"It's in the interests of the British people-"_

_"What did you do for fun?" David just caught the words-echoed in two voices, one Balls', which was more like an irritating fly than anything else-and one, Miliband's, which caught David's gaze. Miliband's face was puckered in a frown, voice nasally indignant, and David had felt his mouth twitch, a pang striking in his chest at the sight. "What was your idea of-"_

_"To have a renegotiation-"_

_"What was your idea of fun?"_

_"What is my idea of fun-it is not hanging out with the Shadow Chancellor, that is my idea of fun!"_

_Behind him, the Tory benches had erupted into near-hysterical laughter, cheers rising to the ceiling. David had been shaking with laughter himself, casting a quick glance across the Chamber, only to be cheered even more by the sight of Balls now almost purple, pointing wildly at George, who David didn't even have to look to see was half-dangling off the bench, laughing._

_"My-and so-"_

_"What did he say?" he'd just caught Miliband saying to Balls, his forehead creased a little, which almost made David frown-Miliband had been staring at him with that same expression on his face for the past two minutes, there's no way he couldn't have heard._

_"Hanging out with me" he'd caught Balls saying out of the corner of his eye, but he was already launching into his next words, making them a little louder so that Miliband couldn't miss them. Miliband's lips had almost pouted in confusion._

_"I-I feel sorry for the Leader Of The Opposition, because he has to hang out with him all the time-he-"_

_Laughter was echoing around him now. Miliband was staring at him across the Chamber, blinking rather rapidly as though he was only just catching up with the conversation. Catching the look out of the corner of his eye niggled in David's chest, made him want to draw it out more._

_"What a miserable existence it must be, to have sitting next to you-" He could barely be heard now over the laughter, but he could feel Miliband's gaze fixed intently on him now, no matter how much Miliband tried to summon a smile, his eyes like a touch on David's face._

_"The person who wrecked the British economy and have to listen to them day after day as they say to the British people-"_

_He'd let himself turn slightly towards Miliband, just to spot him out of the corner of his eye._

_""We're the people who crashed the car-give us the keys back!""_

_The words had been carried higher on the cheers that had risen up as David sat down, Bercow already up again-"Mr Jim Sheridan-", and the phrases echoing from a few of the others-"What is your idea of fun?" already being called jokingly across the Chamber._

_But David had caught a glimpse of Miliband through his eyelashes as he glanced down at his own papers-the slightly pursed lips, the big dark eyes-and peering down at his papers, had felt his own mouth twitch slightly, trying to imagine those same eyes and lips on the face of a bespectacled, overly-earnest little boy._

Now, glancing at Miliband, he knows they're remembering the same thing. He grins as he watches Miliband's lips purse again.

"Hey. It was funny."

"No. It wath not."

David nudges him with his foot. Ed nudges back, but David's already looking away, his cheeks a little too warm. He'd almost forgotten until this moment that he and Miliband are _under a duvet together._

"When did you start leafleting?" he asks, grabbing for the first question he can think of.

Miliband blinks. "Oh. Well. About 10, I suppose-"

_"Ten?"_ David can't quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Yeah." Miliband blinks at him, as though _David's _the odd one for his reaction. "Why?"

David shrugs. "I don't know. Just-do children-are you actually aware what you're leafleting for at that age?"

Miliband frowns in the half-darkness, chewing at a corner of his lip. "Well. I knew it was for the-but I was helping _Dad._ Daniel and Sam leaflet."

"Do they like it?"

David doesn't know whether it's his imagination, but he thinks he sees something like a flinch on Miliband's face. When he replies, his voice comes through the dark, a little quieter, guarded. "I think th-so."

David studies his face and decides not to push it. But he's curious.

"What if they grow up to vote Tory?"

He actually thinks he sees Miliband shudder.

David pushes back the slight stab of hurt in his chest. Instead, he waits.

"That'd be fine." It takes Miliband a few moments to say it.

David looks at him. "What if _you'd_ grown up to vote Tory?"

This time, Miliband stares at him as though he's insane. "That wouldn't have happened."

"Why?"

Miliband stares at him. "Because-because-"

David wonders suddenly if anyone has ever asked Miliband this before. If it's even been raised as a possibility.

"Well-what about _you?"_ Miliband bursts out without answering the question. "Would_ you_ ever have voted Labour?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"You're one to talk-"

"Are you imitating me, then?"

Miliband scowls. David grins. "And that wasn't the question. I asked _what if you'd voted Tory_, not _would you ever?"_

"Well, what if-"

"What if what?"

"You'd voted Labour." Miliband stares at him.

David shrugs, flopping back onto his pillow. "I don't know. My parents would have been fine with it. Tania votes Labour."

"Now?"

"I think she votes for me now, but she used to. She definitely voted for Blair, I'd think."

Miliband turns to look at him from his own pillow. "Th-so?"

"So what?"

"Th-so-that was OK?"

David frowns. "Yeah, of course." He turns over, propping himself up on one elbow. "I mean, I'm fairly sure my parents are Tories-but you know. They weren't going to tell us how to vote. The Dad was a pretty big Thatcherite, though."

"Right." Ed's watching him though the dark with that too-long stare he does. It freaks some people out, but David's grown to quite like it, he supposes. It's oddly Milibandy.

"Why? Wouldn't it have been OK if you'd voted Tory?"

Miliband does the shudder again, and this time, David can't help himself.

"Why do you do that?"

* * *

Ed blinks. "Do what?"

_"That."_ Cameron does an odd, trembling motion. "The shudder."

Ed blinks. "What'th-"

"Whenever you talk about voting Conservative." David's voice is quietly firm. "I mean-come on, you must know you're doing it."

Ed feels the heat rise in his neck. "Um. No."

Cameron seems to flinch a little next to him, but he keeps watching Ed through the dark. "Well, you do."

Ed opens his mouth, then closes it. "I don't-" he starts, then stops again. "I-"

He props himself up on one elbow, so he's facing Cameron. "I don't mean to" he says, the unfamiliar honesty dragging its' way out of his throat. "I juth-st-"

The confusion of it fills his throat too. "I don't _get_ you, Cameron."

Cameon looks back at him. Ed's heartbeat is suddenly very loud in the darkness between them.

"I don't get you, either." Cameron says the words without letting his eyes wander from Ed's face. "I guess that makes us even."

The words hang there between them. Ed isn't sure if that's a good thing or not.

They watch each other until Ed flops over onto his back. "It doethsn't mean-" he tries, his voice sounding weak to his own ears.

There's a silence before Cameron says "That you hate us?"

The words flicker, the first flickers of pain after a punch.

"I don't" Ed manages after a long moment. He waits for an "I know" but doesn't get one.

"I don't hate you" he says, and then, sudden annoyance seizing tight in his chest, "I think it'th pretty bloody obvious that I don't hate you, don't you?"

Cameron very slowly turns to look at him. Ed feels the blush flood his cheeks, his face, his neck. But he doesn't look away. He stares back. Somehow, they've ended up lying on their pillows, facing each other.

"I hate what you _do_" he bursts out, because Cameron's _looking_ at him, and-"But I don't hate _you._ I just don't _get_ it."

He can't quite make out Cameron's expression, but he can feel Cameron's gaze, feel Cameron watching him intently through the darkness.

"Well. I don't always get you either" Cameron says very softly.

Something about the tone is like a touch on Ed's skin.

"But how?" he says, perhaps a little louder to brush away that feeling. "How can you not th-see the problems-"

"It's not the problems we don't see, it's your methods of dealing with them we don't see working."

"But-"

"What I hate" says Cameron, quietly enough that Ed stops speaking. "Is when you want to punish people for doing well."

"I don't." Ed turns over sharply on his side to face Cameron. "It's-"

"It's?"

Ed closes his eyes. "It'th not punishing people. It'th wanting the people who've got th-stronger shoulders to carry more of the burden-"

He opens his eyes to see Cameron watching him, head tilted to one side. Ed stares back at him, even as he manages to feel a niggle of irritation that Cameron's somehow managed to interrupt him just by being _silent._

"Don't overestimate how strong they are" Cameron says slowly. "You might find they drop the whole thing."

Ed stares at him, searching for a rebuttal.

"Or" Cameron says, eyebrow arching slightly. "They might just throw it down."

* * *

David suddenly can't quite take Miliband's gaze for another moment, so he flops over onto his back. "How come you couldn't sleep?"

He doesn't know if it's selfish to not want to try to explain it any more, but maybe Miliband just isn't in the mood to listen.

Maybe that means he should try even more, but-

"Juth-st-thoughtth, I th-suppose." Miliband shifts next to him, so he too is lying on his back. David's suddenly very conscious of the heat of his leg, only a few inches away.

"What about you?" David turns his head to see Miliband's big, dark eyes gazing at him through the darkness. David gulps, those overlarge eyes sending a pang through him. (Gazes like that should be made illegal. He should make a law.)

"Um-a bit-" he manages, his voice oddly more muffled than usual. "But-woke up and couldn't-"

_Stop thinking about you._

He'd lain there, curling and uncurling his fingers, trying to feel and not feel that tiny curl of Miliband's finger around his own. He'd glanced at Sam, curled up asleep next to him, warm breath fluttering her hair every few moments, and a couple of times fought the urge to shake her awake, to ask her-

What?

How can he-

How can he be-

And then David had turned over, trying to push the question away, only to think over and over how Miliband was in a bedroom just down the hallway, how Miliband's eyes flutter in his sleep, how his cheek might be pillowed on his hand, his long fingers curling over the pillow, that finger curling around David's, and David had lain there thinking about Miliband's finger tightening around his own and the prickling heat of Miliband's breathing, until his own fingers were curled tightly around the duvet and his heart was pounding so hard David was sure it was going to break out of his chest.

Now, he finds himself staring at Miliband. His eyes roam over his soft skin. His hands curl slowly into fists, wanting to reach out and touch him.

"Yeah-I-ah-" David's completely forgotten what he was going to say.

Miliband rolls over onto his back again, curls up a little under the duvet. David measures the distance between them with his eyes. Slowly, his fingers uncurl.

"What were you doing?"

"Ah-looking at them." Miliband indicates the photos, his hand coming tantalisingly close to David's. "Juthst dug them out a few days ago."

David is trying to concentrate on what Miliband's saying, but all he can focus on is how if he just stretched out a few inches-

Miliband's staring at him.

David shakes his head. "Sorry-must just be-"

_Insane._

"Oh-right-" MIliband glances at the clock. "It ith quite late-"

"No, no-" David's suddenly anxious, scrabbling for any reason to stay. "I was just-ah-"

Their hands brush. Even in the darkness, David can tell Ed's blushing. He pulls his hand back. But his hand's sending prickles of sensation through his skin, his own cheeks burning.

"Um-" Miliband's eyes dart to his face, then away. David fumbles for words. He's saved from having to come up with any by Miliband's mouth stretching into a rather sweet little yawn, his back arching like a cat.

"You look like a kitten when you do that."

David wants to cringe the second he gets the words out.

Miliband blushes. Furiously. David could kick himself.

"Ah-"

Miliband clears his throat. David can't meet his eyes, somehow. "Um-I, ah-"

Miliband gives an odd jerk of the head, and David tries not to cringe all over. But before he can do anything more than wish he could thrust his face into a pillow and scream. Miliband says "I don't, anyway."

"Don't what?" David seizes on the apparent change of subject gratefully.

"You know." Miliband shifts, very determinedly keeping his eyes away from David. "Hate you."

David feels all the heat in his body rush to his cheeks again. He immediately wishes furiously he'd kept the conversation about kittens.

"Um-" David coughs, clears his throat. "Right."

"I-um-"

"Mmm-I know."

They glance at each other then David looks away.

"I mean-I don't _get_ it" says Miliband, perhaps anxious to convey this point, "but I don't-you know."

He chews his lip. David is sufficiently intrigued to stare at him. "What?"

"I mean-do _you_ get _me?"_ The words seem almost to be pulled out of Miliband's mouth, and he blushes.

David feels a smile twitch at the corners of his own mouth as Miliband looks anywhere but at him. "No. Not one bit."

Miliband's eyes meet his own shyly. David feels a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.

Miliband slowly smiles back, and then, without warning, they both dissolve into a fit of giggles. David jams a corner of the duvet over his mouth, trying to muffle his own laughter. Miliband isn't faring much better, his dark eyes glittering, his leg colliding with David's under the duvet, sending a shock of contact through David.

He flops onto the pillow. Still, struggling to catch his breath, Miliband's chest is rising and falling rapidly, still shaking with giggles every few moments or so.

"Anyway" David manages through gasps for breath. "I bet you wouldn't have got me _then_ either." He jerks his head towards the photographs.

Miliband snorts. "Becauthe you'd really have got _me."_

"Really?"

"Really." Miliband's smirking, but the light in his eyes dims a little. "I mean, you'd probably have hated me back then."

David gives him a double-take. "Didn't hate anyone, back then."

"Well. You probably didn't know-know anyone like me, back then-"

David taps Miliband's arm gently. "You don't have a monopoly on being geeky, you know."

Miliband's mouth twitches. David grins.

"You thought only Labour got to be geeks?"

"You're saying you were a geek?" Miliband gives him his Question Mark look. It makes David have to look away for a moment, a grin pushing at his mouth, something far too happy tugging in his chest.

"No. But plenty of my friends were. Some were even Labour supporters."

David casts a quick grin at Miliband, and relishes the slight widening of his eyes. "Why? Does that shock you?"

Miliband glares at him. "'Course not" he huffs endearingly. "Doethsn't mean you'd have liked me."

"Well, why wouldn't I have liked you?" David asks, a little sleepily, curling up.

Miliband just gives him a _look._ David tries not to grin.

"Look at uth _now_, Cameron." Miliband too settles himself on his pillow, curling up like a puppy.

"So? We-" David tugs at the duvet. "We get on. And we used to get on, too-"

He trails off, his eyes catching Miliband's. They watch each other, and David can hear his own voice again, stretching back into that August, the slam of the phone in the cradle.

_You might as well side with fucking Lovrov..._

Miliband's dark eyes are blinking at him in the darkness. David drags himself back to the present a little too quickly, tries not to notice how close their hands are.

"Anyway" he says, resisting the urge to hide his hands under the duvet. "Just because I didn't get you doesn't mean I didn't like you."

Miliband's eyes are a vague glitter through the darkness. But David senses the movement of his throat as he swallows and the quick burrow of his teeth at his lip and the slight breathy shake in his voice as he says "Th-seem to th-spend half my time _trying_ to get you, Cameron."

* * *

Ed blushes furiously as he hears his own words. Oh God.

He can't find anywhere else to look and doesn't want his eyes to just fall into Cameron's again, so he just lies back and fixes his gaze on the ceiling.

"Have you succeeded?" Cameron's tone is light, but risking a glance at him, Ed can see a crease at his brow.

"No" he says honestly, and Cameron arches an eyebrow. "Do you like trying?"

His tone is lower, huskier. Something about it sends heat prickling through his skin, leaves his heartbeat rapid. Cameron's eyes are roaming down Ed's face in the dark. Ed can almost feel his gaze like a physical touch.

"Maybe." His own voice is lower, softer. Cameron's eyes have found his, and Ed can feel the heat rising slowly in his cheeks. Cameron's eyes are lingering on Ed's mouth. Ed feels suddenly breathless.

Cameron leans back a little, his eyes suddenly darting away. Ed tries to remember exactly what they were talking about.

"Why couldn't you sleep?" Cameron asks the question softly, his own head sinking back into his pillow.

Ed blushes scarlet and thanks everything there is that it's dark.

_I was thinking about you taking my hand,_

_About your finger touching mine._

_Why did you do it-_

_Why did you-_

"Just thinking" he says quietly, with another yawn.

There's a moment of silence. Ed can feel his eyes growing heavier, even as he watches Cameron's profile in the dark.

It takes him a few moments to become aware of the slight humming. He frowns, turns to glance at Cameron. Cameron's eyes are half-closed, the hand behind his head. Ed watches him sleepily, feeling a slow grin creep to his mouth.

Cameron's humming grows gradually louder. Ed considers asking, but decides against it. Instead, he just lies there, listening, eyes growing heavier by the minute.

Abruptly, Cameron's humming comes to a halt. Ed's eyes open slowly with a jolt of disappointment.

"Oh, sorry-" Cameron's eyes barely open, his back arching a little as he stretches. "Was I doing-"

"Yeah." Ed's voice is softer. "You were."

"Sorry." Cameron rolls over onto his side.

"It's fine." Ed would never say what he says next if he wasn't half-asleep. "I like it."

Cameron stills. So does Ed.

"Oh" is all Cameron says quietly. Ed waits, heart thudding.

After a few moments, Cameron starts humming again, slightly discordantly. Ed can't help but smirk to himself, his eyes fluttering closed again. Cameron's very close, he thinks, thoughts hazy, sleepy, their legs almost brushing as he drifts off.

* * *

David rolls over after he's counted Miliband's slow, even breaths for a minute or so. He watches Ed through his eyelashes, watches the way Miliband's lashes brush his cheeks, the way his mouth twitches a little in his sleep. Miliband's hair is tucked under his neck.

David's hand lifts, then falls again. He stares at Miliband. His hand lifts again.

It's just-

He-

David tells himself very firmly that he's being ridiculous.

He glances at Miliband again. Then again.

Slowly, his hand creeps out. It settles on the pillow next to Miliband's face.

David holds his breath. His hand moves forward, then back. Then forward. Then-

This is ridiculous.

David yanks his hand back.

Then he looks at Miliband's face again.

He reaches out and tucks Miliband's hair quickly behind his ear. His hand slows, his eyes on Miliband's face. Miliband just sighs in his sleep. His cheek is softer still near his earlobe, which David's finger brushes, sending a slow shudder of sensation through him.

Miliband makes a soft sound in the back of his throat but his eyes don't open. David hesitates. His thumb's still brushing Miliband's cheek.

He could-

He could just-

Miliband's forehead is very close. David traces it with his finger. His thumb brushes beneath Ed's temple.

If he-

If he just leant down, he could-

He could-

David's heart's pounding.

He could-

He-

He leans down, his nose just brushing Miliband's temple. He can smell his shampoo. He can feel Miliband's hair tickling his nose.

He-he could-

Slowly, very slowly, David lowers himself down so he's stretched out next to Miliband. His nose nearly brushes his temple. David can feel them both breathing. If Miliband rolled over, his body could fit right into David's chest.

"Night, Miliband" he whispers, and lets his eyes close, trying to notice and not notice that his hand is still brushing Miliband's cheek.

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Half-Asleep-School Of Seven Bells-" _ _One day suddenly time/Took a turn that once felt so brief/I blinked to see polite ghosts fading quickly/What begins as an unguarded/Train of thoughts slowly can become/An addiction to slumber/Of disconnection and the resonance/Of memory that no longer has a shape"_

_Heart Out-The 1975-" _ _Cos I remember that I like you/No matter what I found/She said it's nice to have your friends round/We're watching a television with no sound....It's just you and I tonight/Why can't you figure my heart out?"_

_Appearances-Trent Reznor And Atticus Ross (Gone Girl Soundtrack) _

_So Contagious-Acceptance _ _-"Oh no, this couldn't be more unexpected/And I can tell you I've been moving in so slow/Don't let it throw you off too far/'Cos I'll be running right behind you/Could this be out of line? (Could this be out of line?)/To say you're the only one breaking me down like this"_

_Cleveland Is For Leaving-Spark Alaska-" _ _What were your nicknames back in high school?/What were your little brother's first words?/Who were the streets in your town named after?/Did you dream of my father?..."_

_Dots And Dashes (Enough Already)-The Silversun Pickups- _ _"So you wanna mess with me?/Caught me in a silent scream/Heat filling up my cheeks/Not exactly what you think/See you in the room next door/Your feet float above the floor..I'm already cursed/I'm already dry/I'm already wondering what am I/I've already learned a bit of sin/Enough already, let me in...But if I don't like what I see/And my grip starts loosening/The edge of the big reveal/Could be the end of the story"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David and Nancy do love cooking:http://dailym.ai/3ach2Ut  
http://dailym.ai/39bVWnX  
https://bit.ly/2wkIKzU  
You can see Florence's toy rabbit here:https://shutr.bz/340scJU  
https://bit.ly/2wNggyP  
The ITV interviewer complaining about Ed's PR insisting on the family photos being included in the background:https://bit.ly/2QAWUDD  
https://bit.ly/3adSIS4  
Ed's nanny does do the family cooking:https://bit.ly/39g9aQM  
The tax reference was when Ed's parents used a loophole to circumvent inheritance tax:https://bit.ly/2xhDb54  
Ed's family photos that were filmed were often posed shots for the public:https://bit.ly/2Wztfys  
The photo Justine refers to is one of the few unstaged ones and can be seen here:https://bit.ly/2U8Q3Dz  
The memory Justine has of being filmed on the platform in Manchester and encouraging the boys to wave to the cameras:https://bit.ly/3djFYLD  
https://bit.ly/2y2bga1  
Ed and Justine walking to the Brunei Gallery and all the dialogue in her flashback:https://bit.ly/2UxUqr8  
https://bit.ly/39eqmpr  
Justine panicking if she didn't get 100%:http://dailym.ai/2J4XTbl  
Ed was dating Stephanie Flanders when he met Justine:https://bit.ly/2QARiJI  
Ed revealed their talk centres around work and politics:http://dailym.ai/2xcEQci  
The purple T-shirt Nancy's wearing:http://dailym.ai/2wvF1zg  
https://bit.ly/2QCpK6F  
Justine became a governor when they moved to Dartmouth Park, supposedly to improve Daniel's chances of getting into the school: https://bit.ly/33E8vHi  
Justine did very specifically want two children:https://bit.ly/2vFMNGB  
Justine's case which she eventually lost:https://bit.ly/33Jx7Pe  
Them choosing to know Sam would be a boy:https://bit.ly/393rA76  
https://bit.ly/2xRYhHA  
David M and Louise adopted their two children after having difficulties conceiving naturally or through IVF:https://bit.ly/3999fW8  
The open fire in Dave and Sam's country house living room: https://bit.ly/2UkSVMw  
The Lovrov line comes from David and Ed's argument over Syria:https://bit.ly/33zHSDC  
The photos mentioned-Ed as a baby:https://bit.ly/2vTtbPq  
Ed's school photo:https://bit.ly/2U7fFRn  
Ed on Ralph's knee:https://bit.ly/2UuhsPg  
David's school photo:https://bit.ly/2WAQUim  
https://bit.ly/33GCEWz  
David on holiday:https://bit.ly/2Uaj5ml  
David's perm photo:https://bit.ly/2wqPr3a  
Ed's photo aged 13 out canvassing:https://bit.ly/2QymtoP  
The PMQs mentioned where Dave teased Ed about being out canvassing as a teenager:https://bit.ly/33ApXMW  
The Camerons on holiday with the Lockwoods in Italy, Mallorca and Ibiza in 2011, 2012 and 2013:http://dailym.ai/2xjcUTX  
https://bit.ly/3bjrjhE  
https://bit.ly/2QDA3Yl  
https://bit.ly/2Qzr3TU  
https://bit.ly/2Uq9bvP  
https://bit.ly/2J4Bg6y


	17. Morning Moroseness, The Camaraderie Of Companions, And The Opposition Of Opposites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which Ed isn't the first person to ever debate David and the healing power of chocolate cake is addressed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
The reference quotes in this chapter refer to Ed at Copenhagen and David's liking for his opposites.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Ed's mistake in the run-up to the (Copenhagen) summit may have been his deliberate raising of expectations as part of his headline-grabbing, populist campaigning throughout 2009. There was much talk of a **"countdown"** to** "saving the world."** A fortnight before Copenhagen, he used an interview in The Observer to warn that the consequence of failure would be **"scary" **in terms of the effect on the environment. Yet today, he says he has no regrets about ramping up the stakes. In fact, Ed had known the summit would be a nightmare before he even touched down in Copenhagen. As he told The Guardian writer John Harris on the flight to Denmark, **"Imagine if you knew 189 people, and you got them all together and said, "Here's how we want you to run a significant part of your lives in the next thirty or forty years-and by the way, you have to unanimously agree that that's how you want to do it."** Halfway through the conference, after endless rounds of bilateral meetings, Ed anticipated what was to come, telling Harris, who was shadowing him: **"I remain frustrated. How do I put this? There's a calculated repositioning of aspirations, where it's being agreed that we're not going to do anything that's binding, we're not going to do anything substantive, and a lot of people blame everybody else for everything going too slow. And for small island states like ours, that's very disconcerting."**...(Mark) Lynas highlights the damage done by the **"Danish text"**, a document prepared by the Danish government on 27 November (2009) and leaked to The Guardian newspaper on only the second day of the Copenhagen summit, which suggested that rich countries had been involved in a parallel track, outside the main United Nations negotiating process...**"After The Guardian published this supposed leaked "Danish text", it was used as a pretext by some developing countries to stir up ill-feeling"** he says. **"That was probably the single event which destroyed any chance of a positive outcome."** _

_Ed was enraged by The Guardian story. Spotting John Vidal, the newspaper's environment correspondent, at a press conference during the summit, the Climate Change Secretary pulled him to one side and began berating him. **"What the fuck have you done?"** yelled Ed. **"You have wrecked everything."** Veterans of the negotiating circuit say Ed's public outburst was a sign of his political immaturity. **"That he expected The Guardian, or the British press, not to print the leak was touchingly naive"** says one.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Ed described **"a chaotic process dogged by procedural games. Thirty leaders left their negotiators at 3am on Friday, the last night to haggle over the short Danish text that became the accord."** Despite all the intense difficulties and inevitable eccentricities involved in negotiating at an international conference, an agreement was brokered by US President Barack Obama with representatives from China, India, Brazil and South Africa...Representatives from a small number of developing countries reacted with astonishing fury, producing a series of posturing and hyperbolic outbursts at the final plenary session in the early hours of Saturday 19 December. Venezuela's hysterical representative, Claudia Salerno, cut her hand and waved it in the air before asking: **"Do I have to bleed to grab your attention? International agreements cannot be imposed by a small exclusive group. You are endorsing a coup d'etat against the United Nations."**_

_Ed Miliband had gone to bed in his hotel room believing an agreement of sorts had been reached before the outbursts, only to be woken at 3am by aides and told of this latest diplomatic crisis. He rushed to the hall, arriving as Lumumba Di-Aping, the Sudanese chair of the G77-China block, invoked the memory of the Holocaust: **"(This) is asking Africa to sign a suicide pact, an incineration pact in order to maintain the economic dependence of a few countries. It's a solution based on values that funnelled six million people in Europe into furnaces."** Ed knew he had to intervene. Tired, unshaven, pale, in an open neck white shirt, Ed, speaking off the cuff and without notes, did not mince his words: **"The work we have done faces a moment of profound crisis at this meeting here in the early hours of the morning. I think we have a choice of two roads...there is a road of a document that has been produced with a process that has been done in good faith by you under very difficult circumstances. It is a document which is by no means perfect...But most importantly it is a document that in substantive ways will make the lives of people round this planet better...it does a limited number of things but it does very important things. So we have one choice before us to accept this document and go forward and start the money flowing and start implementing the decisions under it. And then we face a choice that Ambassador Lumumba offers us. It is a choice of disgusting comparisons to the Holocaust which should offend people across this conference whatever background they come from. And frankly it is a choice of wrecking this conference."**_

_Ed concluded his impromptu remarks with an impassioned plea to the delegates not to wreck the possibility of an agreement, and the funding associated with such an agreement-prompting a standing ovation from the majority of delegates inside the hall. **"It was an extraordinary performance and he pulled the conference back from the brink of disaster"** says Jacobs. **"The agreement was "noted", not accepted, but if Ed hadn't spoken, arguably it would have been defeated."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_(Fred) Pearce points to a second but equally important intervention from Ed at 7am on the Saturday, with the conference fourteen hours into overtime and an exhausted, frustrated and confused chairman of the summit, Danish Prime Minister Lars Lokke Rasmussen, about to give up. After listening to more than forty speeches from the floor and with dozens more delegates waiting to be heard, Rasmussen said there was no consensus on adopting the draft agreement produced by US President Obama and twenty-five other heads of state the previous day. **"Therefore I propose that we..."** According to Pearce: **"Almost certainly his next words would have been a recommendation to drop or delete the text...Then up spoke Ed Miliband, younger brother of the more famous British Foreign Secretary, David Miliband. "Point of order" he called from the floor, and asked for an adjournment of the meeting. Rasmussen looked like a drowning man saved."** A new chairman took over from Rasmussen when the meeting resumed three hours later, and a compromise was reached in which the accord was **"taken note of" **by the conference as a whole, rather than agreed or voted down. **"The gavel fell. The accord was saved. Wild applause broke out."**_

_Outside the hall, however, green campaigners refused to hide their disappointment and frustration at the lack of a binding accord. **"The city of Copenhagen is a crime scene tonight, with the guilty men and women fleeing to the airport"** said an angry John Sauven. **"There are no targets for carbon cuts and no agreement on a legally binding treaty."** According to one British official who worked very closely with Ed during the intensive negotiations, the Secretary of State's mood was one of **"exhaustion more than anything; intense disappointment that two years of work had come to an unsatisfactory agreement."** Ed arrived at the airport for his flight back to London tired and dejected. Having been awake and in meetings for the previous three nights, he collapsed into his seat on the plane and fell asleep.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Whatever the small successes and bigger failures of Copenhagen, there is no doubt that Ed himself emerged from it with his reputation enhanced-as he had over the Heathrow runway. He had earned respect in fighting his corner and, as at Oxford, had snatched a victory of sorts from the jaws of defeat. Between October 2008 and the general election of May 2010, as Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change, Ed underwent a transformation: from thoughtful, intelligent, up-and-coming junior Cabinet minister to charismatic, empathetic and focused campaigner and one of Labour's big-hitters. **"I just saw him grow"** says a friend who worked with him in the Treasury and Downing Street. **"He didn't grow as a politician in the Cabinet Office. He really didn't."** One of Ed's former Cabinet colleagues, who would later back David's leadership bid, remarks, begrudgingly: **"DECC was the making of Ed as a politician."**...**"I think he learned in the DECC job more about decisiveness"** says Nick Pearce, the head of the Number 10 Policy Unit under Brown. **"He couldn't have just gone from the Cabinet Office to standing for the Labour leadership."** Another former Downing Street official, who went on to advise the younger Miliband's leadership campaign, says Ed **"started looking like he could carry the (leadership) torch when he took over at DECC." Something changed visibly in his stature."** But something also changed inside of him. For the first time, as he has since confirmed to friends, Ed began to see himself as a future Labour leader.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_ <strike></strike>

_Then we set off for Chevening. None of the kids wanted to come so it was F(iona) and me. Ben Evans and Amanda were coming, too, and Ben was clearly seeing it as a chance to advise DM on how to get himself in a challenging position-literally if pre-election, less so if after an assumed (by him and most others) defeat. We arrived as the boys (David Miliband's sons) were finishing their tea. Did the usual **"What did you all do for Xmas?" **routine and it was not long before we were picking up on the negative vibes about Ed M, especially from Louise. When she and Fiona were giving the boys a bath later, she was apparently even more scathing. Ed had been busy cultivating the Guardianistas so that when Copenhagen failed he was somehow seen as a success.-"Tuesday 29th December 2009", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Seven: From Crash To Defeat: 2007-2010, Alastair Campbell_

_I was up early to go for a long run before heading for Wales for Rachel Kinnock's wedding (to Stuart Bentham.)...Fiona and I had a massive row in the car park of a service station on the M4 because she suddenly realised she hadn't packed her shoes. And of course it all turned out to be my fault because I work for Tony Blair and that meant she didn't have time to think because she had so much to do for me and the kids. She didn't take kindly to my suggestion of going into Swindon and finding an ordinary person's shoe shop and finding a pair that didn't cost a fortune. We got down to Neil and Glenys' and left Grace, who was mega excited about being Rachel's bridesmaid, up to the hotel before setting off for the wedding. It was a nice enough do. Rachel looked great and Gracie was loving every minute of it. Fiona and I weren't speaking at all. Neil gave a good speech. The best man was probably a bit near the knuckle for some of them and his piss-taking of Wales didn't go down a bundle. He said the National Museum of Wales as nearby and **"worth a visit if you've got five minutes to spare."....**I was up early for a swim in the hotel gym, Fiona and I still not speaking. We went round to Neil's to collect Grace's stuff...We drove back home and got changed before heading for Crystal Palace and the athletics...Loads of the big stars were racing and the kids enjoyed it...Grace was full of it about the wedding and the pictures there were of her in some of the papers.-"Saturday 21st July 2001-Sunday 22nd July 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_On one occasion, Clare held a party at Peasmore. It was there, according to David Cameron's recollection at any rate, that the couple first met. Recalling it later, in Samantha's company, Cameron was heard to say, **"You were a sulky sixteen-year-old who thought, "Who's this crashing bore who is your friend's older brother?""** Evidently, the encounter left little mark on the **"sulky sixteen-year-old."** When asked later when they had first met, she said she had **"probably"** met him when she was at primary school, but had no clear recollection of him. It is her belief that they didn't meet until she was eighteen.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Samantha Sheffield went to the Manor School and then, at eleven, to St Helen's (now St Helen's and St Katharine's), both in Abingdon, near Oxford. She later recalled that her mother **"wasn't the kind of mum who tidied your room and packed your tuckbox, but we never wanted her to be. We thought she was more glamorous than anyone else's mother; the working was part of that."** The Sheffield girls used to help, gift-wrapping and so on, at their mother's Knightsbridge retail shop in the school holidays. **"That is where my retail instincts were honed" **said Samantha recently.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_For Giles Andreae, whose mother had been a debutante with the young Mary Mount and who is one of David's lifelong friends, there is something almost intimidating about the Camerons' partnership: **"****That couple, they're both so self-assured and magnanimous. They have so many friends. It's almost quite scary if you're not very confident yourself."** While the parents wanted their children to be aware of how privileged they were, it must have been difficult for a playful, popular little boy to imagine how different "real life" was for the majority of the population. In this Eden of cricket matches and gambolling through fields, it would have been understandable if the Cameron children had taken it for granted that the world is a pretty happy place. **"It is a very natural age"** says Giles Andreae, now a writer of children's books. **"Obviously you are aware that some people have big houses and some people have small houses, and that not everyone spends their time swimming and playing tennis. Privilege in itself is not a bad thing, it is how you deal with it that matters."**....Having spent his second year (at Oxford) living in college, with a big, panelled sitting room, and tiny, cold bedroom, Cameron's third and final year was spent living at 69 Cowley Road, sharing with Giles Andreae, his friend from earliest times, Sarah Hamilton (a product of St Paul's Girls' School, who was studying law) and David Granger, a popular sportsman, now in television. While the pressure was on for the keen student anxious to get a First, Cameron continued to enjoy himself. The house had a laid-back flavour, and benefited from his enthusiastic efforts in the kitchen, often to cook the odd Peasemore pheasant for an informal dinner party. **"He would always be very concerned that you were enjoying yourself, and then if you were he would be full of self-mocking praise for himself"** remembers a friend. **"There was a fair amount of beer and wine about"** says Giles Andreae, **"but it certainly wasn't a house full of ravers."** They would use the local kebab van a good deal, as well as the Hi-Lo, a cheap Jamaican restaurant directly opposite their house patronised by generations of undergraduates. There, Cameron, Andreae and their friends would go once or twice a week-sometimes late at night-for goat curries, funky chicken and Red Stripe lager, served up by the Rastafarian chef-owner, Hugh Anderson, who is also remembered for his over-proof rum. **"He was a happy, easy-going character, quite pleasant"** remembers Andy, as the Rastafarian is known toe everyone. **"He was very modest and very orderly, not a wild guy at all." **So orderly were Cameron and Andreae that Andy would hand over his one-year-old son Daniel to the two undergraduates to look after. The little boy was known, a little distantly perhaps, as **"boy child."** Cameron and Andreae would bounce him on their knees as they watched daytime television while Andy was busy in the kitchen over the road. Cameron, for one, made a point of never missing Going For Gold, a programme presented by Henry Kelly, which he may have omitted to mention in his subsequent job interviews.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_While some of Cameron's friends were bemused to see the sociable redhead (Rebekah Brooks) at the party, she was evidently no less bemused by some of them. One, the affable Giles Andreae, whose formerly flowing red hair is now shorter and more dirty-brown in hue, sought to make conversation with her. Unfortunately the evening's consumption had taken its toll on him and he delivered a conversational coup de grace before they had even started, when, seeking gamely to find common ground late in a long evening, he asked her: **"Isn't it awful being a red-headed twat?"**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Cameron was not only well-mannered, he was also kind, perhaps unusually so for someone at what is typically a self-absorbed age. Giles Andreae, who developed Hodkin's disease in their last year at Oxford, has given a touching account of how Cameron helped care for him, even though they were in the middle of finals. Andreae was diagnosed late and his condition was life-threatening. Cameron used to drive him to Peasemore to recuperate after bouts of chemotherapy which would leave him very weak. **"Dave used to take me down in his car, tuck me up in bed, and give me some videos"** he has recalled. Andreae would stay in Peasemore for several days, watched over by Cameron's mother, while Cameron himself returned to Oxford to sit his exams....Andreae claims Cameron preferred playing pool to hanging out with the "Buller." **"What we tended to do at the end of the day was basically go to the pub and shoot pool. We weren't all dressing up in tails and prancing around drinking champagne by any means. And he's very good at pool."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_It is said that Cameron is notably loyal to his friends-one says his dependability is the best of his many assets-but in a milieu as privileged as his, where the going was pretty well always good, there might not be a great many opportunities to show it. Yet Giles Andreae was a beneficiary of his-and his parents'-steadfastness. During their last year at Oxford, he was found-after several wrong diagnoses-to have Hodgkin's disease. The delay in the diagnosing of the cancer required him to have intensive chemotherapy, sedatives and steroids, as well as a variety of experimental drugs. For each bout of chemotherapy, he had to undergo a general anaesthetic and was left debilitated and low. Andreae's survival was a matter of touch and go for some months. To help him recover his strength after the treatment, Cameron would drive his friend to his parents' house at Peasemore in a battered Volvo he owned as a student. **"Dave used to take me down in his car, tuck me up in bed and give me some videos"** says Andreae, who would then stay for two or three days until he was strong enough to go back to Oxford. **"Dave, despite it being the middle of finals, would pop by to say hello and managed to find some humour in a pretty grim situation. He was a very supportive friend, but it was typical of his family to do that."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Notwithstanding the size of the school, in Cameron's first term (at Eton) a quick familiarity would have been achieved among those he encountered. It might not have been apparent at the time, but many of these boys were to become friends for decades (quite a few he knew already, from Heatherdown and elsewhere.) In F year in Faulkner's house, for example, there were just nine other boys, at least half of whom can call themselves good friends of Cameron to this day. The names James Learmond, Simon Andreae, Roland Watson, Tom Goff and "Toppo" Todhunter crop up throughout Cameron's life, as does that of Pete Czernin, in the same house, but the year above.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_At weekends Heatherdown boys were allowed to roam the grounds wearing green boiler suits. Cameron's best friend at the school, Simon Andreae, now a television producer, has told how they **"built camps in the woods, staged elaborate battles with toy soldiers, and shot air rifles."** He recalled other adventures, some nocturnal, such as **"creeping out of our dormitory windows at night to go midnight swimming in the school pool, which was freezing."** He has claimed the boys would also have **"trysts" **with girls from Heathfield, a nearby girls' school, in a graveyard that lay between the two establishments...Cameron's closest friends at Eton included "Toppo" Todhunter, Simon Andreae (whose twin Giles also became a close friend at Oxford), James Learmond, James Fergusson, Tom Goff and Ben Weatherall, who remain in close contact with the Prime Minister and fiercely loyal to their friend. (Topphunter and Goff were joint best men at his wedding.)-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron_

_**"I do remember being impressed and slightly alarmed by how focused he was"** says James Fergusson, an Eton and Brasenose contemporary who read English. **"I was keen on my subject, but nothing like as keen as he was. He knew exactly what he wanted, which was to be the top-dog student and to get a First. That was it, without a doubt. He loved it, he was passionate about it. At Brasenose a lot of life went on in the back quad, and you would see the PPE lot were having a good time. Dave would hold court in a classic Oxford way, quoting Locke and Hume. He loved it."...**He would invite his friends over to Peasemore to stay. Often there would be a lavish dinner, where his father-with characteristic generosity of spirit-would happily offer up excellent bottles of wine and port from the cellar. One frequent guest at these occasions was James Fergusson, who admits he would be a strong candidate for the title of closest but most argumentative friend of Cameron. One afternoon, having recently returned from a mind-expanding stint backpacking, Fergusson remembers launching into Cameron: **"I had just come back and was full of a left-wing version of Latin America and I said very pompously to Dave, "The trouble with you is, you're complacent." It sort of bothered him and I think he knew what I meant. The facade dropped. He said "What do you mean? What do you mean?" I wouldn't say he was blinkered, but he was quite safe, just utterly confident that the way he lived was the right way to live. He just didn't see that it might be a bit narrow."..**Fergusson's room in their first year at Brasenose was on Staircase 15, four doors down the corridor from Cameron's, and they spent a great deal of time together. Fergusson was learning the guitar, not with unqualified success, and would pick away at Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" and the Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again" while waiting for Cameron to finish an essay and go for a drink with him.** "He partied too, but he was incredibly organised about it" **says Fergusson. The Brasenose of Cameron's era has been written about almost as if it was Dorothy Parker's Algonquin, not least by those with an interest in it being so. It was, though, a small pond where Cameron thrived, developing his interest in repartee and wordplay with Din Cellan-Jones, James Fergusson, Toby Young, Tim Harrison, Will McDonald and Mark Mitchell. **"There was a core of quite intelligent people who did a lot of heavy drinking and had a lot of fun" **says one.-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_He also made the occasional (restful) sortie onto the river. One Saturday towards the end of his second year at Oxford, Cameron invited his sister Clare, then aged fifteen, to visit. She was preparing for exams and David thought it would be a good opportunity to show her his new surroundings. She brought along a friend, Jade Jagger, daughter of Rolling Stone Mick Jagger, whose budding beauty did not pass unnoticed among David's friends. Dave decided to take his little sister and her friend out in a punt in time-honoured fashion. He asked James Fergusson to join them, and he helped contribute to an idyllically innocent afternoon on the river by taking turns with the punt pole and chatting idly. At tea later in the Christ Church room of James Delingpole, now a journalist, Fergusson played an imperfect version of "Satisfaction" on his guitar, whereupon Jade piped up proudly, **"My dad wrote that!" **The following Monday, Cameron's mother Mary received a call at home. It was Mick Jagger, not pleased. **"What's all this my daughter's been getting up to with your son?" **he demanded. **"You know I don't approve of bloodsports."** Mary, dipping lightly into her reserves of breeding and politesse, explained gently that **punting** is what one does in a punt, and that his daughter had enjoyed an entirely peaceful afternoon **punting** on the river. Cameron, who adores retelling the story, later muttered a little impatiently that **"it shows how much these people have to learn."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

_Cameron suspects that the service chiefs are trapped into conventional ways of thinking in Afghanistan, so he decides to return to Chequers for a "summit" on Tuesday 1 June (2010) where he will deliberately confront his senior military figures with some left-field thinkers to shake up their thinking. The seminar will be in two halves. The **"wild men"**, as he dubs them, will be present at the first session in the library upstairs from 9.a.m. in the morning to act as the grit in the oyster. A lunchtime session will then be held in the dining room after the outsiders have left. Few areas have exercised his mind when Opposition leader more than Afghanistan, and he has spent many hours pondering the problem and talking to those with unorthodox outlooks. Prime among them is Sherward Cowper-Coles, the Foreign Secretary's special representative to Afghanistan and Pakistan who had become highly sceptical of the prospects of success of continued military engagement. Cameron talks to him on his visits to Afghanistan, where the seasoned diplomat is brutally clear that the war cannot be won. Rory Stewart, the intellectually brilliant former diplomat, author, and now Tory MP, who had walked across Afghanistan and served as a senior official in Iraq, is another invited, as is James Fergusson, an Old Etonian and Oxford friend of Cameron's, and author of three books on Afghanistan, the third of which advocated talking to the Taliban._

_The meeting begins.**"It is pointless to put in more troops"** Fergusson says, feeling self-conscious at finding himself placed between the head of MI6 and the chair of the JIC. **"We have to speak to the Taliban"** he says. **"Oh, it's very difficult to talk to the Taliban" **interjects Foreign Secretary William Hague. Fergusson believes that Mullah Zaeef will be an excellent intermediary: he has spent five years as a prisoner in Guantanamo, but is not bitter. Fergusson describes him as a** "nice man."**** "This is a unique opportunity"** he says, **"as the Taliban respect the British and really quite like us, as opposed to the Americans, who they regard, above all due to Guantanamo, as beyond the pale."** Fergusson is listened to by the great and good in respectful silence.** "You're not exactly on the same page as most of us"** confides Pauline Neville-Jones to him at the coffee break. Graeme Lamb, who has been commander of British Special Forces and has aggressively pursued al-Qaeda operatives in Iraq, presents a sharply different view. Lamb is a no-nonsense kind of soldier who talks and looks like a battle-hardened warrior. He exudes charisma and authority. **"Prime Minister, you have nothing to worry about with the Taliban in Kunar Province because we've killed them all"** he starts. Fergusson, at the other end of the table, disagrees because he's recently been talking to Taliban who are still ubiquitous in Kunar Province. Cameron and Clegg, in the middle of the table, turn their heads from side to side as Lamb and Fergusson testily dispute the facts, as if watching a tennis match.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Now and again, members of the club would meet in an upstairs bedroom in Christ Church, where they could be found sprawled on the floor smoking dope. Naturally the door was shut, but anyone walking past might have caught a hint of the sweet musky smell of drugs and heard laughter and music coming from within. Whiling away the hours riffing about this and that while dragging on joints were three exceptionally bright young men: James Fergusson, who was to become a distinguished writer; James Delingpole, who was to become a high-profile right-wing journalist; and the future Prime Minister. The setting was Delingpole's room in Peckwater Quad, one of the finest quadrangles in one of the finest, if not **the** finest, colleges in Oxford. More likely than not, the trio would be listening to the 1970s rock band Supertramp and bantering inconsequentially about their love lives while getting stoned. They even gave themselves a name: "**The Flam Club."**_

_**"My drug of choice was weed, and I smoked weed with Dave because James's drug of choice was also weed"** says Delingpole. **"So he and James would come round to my room and the three of us would listen to Supertramp albums. I wasn't in one of the grand shared rooms of Peckwater Quad-I had a room on the top floor, and we would all sit on the floor and smoke dope, and we would call ourselves the Flam Club. A flam is a succession of drum beats close together, designed to create a richly satisfying noise, and Supertramp use them quite a lot."** The origins of the Flam Club lay in the friendship between Delingpole and Fergusson, who were both studying English. Fergusson had been at Eton with Cameron, as a result of which the three became friends, though they were very different personalities. Delingpole remembers:** "James had just come back from Guatemala and El Salvador and he was wearing those hippy threads and long hair and he'd strum his guitar. Dave and I used to tease him for being a fucking hippy. We'd tell him to go get a haircut. Dave was much more obviously Old Etonian than James-he had a much fruitier accent. He had that assured accent of the upper classes, and was always well presented; very conventional. He would be wearing a cricket sweater."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_ **What are the main similarities between you?** _

_We're not that similar, in fact we're quite different in many respects. She is very artistic, and we have different outlooks in some ways. The age gap (five years) becomes less important as you get older, but when we first started going out she was one of my sister's friends, who were a lot different and a lot younger than mine, but those sorts of differences fall away as you start having friends who are both your friends. We now have many more things we like doing together._

_ **Do you bounce policy ideas off Samantha?** _

_Yes, I do bounce policy ideas off Samantha and because she doesn't think like another politician it's very refreshing. She'll say, why do you want to do that, or what's the point of that? And also she doesn't read all the newspapers so she's not part of the Westminster bubble. She's very good at saying, it's all very well saying this but then what about this that's happening right on your doorstep?-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_ What Cameron really enjoyed was a good argument. He had liked "sounding off" in Oxford and now, in London and working for the governing party, he was mixing with people even better qualified to match him in debate. He would hone his rhetorical skills in social settings. Several of his friends testify to how much he (Cameron) enjoyed jousting across a dinner table, and sometimes with a degree of antagonism and competitiveness that suggests he was practicing with a higher forum in mind. "He is infuriating to argue with" says his friend James Fergusson, a regular late-night sparring partner. "It's extremely stimulating, but you never win. I know every trick of his. He'll change the subject. He'll overwhelm you with statistics. If that doesn't work, he'll make a joke or play to the gallery. If he's losing he'll never let it remain as one on one, he'll get other people to giggle on the sidelines. That's the way it works. It's infuriating, but it's a very effective political trick."-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott and James Hanning_

* * *

_She hasn't heard from Effy in well over a day, and it's beginning to bother her in a way she isn't comfortable with at all. It's fucking disturbing, is what it is, because Effy's infiltrated Katie's life so thoroughly that Katie misses her when she isn't around. It's the worst kind of realisation."-Elizabeth Gone, brocanteur (Skins fanfiction)_

_""You just say whatever you want, don't you?"_

_"Only to you." I shook my head. "Sorry, that sounded creepy.""-Radio Silence, Alice Oseman_

_"Always with a book, thick glasses and middling sulk, that smile you gave people when they said something stupid. I don't even think you know you're doing it, slitting your eyes and raising your lip, like the motions cause you physical pain. You told me once that, before me, you wasted half your time wondering why people didn't like you more, obsessing about your glasses or your hair or the way you rolled the creases of your jeans, precisely how tight and how high. I didn't have the heart to tell you none of it would have helped. People like to believe they're beautiful and smart and funny-special. They'll never like the person whose face reveals the truth."-Girls On Fire, Robin Wasserman_

_"Just friends, then" she says, but when she reaches forward and rests her hand on Naomi's, it feels a bit too heavy, and when she squeezes it reassuringly, Naomi's throat closes up._

_It's dangerous, she thinks. To feel like this.-writing books through letters, majesdane (Skins fanfiction)_

* * *

When Sam wakes up, it's dark and warm and he doesn't quite know where he is.

He sits up and Florence's toy rabbit's poking him in the eye. He pushes it away and his hand presses into Florence's warm cheek. Florence makes a noise and turns over so Sam sits up more, blinking, looking towards the chunk of light spilling across the floor from the nightlight.

Sam slides out of bed and pads out onto the landing. The door seems very big and Sam can't push it back so he leaves it standing open.

Daddy told him which bedroom he was asleep in and Sam goes on towards it. His legs feel small and tired and the dark seems to be pressing into his eyes. He rubs them, takes small, careful steps forward, until he's pushing at the door where Daddy is.

The door pushes into the dark of the room, carving some of the orange nightlight glow into the carpet. Sam can see that Daddy's there, tucked up under the covers, but there's someone else there too. But Mummy isn't here. Sam wants to go and find Zia, but she didn't come. He chews at his lip, shivering a little.

He tiptoes to the edge of the bed, tugs at the duvet. "Daddy" he says, but Daddy doesn't say anything. "Daddy."

Then Sam remembers that last time he tried to get into bed and Daddy, Daddy got _angry_, he said that Sam had woken him up, and Sam didn't know why.

But Sam is looking at the other person and he pads round the side of the bed, his bare little feet aching with cold. He stands on his tiptoes, trying to see, and then he puts his hand on the other person's arm.

The other person makes a grumpy, sleepy noise and moves a little. "Whatst-"

Sam stops but keeps his hand on the other person's arm, because the other person is a man and it is Mr Cameron.

Sam squeezes his arm slightly, not knowing what to do. He shakes again, a little harder and Mr Cameron makes a tired noise and pulls back the duvet. His hands come out and cuddle Sam round the middle. "D'you want to come in?"

Sam pulls himself up onto the bed with Mr Cameron sliding his hand round and pulling him up the rest of the way so that suddenly Sam's feet are very warm and he's against Mr Cameron's chest under the duvet, with Mr Cameron gripping him against him and then doing a little roll so that Sam's suddenly in the middle of Daddy and Mr Cameron.

"D'you need a drink?" Mr Cameron murmurs in his ear. "Or to go to the toilet?" Sam yawns, stretching into the warmth, and shaking his head.

"All right, sweetheart-" Mr Cameron squeezes his shoulder and Sam snuggles down under the duvet. Mr Cameron's arm comes around him, cuddling him up between Mr Cameron and Daddy.

Sam snuggles in, feeling Mr Cameron's arm there nice and warm, and curls his toes into the cosiness of the mattress. He yawns again and closes his eyes.

* * *

When David opens his eyes, he's warm and comfortable. His arm's slightly stretched and he adjusts it, snuggling closer to the warmth of Miliband next to him. He feels Miliband inch backwards, a little closer into him.

"Daddy-" He becomes aware of the word tickling his cheek. "Daddy, can I get up?"

David grunts, forces his eyes open. Florence's blue eyes are an inch away from his own.

David, for the second time in less than a month, finds himself struggling not to have a heart attack while his four-year-old daughter stares at him from an inch away. "Jesus, Flo-"

Florence just looks at him and David manages to turn his thoughts into a modicum of sleep-muddled sense. "You can get up as long as you stay upstairs. You can only go down if Nance or El is with you, Flo-"

Florence is already wriggling out of the bed, where she's obviously joined them at some point during the night. David manages to half-raise his head and glimpses Sam standing next to her, dark curls a rumpled mess, clutching what looks like Florence's toy rabbit.

"If they're not up, just play quietly" David manages, with a yawn. "One of them'll wake up soon-"

Florence is wandering to the door, tugging Sam by the hand and David feels the need to say "Quietly" again, before he flops down again with a little groan, stretching happily before letting his eyes close again. God, he's tired.

It's warm and comfortable and he lets his eyes close, happy to drift in a half-drowsiness for a few moments. He wriggles a little closer to Miliband, repositions his arm. "So much for lie-ins" he mutters, and Miliband makes an "Mmm" sound in his throat, barely audible. David opens his eyes slightly, watches Miliband wriggle deeper into the bed, eyes squeezing tighter before he rolls over to face David, eyes still closed, long dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks. David studies him for a moment. Miliband looks oddly delicate asleep, his eyelids fluttering. David feels like he might stroke them gently.

But he lets Miliband sleep, closes his eyes, then opens them again, wriggling a little closer, watching Miliband's face before he smiles and closes his eyes, one arm falling a little further around Miliband's shoulder. His hand brushes Miliband's hair, which is soft, tickling his fingers a little.

"Mmm.." He hears Miliband make the noise in his throat, barely awake himself. "Mmmoreminutes..."

David stretches lazily, and feels Miliband wriggle back into his chest and David's arms find their way around Ed's shoulders. "Mmm, sure, it's Sunday" is what he means to say, but it comes out as "Mmmkay" as his chin ends up notching itself over Miliband's shoulder.

"Mmm, nithe.."

David turns his head and just breathes in the smell of Miliband's hair, wrapping himself closer, his eyes falling closed again as he pulls Miliband close.

* * *

Sam knows before she opens the door what she'll see, and knows Dave would know. She knows Dave inside out.

She's heard quite a lot about that from other couples. She knows all too well the overly-smiling soft-focus interviews from every party, the rehearsed flickers of the eyes, the all-too-common phrases that litter their conversations like dropped, sweet-smelling litter. _She is my rock. We have an incredibly deep relationship. They're so much the heart of my life._ And then they remind themselves to take their children to school one day in a couple of weeks and they should really have dinner together sometime.

She and Dave have never been like that, which is maybe why Dave doesn't use those words at all.

_I've never heard anything like it,_ Craig said once, after a couple of glasses of wine in the flat.

_What?_

_How he talks about you and the kids._ Craig's eyes a little unsteady, Sam wiping at the lipstick staining her glass. _You're his world._

The words oddly solemn, ringing in a way that should have been comical, but wasn't.

Sam doesn't know when it happened, but it happened. This strange heart-deep tug that means she knows David, can see each crease of his forehead, each thought flickering into life before it even reaches his mouth, before he can even fold his fingers around it. Nights of hospital bars pressing into cheeks, the beat of his heart against her back as though their hearts had become one rhythm, over and over through the nights.

When she'd rolled over this morning into the yawning space, her legs stretching into a mattress slightly cooled from the night air, her eyes had opened and she'd just thought _Oh._ Not even a thud, not even a jolt, just the calm answer to a question. Oh, yes, of course. Of course that's where he is.

She didn't even have to think about moving, just getting up and walking slowly to the spare room, as though she makes her way here every morning.

She doesn't feel a shock when she sees them lying in bed together. David's arm curled around Ed's shoulders, as though he can cover him more than the duvet.

But her stomach does dip slightly, her fingers tightening on the door frame, and she has to even her breaths a little, make sure she stays very still in the doorway.

She knows Dave, and so she knows he hasn't done anything more than this. Anything more at all. She doesn't even have to poke at the thought anxiously, ask herself the question over and over as she knows some women would.

(It's whether this is enough.)

Sam stands very still and watches them for a moment. Ed's eyelashes are brushing his cheeks. Dave's arm tightens around him slightly, as though he might wriggle away, as though he might leave.

They don't know, Sam suddenly thinks, without knowing quite what they don't know, but with the thought, a pang of tenderness rises in her chest, strokes gently at their hair and skin, almost pity, but better than that.

They don't know, she thinks.

She stands there, feeling oddly as though a long, long time has passed, even though she knows she's been there for less than a minute. She can hear Florence's and Sam's voices suddenly, a little too loud, and suddenly they seem to be bouncing off the walls, the too-too-awakeness of small children, that only they, too tiny for tiredness, can have on a Sunday morning and she notices that she's grasped the sound tight in her hands, it seeming unthinkable she hasn't noticed it before. You can't unhear children once you hear them.

She looks at Dave and Ed for a second more. For a breath, she could almost reach out, stroking the hair off both their foreheads. Slowly, she steps back, pulling the door shut behind her.

* * *

David wakes up before he opens his eyes. He's comfortable and warm and Miliband half-wriggles back against him with a contented sigh.

David cuddles him a little, before sighing, letting his eyes open, smiling a little at the sight of Miliband's hair, a strand somehow twined around David's finger. It's silky soft, even softer than David would have expected, and he smiles a little, tracing a strand between his fingers.

David blinks, becoming more awake with each second.

He stops dead, Miliband's hair between his fingers.

What-

Oh no.

David feels his heart swell into his throat.

Oh God.

Oh no. _Oh no._

He barely manages not to yank his hand away and accidentally drag Miliband's hair out by the roots.

Oh no. _Oh no. OH NO._

David's heart is slamming so hard in his chest that he's seized with the abrupt fear that he might throw up.

He takes a slow, deep breath. Then another.

All right. Don't panic. _Don't panic._

Miliband makes a mumbling sound in his sleep, wriggles back a little, and David's arm moves almost before he can stop himself. His arm hovers there while he stares at it dumbly, almost praying it belongs to somebody else.

But no, that's definitely _his_ arm that he's yanking back and that's definitely _his_ hand that was nearly on Miliband's shoulder, and this is most definitely _him_ who is lying in bed next to Ed Miliband _for the second time in a month._

Oh God.

David actually feels cold sweat break out on his forehead as he pulls his hand back, curling his fingers into a fist as if that will stop them from wanting to-

Oh God. Oh _God._

David shakes his head, as though that can mean this just-didn't-

Oh _GOD._

David's elbow slips a little on one of the photographs still littering the duvet, and then he remembers and OK. He needs to move. He needs to leave. Right now.

As David inches his way out of bed, his heartbeat far, far too rapid, he tells himself very firmly that Miliband won't care.

He's asleep.

It's not like he-

But as David makes his way to the door, his arms wrapping around himself in the early-morning cold, thoughts still slamming into each other as they try to drag themselves from the haze of sleep, something cold and heavy is sinking into the pit of his stomach, tugging his gaze down, aching sick at the back of his throat, his eyes prickling.

It's only when David's safely in the bathroom, back pressed against the door, that he presses his hands over his eyes and lets out a despairing little sound, that claws out of his throat like it's been waiting to breathe.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck..._

Oh _God...._

David pulls off his pyjamas as quickly as possible, as though just shedding them can get rid of the whole stupid night. He blasts the shower on and almost dives into it, nearly squealing at the shock of the only-just-warming water. It helps slap the thoughts out of his head, leaves his mind clearer.

For about seven seconds. Then the sight of his pyjamas lying in a heap on the floor brings back the sight of Ed's pyjamas-those geeky, odd little flannel things-God, what was he _wearing_ last night, typical Miliband-

And _bang,_ there's last night back again.

David leans his forehead against the glass door and groans.

How the hell has this happened _twice?_

And now he's just run out, and _fuck-_

Miliband will understand why.

He'll have to.

David just didn't want to run the risk of the kids-

Flo and Sam.

David smacks his forehead hard-managing to keep the presence of mind to use his hands, rather than the door, because while plastic surgery is one of the few areas he's fairly sure Lynton isn't an expert in, he's also fairly sure that come Monday morning, Lynton, with a glint in his eye as he inspects a freshly dented forehead, will be eager to help him find out.

In the middle of wondering just what plastic surgery would do for a dented forehead anyway, he catches himself wondering what the kids would make of it, and oh yes, that's what started this train of-

Oh, _fuck._

Flo and Sam.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

David takes a deep breath. Then another.

It's OK.

It'll be OK. There's a way around this. There has to be.

It's not even as though they were _doing_ anything. They-they were looking at those photos-which are still scattered all over Miliband's bloody duvet, David remembers belatedly-and they just-they fell asleep.

They fell asleep. David grabs for this like a lifebelt, despite the fact it was no less true five minutes ago. They fell asleep. That's all it was. They were tired and they fell asleep.

That's it. He can explain that. It's fine.

David takes a deep breath, steps back under the now warm water, letting it relax his shoulders, and tries his very best to remember that it is, in fact, fine.

* * *

"Why was Daddy cuddling Ed Miliband?" Flo asks again, shovelling another bite of pancake into her mouth.

Sam carefully wipes at her mouth, while at the same time tugging the younger Sam back into his seat as he attempts an over-zealous reach for the syrup.

"Because they fell asleep together" she says as cheerfully as possible, managing to laugh as Flo dabs syrup on the end of her nose. "They were up late, looking at photographs of when Daddy was little."

"There were _photos"_ Flo confirms, eyes stretching comically wide as Nancy reappears, sliding the plate back across to her. "They were there when I climbed _in-"_ Sam grabs her hand as she throws it up before it can hit Daniel's head.

Sam knows that the way she's reacting isn't how most people would. But then, most people wouldn't know. The way Sam does, a deep knowledge as natural as taking a breath in and out, that nothing's happened between them.

She knows it in the same way that she knew as a child, when Dad sat her and Emily down at a table in a restaurant, uncharacteristically finishing a glass of wine before the meal was even ordered.

Emily had been sitting next to her, a little older than Flo is now, forehead furrowing itself into a scowl, even as she worried at her dark braid at the corner of her lip. Samantha had glanced at her, automatically pouring Emily's fresh fruit juice for her, the way she'd taken to plaiting Emily's hair for her when Mum was getting ready to go to work, her hair bobbing in curlers at the breakfast table like it might melt into their porridge. The last few weeks, Samantha had had to leave her lessons to go to the changing rooms after Emily had gym to help her get dressed, because Emily wouldn't let any of the teachers help her, and otherwise she'd just sit there in her polo top and shorts, arms wrapped around her legs, cheek pressed into her kneecaps, and then they'd have to call Mum. Some of the teachers had given them the eyes-roaming looks that meant they wanted to remind them that Samantha wouldn't be at The Manor next year, but no one had managed to yet.

"Girls" Dad had said, and leant his head on one of his hands. "Um."

Emily had scowled and kicked the table leg. Dad had winced-he was never the parent to tell them off, even less since he'd been away from the house. It was Samantha who reached for Emily's knee, took it in her hand and held her leg still in her chair.

"What, Daddy?" She'd curled her fingers tighter while Emily, deprived of her kicking, had begun tapping her fork on one of the empty wine glasses, crystal tinkling over and over, like a lightly rapid pulse beneath the conversation.

Dad had looked at them both, and called the waiter over to order another bottle of wine. Emily scowled and went to knock over her juice until Samantha moved it out of the way. "Daddy?"

He hadn't been able to look at her and so she'd looked at him, letting him wait until he could look at her, already knowing what he was going to say.

There'd been a clatter and then Emily's glass had been over, crimson spreading deeply across the white tablecloth, even as Samantha scrabbled for one of the linen napkins, their chauffeur glancing up from the next table, one of the waiters already approaching them. Samantha had stood there, her fingers digging into the tablecloth, crimson spreading out under her grip, like blood.

Now, Dave walks into the kitchen and Sam knows in exactly the same way that it's OK, that they don't need to say anything, yet.

David navigates the breakfast table as cautiously as though it might be hiding a bomb. He glances at Sam, because she has to know.

She-

She knows. David knows it with a jolting certainty in his chest the same way he knows when she needs to sleep or when she's thought of a new cut for a dress or when she's got something Flo's scribbled in at school to show him.

Sam just watches him for less than a breath, with a slight tilt of her head, the way she looks at one of the children when they've fallen, skinned a knee raw or bruised an elbow purple. _Mummy, Mummy._ Her eyes hover on David the way they'd hover on the marks on any of the children, and for a moment, David's throat swells with a wish that he's about to tell her he's whacked his hand with the hammer or stumbled over one of the chopped logs, something she could soothe like she would with the kids, with her hands rubbing ointment into their skin, pressing kisses to their little heads.

He takes one deep breath, then another, and when he looks at Sam, he feels as though the world's tilted slightly.

* * *

It's a few minutes later that Miliband appears.

David's just got himself into a mindset that, if not quite there _yet,_ is something close to _resembling_ the state of normal-he's managed to ruffle Nancy's hair and eat a couple of forkfuls of syrup-drenched waffle (David knows it's not a serious crisis for that factor alone) and he's even managed to answer Flo's question-"Daddy, why did you go into Sam's daddy's room?"- with a shrug and "We were up late talking, sweetheart" in a way that means the kids shrug and turn back to their breakfasts-and David's never been so thankful for how young the kids are-and he's just started to convince himself that everything's fine, it's good, it's-it's OK, it's-he can _manage_, it was odd, but they just fell asleep, it's not a big deal, of course it isn't-

When Ed appears in the doorway and all of those good intentions slowly dissolve into a puddle of liquid _ohGod._

"Um. Um-" He tries to grin at Miliband, vaguely aware that it doesn't seem to fit his mouth properly. "Hi."

What.

"Hi-um-ah-" David runs a hand through his air. "Um-um-morning, Miliband-you-you-um-"

Ed's in a jumper and jeans.

(Ed in _jeans._

Obviously, he was in them yesterday, but-)

(Ed in _jeans.)_

Miliband is watching him with his big eyes. David blinks. "OK. Right." His turn to speak. Right.

"Did you-did you-sleep-sleep well-you-"

_When I was in there with you._

His cheeks are burning.

(He was pressed up against David's chest. David could smell his hair.)

God, those _jeans._

Miliband-Miliband's legs actually look rather-

David shakes his head once. Then again, and looks down to grip the table slowly.

Leans.

He glances down. Oh. He's standing up. He's somehow ended up-standing up-

(Those _jeans.)_

David clears his throat. He sinks slowly back into his seat.

It's Sam who says "Sleep well, Ed?"

Miliband takes a moment to look at her, but his eyes hover on David's for another moment, big and dark and accusing.

Then he glances at Sam, blinking rapidly. "Uh. Yeth, thankth, i-i-I slept, I-"

Another infinitesimal glance at David, a flicker of those dark eyes-

God, he keeps noticing-

"I th-slept well-"

David feels the heat creep slowly but surely up his neck. He shoves another bite of waffle into his mouth without tasting it and tries furiously to develop some sort of fascination with his breakfast.

Sam's already gesturing to the plate of waffles set on the kitchen island. "Are you hungry, we've got waffles, porridge, pancakes-"

"Um-yeah, thankth-" Miliband smiles, gives that look up under his eyelashes-the one he does when he's about to ask something and then stops himself at the last minute. David's already pushing his chair back, ready to set out a place for him.

"Oh-oh, here you are-" Sam's already heading for the kitchen island, dark hair bouncing on her shoulders, encased in a dark green jumper as she heads for the coffee machine. "Do you want a-a waffle or a pancake, because Nancy worked on the pancakes today-"

"And Dad hasn't even _tried _one." Nancy kicks at David's leg under the table. David barely notices. "All he's got is that w_affle-"_

David stares at Miliband's back, dimly aware that he's holding a forkful of waffle halfway to his mouth. He stares at Miliband, waiting for him to look round.

Of course Miliband does. (It'd take a braver person than Miliband to ignore Nancy.) He glances back, leans back on the counter, and then jumps a little as his elbow nearly grazes the coffee machine. Something jolts fondly in David's chest.

"Oh-" Miliband's eyes blink a couple of times in that way he has as he stares at Nancy. "I'll-I'll try one."

He sounds almost shy. Something in David's chest melts a little at the sight.

But then, even as Nancy grins, Miliband turns back to Sam, his eyes very deliberately not roaming anywhere near David.

(And David _knows_ it's deliberate.)

(Miliband _always_ looks at him.)

But now he's-

"I can-" David's getting up before he's even fully thought through the offer. "If you want to-"

"No, it'th fine-" Miliband doesn't even look round at him. "It'th-I'm fine-"

"No, honestly, it's no-"

"No, I don't want to put you out." Miliband almost glances over his shoulder but not quite, his head jerking a little reflexively. "I'm fine."

Sam just gently brushes Miliband's arm and David watches him give her that awkward grin, showing too many teeth, leaving David with no choice but to slowly sink back into his seat again.

"Right. We've got coffee, tea, juice, milk-" and that settles it, Miliband's ignoring him.

David considers the morning and feels an uncomfortable jump in his chest.

David watches Sam touch Miliband's arm lightly and something else crawls in his chest, an uncomfortable wriggle, his own hand wanting to-

He should not-

How is he sitting here feeling jealous of his own _wife?_

Wait, no. Back up. Reverse that immediately.

How is he feeling _jealous?_

David takes a deep breath and sits back in his chair. OK. He can sort this out. He just needs to-

His eyes flicker to Miliband's jeans and this time hover there. Miliband's got his back to him, now fiddling with the coffee machine with Sam's help, and-so David can look, just for a second.

David takes in the way those jeans hug Miliband's legs, encased in dark denim, the way they travel up, hugging his-his-

Um-

David turns away, shoving the fork into his mouth, chewing a gulp of waffle he can no longer taste.

_Get a grip._

He's just noticing-

(Why did it take him so long to notice those _jeans?)_

(Bloody hell.)

* * *

David takes a deep breath and steps up behind Miliband. "Um-"

Miliband's back remains firmly turned towards him. David swallows.

"Miliband" he manages, trying his best to sound as though absolutely nothing unusual has occurred. "Ah-"

God.

How would he act if last night _hadn't _happened? If they'd just slept peacefully in their own rooms and not-

Well-

How would he be speaking-

But then Miliband probably wouldn't have sat at the other end of the table. Miliband probably wouldn't have ignored him the entire time they were eating, apart from the "Thank you" he'd offered when David had got up to hand him the milk, butter, syrup-

(David had rather impersonated a Jack-In-The-Box.)

But-

"So-ah-" David shifts from one foot to the other, completely unaccustomed to feeling this way, and not particularly enjoying the novelty. "Are you-ah-feeling all right?"

Miliband stiffens. David wonders if he's going to ignore him altogether.

"I'm fine, thank you" is all Miliband says, and David almost rolls his eyes at the attempt at a sniffily dignified tone.

(Honestly, it's _Miliband.)_

"Well, you don't seem fine" he says, almost rolling his eyes again as he feels himself sink into the biggest cliche in the book.

"Well, I am."

Apparently, David doesn't have a monopoly on cliched lines.

(God, _Miliband_ would say that.)

"Look, I didn't-" David swallows, because it _absolutely was not anything strange_ and he scolds himself fiercely because of _course_ it wasn't.

"Anyway-" He takes a deep breath. "I-um-I-"

Miliband's still not looking at him.

"Look, would you give me your _attention_, please?" and David's hand's on Miliband's arm before he can think about it _because_, hell's teeth, he's trying to make this _not seem strange_ and _Miliband,_ dammnit, _really _isn't doing anything to help.

Miliband spins round to face him, his face flushed and his eyes darker than ever, and David feels a rush of something triumphant at the look-it's better than Miliband's eyes sliding over him as though David's become some sort of particularly uninteresting _chair._

(It's like PMQs and staring at each other across the chamber.)

(This is what he knows with Miliband. This is _his _Milib-)

"What?"

David glares right back at him, his own cheeks pinkening. "Oh, you _spoke"_ he says, making the last word as heavy as possible. "That's a surprise. I was rather under the impression I'd become _invisible_ to you."

Miliband glowers back at him. Even as he does so, he mutters "Inaudible, not invisible."

Bloody Miliband.

"Pedantic" David mutters back.

Any other time, Miliband would crack a smile, but now he glares all the more fiercely.

Well, two can play at that.

They stand there, glowering at each other in silence. David arches an eyebrow.

Miliband gives him an ostentatiously wide-eyed look. _"I'm_ juthst-" He gestures to the sink.

"Yes, I can see you're _just."_

"What on _earth_ ith your problem?"

"What's _yours?"_ David half-laughs at the nerve of it. "You've hardly _looked_ at me all morning."

Miliband's lip quirks slightly, but when he speaks, his voice bounces with false bravado. "I didn't realise you were tho thenthitive to having attention on you, Cameron."

David shakes his head. "Don't give me that" he says, his own voice, in contrast, lower. "That's not it, and you know it."

Miliband almost flinches. "Do I?"

David hasn't let go of his arm yet.

He steps closer, eyes roaming over Miliband's face. "Yes. You do."

Miliband's eyes meet his own. David's forehead is almost pressed against his.

"Who thays?" Miliband's voice is almost a whisper.

"I do." David's voice is a little lower than before and he leans even closer. "I know you, Miliband. You're sulking."

Miliband, who'd been staring at him, now splutters into almost incredulous laughter.

"I'm _sulking?"_ He almost wrenches his arm free, but David steps in front of him and his other hand is fumbling and-

It presses against Miliband's hip. Miliband freezes. David lets go immediately.

"I-" He almost opens his mouth, but shuts it again.

Miliband's avoiding his eyes furiously, colour creeping up his cheeks. David's casting about for anything to say when Miliband suddenly pulls again.

"Your _photographs_ are on the pillow if you want them" he half-blurts, half-spits out furiously, and David rolls his eyes in relief, because at least Miliband's _said-_

_So much for it not mattering._

"So that's it." He steps in front of Miliband and Miliband glares at him, arms folding across his chest. "That'th what?"

David arches an eyebrow. "Stop it. And don't say stop what" he interrupts before Ed can say it. "You know what."

Miliband settles for pressing his lips firmly together instead and scowling.

David sighs. "Miliband. Look-this morning-"

Miliband's keeping up the silent glare.

(Thank God he's not got his back turned in those jeans again.)

(That could be-)

(Well.)

(Hmm.)

David blinks and realises he's been staring dumbly at Miliband for the last few moments.

Miliband widens his eyes ostentatiously. "You-?"

David groans. "Look, I just wanted to get _up, _all right? And I-I didn't want to-wake you-"

It sounds pathetic, because it is.

Miliband just _looks_ at him, and for God's sake-

Because Miliband doesn't _get to do this._ One moment be telling David he's the scum of the earth and the next be acting offended that David got up after spending the-

Spending the-

"Look, it-it was just-we _fell asleep-"_ David bursts out with it and it's ridiculous that he has to remind himself. "We fell asleep and I-I just-it's not like you couldn't have _expected_ it, Miliband, I don't know what you thought-thought that it _mattered-"_

He stops, already regretting the words.

Miliband just looks at him.

David swallows. "That-that came out wrong-it, I-"

Miliband just stares at him with those big dark eyes.

"Miliband-"

"No, you're right." Miliband's voice is low, which is a hundred times worse. "Doesn't matter."

"No-that's not what I-"

Miliband steps past him. "I'd like to go outside" he says, with a pointed glance at David's hands, still wrapped around his wrist and holding his hip.

David doesn't let go. "Miliband, I-"

"It's OK. You made your point." Miliband won't meet his eyes.

(And why's _that_ what he notices more than anything else, that Miliband won't meet his eyes?)

"Miliband-"

"Can I juthst-" Miliband's eyes meet his then and maybe it's the catch in his voice or the fact that he doesn't finish his sentence or just that _look-_

(that's _far_ too-)

but David looks away and, after a second, slowly lets go of Miliband's wrist, his hand lingering another second before it falls away from his hip.

Miliband's arm barely brushes his as he walks past him. David shouldn't notice.

He waits until he's sure Miliband's gone and then thumps the cupboard door, which only succeeds in gifting him a throbbing pain in his fist, which he shakes, aggrieved.

When Sam comes in a couple of moments later, David's leaning his forehead on his fist, silently groaning as he replays the conversation over and over from five different angles.

"Did you talk to Ed?"

David makes a despairing sound in reply.

Sam's hand squeezes his shoulder. "Come on-"

"Ahh-" David lifts his head, lets it fall onto her shoulder. "I'm not even sure why he's so bloody upset" he mumbles into her hair.

It's to Sam's credit that her mouth twitches only slightly but David won't know this yet.

Sam strokes his hair gently. "You need to speak to him."

David lets out an exaggerated "Mmph." "I tried. He's-ah-not particularly-"

He sees Miliband's big eyes again and groans into Sam's shoulder.

"We were just looking at _photos"_ he says, hating how his voice trails off into a whine. "And then he-"

Sam is quiet for a few moments, her chin nestled on his head. David would say something more, the words almost pushing at the edge of something just for a moment, but he doesn't quite manage it. Instead, he just groans. "God. I'll have to speak to him at the match."

Sam squeezes his shoulder. "Well. That's why I needed to speak to you."

David's already lifting his head. "Oh. Oh. The police-they-"

Sam nods. "Yeah, they wanted to update us."

* * *

Nancy yanks her hat down further over her forehead, heading towards Elwen, who's kicking a ball against the wall of the house with Daniel. Florence and Sam are still inside, being coaxed into hats and gloves by Mum.

"Dad said you have to check first" she says, pointing at the wall that borders their driveway from the embankment that leads down to the road.

"I did" Elwen says breathlessly, pointing to one of the usual police officers that stands at the end of the driveway. "There's nobody there."

Nancy cranes her neck to see if the people who were here before New Year with their signs are back. But Elwen's right-she can't see anyone.

"It's all right" calls out one of the guards, seeing her peering. "They're not allowed to be here now."

Last time they'd been here, it was just after Christmas, and there'd been a bunch of people with banners. This, in itself, is something Nancy's used to-Dad sometimes lifts her up when they're in Downing Street so that she can see the protesters being held back outside the gates to make her laugh at the signs. He usually waves at them. Nancy does too.

But usually, they're gone after an hour or two. But these ones had stayed, and when they'd gone out for a bike ride the next day, they'd still been there.

It had been late at night when they'd arrived and Nancy had been so tired she'd barely looked up when she'd heard them shouting, Florence's head nodding against Mum's shoulder. But it had been the next morning that Nancy, wandering out to the car, with Dad tugging her slightly rapidly by the hand, had glanced down at the lane and noticed the signs still there.

"Why did I have to come out first?" she'd asked, annoyed, as Dad had lifted her up into the car, even strapping her in like when she was younger, Chris, one of their security guards giving her a cheery wave from outside. "Where's El and Flo?"

"They're coming out-here, give me a minute, Nance-" Dad had clicked her seatbelt into place, and one of the men had shouted something, though Nancy hadn't been able to hear what.

"Why didn't we all come out at once-"

"Because this way I can get you into the car quicker." Dad's jaw had tightened slightly and Nancy had glanced at the lane again. "Do they want to hurt us?"

"No." Dad had given her a quick kiss on the cheek, and squeezed her shoulder. "It's fine. Just sit here, and Chris and everyone'll watch you while I get Mummy and the others-"

Nancy had frowned, and, the second Dad had gone, had strained against her seatbelt, trying to see out of the window, but the car had been parked in such a way that she hadn't been able to make out any of the signs. She could see some of the police officers, though, standing by the gate.

Chris had given her a quick jerk of the head. "Here, Nance, lean back. Your dad doesn't want you seeing them."

"Who are they?"

Chris had sucked his teeth. "Just people who are angry."

"At Dad? Why?"

Chris had sighed, glancing at the gate. "They're not allowed to see their kids."

Nancy had pulled in her bottom lip, trying to stand in her seat. Chris had given her a warning look. "Your dad won't be happy if he sees you doing that."

Nancy had subsided, reluctantly, just in time, in fact, as she'd caught sight of Dad approaching, Florence in his arms, in the rearview mirror. A second later, he'd appeared, holding Florence out and placing her gently in her baby car seat.

"Pooh-Pooh Bear-" Florence had declared happily, holding her chubby hands out expectantly, as Nancy poked her cheek gently. "Pooh-Pooh Bear-Pooh-Pooh Bear-"

Dad, who was strapping her in, had reached out a hand to Nancy, who'd passed him Florence's beloved Winnie-The Pooh. Florence had shouted its' name joyfully as she seized it. _"Pooh-Pooh Bear-"_

Dad had given her a quick grin. "All right, Nance?"

"Yeah." Nancy had peered past him, but had only been able to get a quick glimpse of a flash of pink from one of the signs. "Where's Mum?"

"She's going to-come out with Elwen now-" Dad had given Florence a quick kiss on the cheek and patted Winnie-The-Pooh into her arms. "She'll be out in a tick-just let me check the map-"

Dad had ducked out of the car door, and Florence had continued her joyful recitation. "Pooh-Pooh Bear-Pooh-Pooh Bear-" Nancy had foreseen the car journey seeming longer than the bike ride. She'd kicked her legs against the seat, wriggling a little, eyes fixed on the back of one of the officers standing only a couple of feet away from the car, the jut of the black gun in his arms piercing the air.

"Where's Daddy?" Florence had asked, waving Winnie-The-Pooh through the air until he looked worryingly disorientated.

"Map" Nancy had said, not needing to check behind to see if she was right-Dad always has to go over a map with the security people whenever they go out anywhere.

"Where?"

"Behind us-"

There'd been a sudden shout, a man's voice, who Nancy didn't know, and she'd glanced past Florence to see the police officer walking towards their wall, gun in his arms. He'd been talking to someone, though Nancy couldn't see who.

"Daddy-" Florence had said, pouting, aware suddenly of the change in atmosphere, even as Nancy took her hand to squeeze it. "I want Daddy-"

"Dad's back there-" Nancy had tried to steer Florence's face round, to look away from the people at the wall, but Florence had held herself stubbornly still. "No, I want-"

"No, look, Dad's-"

"I want Daddy-"

"You two all right?" Chris's face had appeared, one hand gripping the door frame. Florence had stuck her bottom lip out at him, her soft brown hair falling around her face. "I want Daddy-"

Chris had cast a quick glance at Nancy. "Dad's just staying back there for a minute" he'd said, quickly, reaching in to pat Winnie-The Pooh. "That way, the people shouting don't shout at you."

Nancy had still been able to hear voices, raised now and clashing against each other, though she hadn't been able to catch any words.

"Why they there?" Flo had asked, her voice rising, high and plaintive. "Where's my-where'd Daddy go-"

Over the engine running, Nancy couldn't catch any of the man's words but she could hear his voice getting louder, and then Mum was there, fumbling with her phone, leaning in to see Florence quickly. "It's all right, Flo-"

"Mumma-"

"Nance, hold Flo's hand, a tick-" Mum had been pulling out her phone, and then Dad had been there, ducking round her, his hand catching Flo's cheek gently. "You got Pooh-Pooh Bear?"

Florence had beamed in relief, waving her bear in the air, and Mum had glanced up and in the direction of the house. Glancing back, Nancy had spotted Elwen, already heading towards them across the driveway, Mum meeting him halfway there.

"Pooh-Pooh Bear, look-" Flo had waved her bear in Dad's face, nearly hitting him with it, her little voice higher and louder even than the man's at the wall.

Elwen had scrambled into the car, but hadn't bothered to sit down, instead leaning against the door frame, peering with frank interest at the people with the banners. "Who are they?"

"How many are there?" Nancy had asked, envious from her sitting position, and already debating wriggling free of her seatbelt.

But this wasn't to be, as then Mum had stepped into the car, tugging at Elwen's sleeve. "Elwen, sit down, darling-"

"Who are they, Mum?"

"They're just-just sit down, sweetie, all right-"

"Where's Dad?"

"Back with the-"

"Map" Nancy had finished for her mother, as Mum had settled herself on Florence's other side, carefully adjusting Florence in her seat, who had kicked joyfully.

Elwen had taken the opportunity to hop back out of the car.

"Elwen-" Mum had reached for his sleeve, but Florence's hands had fastened on her other arm. "No, Mummy-"

"El-"

"Don't worry-" Chris had called out, and a second later, Nancy had been treated to the sight of her brother being marched back across the driveway towards the car by one of the police officers.

"Elwen-" Mum had hissed as Elwen was delivered safely back to the car, though he'd ducked out of her reach, still craning his neck to see the protesters. "I told you to stay-"

"You didn't, technically-"

"What are they saying?" Nancy had interrupted, eager to know whether these were also people whom it would be fun to wave at.

Elwen had shrugged. "Don't know. The guy yelled something about prison."

"Oh, right." This is commonplace. The people often yell about prison. At first, when Nancy was younger, it frightened her, but now, it's just boring.

"Here, I'll see what he's saying." And Elwen had hopped out the car again.

"Jesus, Elwen-" Mum had been fiddling with the belt this time, but Elwen had stopped only a foot or so from the car, just standing by the security.

"I will swing for him" Mum had muttered, yanking at her belt. "Elwen-"

Dad's head had poked through, holding a yellow cloth that he usually uses for wiping the windows down. "Everything OK?"

Mum had stared at him, incredulously. "You know we're missing something?"

Dad had frowned. "Oh, yeah." He'd stood up, already peering round, before ducking down again. "No, the bikes are on the back-"

Mum had made a furious sound in the back of her throat.

Elwen, perhaps knowing what was good for him, had already turned back to the car, but at that moment, the man's voice split the air, and one of the security's men's hands tightened ever so slightly on his gun.

_"Are you not waking up with a guilty conscience on every New Year's Day?"_

"Elwen." Mum's whisper was far scarier than if she'd shouted.

She hadn't needed it. The security guard had already been urging Elwen towards the vehicle, a couple of them stepping together to form a circle between Elwen and the people at the wall and then Elwen had been scrambling into the vehicle, one of the security people murmuring something to Dad, who'd pulled back immediately, his hand almost touching Elwen's sleeve but not quite.

"Daddy" Florence had declared loudly, her ponytail bouncing as she whipped her head round to see him, only for the car door to be slammed shut a little louder than usual.

"_Sit down_-" Mum had grabbed Elwen's sleeve and half dragged him into his seat. Elwen had rubbed his arm with an aggrieved look. "_Ow-"_

"Do not give me _Ow."_

"It hurt!"

Nancy had risked another stretch in her seat, only for Mum's hand to seize her wrist in an iron grip. "Don't even think about it."

Nancy had slumped back down in her seat, rolling her eyes at Elwen.

"Who are they?"

Mum had shaken her head. Inside the car, the shouts had been fainter, but Nancy could still see a corner of a pink sign.

"They're just...people who are angry."

"Why?"

"They don't get to see their children, and it makes them angry." Mum had given Florence's bear a wave as Florence patted her chin with it, making it wave at her. "Mummy, Pooh-Pooh-Bear _smile-"_

Elwen, apparently deciding he didn't need to live a longer life, was peering again. Mum tugged him back into the seat. "What do they think Dad can do about it?"

"Nothing." Mum had tucked her hair behind her ears. "There's nothing Dad can do about it. It wasn't even Dad who was in charge when the decision was made." Mum had tugged Elwen back into his seat. "Stop standing up."

"Why?"

"I don't like them seeing you." Mum had jerked her head at Florence, who was still chattering away to her Winnie-The-Pooh bear, blissfully unaware, and Elwen and Nancy, with a glance at one another, had taken the hint, choosing not to point out that none of the protesters could see through their car windows even if they wanted to.

By the time Dad had climbed into the passenger seat and they'd driven out onto the road, the people had quietened down a bit, and it wasn't until they'd got back later that afternoon that Nancy had remembered they were there.

Mum had grabbed her arm when Nancy had gone to unfasten her seatbelt. "Hang on, wait a tick."

"What are social services?" Elwen had asked, scrunching up his hat in his hand and playing with the pom-pom as they pulled into the driveway. "They keep yelling about them."

"Things that look after kids" Nancy had told him.

"Ohhhh." Elwen had sucked his lips into a circle, before bobbing up out of his own seat and being bobbed down by Mum. Nancy had wriggled out to adjust her seatbelt and had found herself being yanked down too.

"Ow!"

"Nancy!"

"I wasn't even _looking!"_ Nancy had glared at her mother indignantly, rubbing her shoulder perhaps rather harder than the situation warranted.

Elwen had promptly meercatted out of his seat, and Mum's head had whipped round with a bark. "Elwen!"

"I was _stretching!"_

"Oh, for God's sake-" Dad had turned round, pushing Elwen back into his seat. "It's like bloody Musical Chairs-"

Florence, content in her child's chair, had tugged on one of her rabbit's ears and moved its' face to kiss Winnie-The-Pooh on the head.

They'd waited for a minute once the car had pulled to a stop, hearing the clatter of the bikes being lifted off the back, and Nancy had just been wondering if she could duck Florence's apparently-lively rabbit once more without ripping its' ears off when Dad had yanked his door open and walked round to theirs'.

"Right" he'd said, speaking even before the door was open. "Guys, we're going to have to-"

"Are they not-not heading off-"

Dad had shaken his head, Mum unfastening Florence from her seat as she spoke, while Florence wriggled happily. Nancy could hear the voices again, clattering against each other in the air.

"Right." Dad had glanced at Nancy and Elwen, who'd exchanged glances. "Here's what you're-you're going to need to just get out of the car and walk into the house with Mum and me, OK?"

There'd been a long silence. Elwen had tilted his head slowly to the side. "Isn't that what we do anyway?"

Nancy had snorted. Dad had rolled his eyes.

"No, I mean-" He'd sighed, gripping the edges of the door frame. "Look, just don't look over at them, OK?"

"Why?" Mum had been pulling Florence onto her knee. "Are there-could it be getting nasty-"

"No, no-" Dad had been shaking his head. "They're just a bit loud-"

"Right." Mum had wriggled Florence further onto her lap. "Right, just do what Daddy says-" She'd reached over to unfasten first Nancy's seatbelt, then Elwen's, though they've both been doing it for themselves for years.

"Make sure you don't look over at them-"

Nancy must have looked puzzled because Dad had caught her eye with a twitch of the mouth. "They take it to mean what they're saying is interesting-here, do you want me to go and get them round the other side-"

"Yeah, if you want to go-"

Dad had disappeared round the other side of the car, and Mum had tugged Nancy up gently, gesturing to the other side of the car. "Right, come on, kiddos-"

The other door had slid open and Mum had lifted Florence out carefully, helping her jump down from the car, Dad half-catching her, and Nancy, wriggling across, had only just caught Florence's delighted _"Daddy"_ as she wrapped her arms around Dad's legs, Dad already picking her up, before she'd wriggled her way across, dropping down ahead of Elwen, only for one of the men's voices to slap at her ear.

"Another 2 million children were refused close contact with their fathers-"

Florence had giggled, rubbing her face into Dad's chest. Dad had steadied Elwen's shoulder as he jumped down, shoes crunching on the gravel next to Nancy. "Right, come on-"

"-you _did_ break those promises-" a woman's voice was shouting, and Elwen bit his lip to keep from giggling, his cheeks flushing pink with suppressed laughter. Dad nudged him, and Nancy stuffed her own hands over her mouth, nudging Elwen hard in the side as Florence wriggled happily into Dad's coat, Mum coming around the car from the other side to meet them, the security people already at the door.

Nancy had angled her head away from the wall, trying to keep her shoulders from shaking with laughter, even as the woman's voice had been shouting again. "Social services break court orders-"

Elwen had nudged her as Mum and Dad shepherded them between them towards the cottage. "Do you think it's like those ones in London, when that woman started trying to lie down when they put her in the police van-" He'd bent double, giggles wreathing his mouth only for Mum to nudge him hard. "Shhhh-"

"Contact orders-" the woman was shouting, and Dad had tutted under his breath. "I wish I could give her a contact order."

Mum had whacked his arm, giving Elwen a gentle poke to make him hurry. "Come on, let's get in the house-"

Nancy had tugged Florence's ponytail, while Elwen had ducked forward, shaking with laughter, as Dad winked at him, but Nancy noticed he pulled Florence a little closer into his chest.

"I would like to take _my _little girl for a cycle ride!" The voice had split the air, and Nancy had already started to look round when Dad squeezed her shoulder. Elwen had let out another nervous giggle, teeth nibbling at his lip, one of the other men's voice echoing under the woman's. "David, I'd like to go out for a cycle with _my _children-"

"Last time I held my children's hands and walked down the street was _four years ago"_ one of them had been shouting, but a moment later, the door had been opening and Mum had pushed Nancy gently in the back to hurry her pace, and then a moment later they'd been inside, the door shutting firmly behind them.

Nancy had looked up at Dad, the shouting outside immediately muffled by the thickness of the doors and walls. She'd pulled off her hat, the warmth of the house already sinking into her little body.

"Don't think they liked us much" Dad had remarked, heading over to one of the windows to peer out. "They've certainly got uglier since last time."

"It's not _funny"_ Mum had said, as Elwen dissolved into laughter once again, Florence's giggles now joining his. "We need to get them moved on. I'm getting the security to get the police looking into a restraining order. They had their phones out there-"

"Yeah, I saw that-" Dad's jaw had tightened slightly again.

"And they're not meant to be filming-filming the kids-"

Now, Nancy kicks the ball back to her brother, watching Elwen try to flick it up with one foot and nearly fall over.

"What was up with Dad?" she asks, watching Daniel fumble with it.

"What d'you mean?"

"All that stuff about him and Mr Ed Miliband."

Elwen shrugs. "The stuff about them looking at photos?"

Nancy pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. "No, just-your brother was in their bed, wasn't he?" she asks Daniel, suddenly remembering. "Did he say they were there when he went in?"

Daniel shrugs. "He was just-they were just there when he got _in_" he says, kicking at the ball again and missing.

Nancy sighs, pulling her lip between her teeth again. "Just-"

If Nancy was a little older, she would know why the morning has left her feeling-not worried. Something like interested, but with a sharp edge of something else to it, something she rears back from.

But Nancy isn't older and so she kicks the ball back to Daniel, and slowly, the morning crouches down, curls up into a tiny niggle at the back of her mind.

* * *

"You all right?"

Ed jumps at the touch of Samantha's hand on his elbow. He's somehow managed to end up lagging behind the others a little, hands shoved deep into his pockets, eyes occasionally fixed sulkily on Cameron's back up ahead, safely out of Cameron's sight.

"Oh-um-" His gloved hands scrunch into nervous little fists in his pockets. Ed curses them. "Yeah-juthst-" He tries for a smile. "Cold..."

Samantha gives him one of her smiles-the type that means Ed doesn't feel like he has to say anything. Which he's grateful for because right now, in between trying not to notice just how cold it is-how much colder it seems to be in the country than the city, less noise and smoke to wrap around you, wriggling under your coat like a blanket and warming your lungs, even as it fills them up-Ed's trying _not_ to remember how much his pillow had smelt like Cameron's hair and how Ed had found himself lying there, resisting the bizarre urge to thrust his mouth into it and promptly engage in some sort of ridiculous hormonal _tryst _with the thing.

Which is just fucking _insane._

But he should say something. Ed remembers that morning with a stabbing lurch in his stomach and immediately feels even more that he should say something.

"Um-what-" He fiddles with his wedding ring, almost twisting it off his finger, then at the last moment, having to push it back on again. "You seemed worried thith morning-"

Samantha frowns, her dark hair shining as it bounces on her shoulders. It looks like hundred of little lights are braided through it, the way it glistens as it moves. "Did I? When?"

"When-er-um-when we were in the kitchen-when I was talking to-"

He can't quite say the name.

"And anyway, you th-said something about an update and I-th-sorry, it's none of my business" he says quickly, hating his own mouth.

"Oh, that." Samantha doesn't seem perturbed by the question or Ed's fumbling way of asking. "No, no, that-that was the police, just, just updating us on some extra protection we have, had-we had an issue over Christmas with a harassment order" she explains, off his blank look.

Ed blinks. "Oh-oh, God-was someone-"

"No, no, not like that-" Samantha's words are a warm cloud in front of her as she talks, her hands folding tight into the crooks of her arms in the icy morning air. "No, it was one of those Fathers For Justice lot, you know-"

"Ohhhh." Ed nods in sudden understanding. It all makes sense now-they'd nearly wrecked Harriet's roof, which she'd fumed about for three weeks after they'd finally been escorted off her property, still waving their banners and shouting about judges and conspiracies.

"Yeah-" Samantha stamps her feet a little as she walks, mouth twitching in a quick smile at the sight of Sam being carried happily on David's shoulders. "I mean, they've turned up before, but this time they were yelling at the kids and stuff, so we had to get the police involved, and get them out with an, an eviction notice-"

"Oh, _right-"_

"The police were just letting us know that the harassment order will still be in place, even though it was only a four-week order" Samantha explains, a little more cheerfully. "So even if they're allowed to come back, they have to stay down the lane."

Ed nods, not wanting to admit he doesn't understand.

"They have to stay down the lane and not come near us or the house" says Samantha, not making Ed have to ask.

"Ah." He nods, kicking a stone along the path, and his eyes fall on Cameron again. Florence is huddled into his side, held under one strong arm, with Daniel's head pressed into his side, Cameron alternating an arm around his shoulders or clutching Sam's knees, which are pressed against his cheeks.

Ed takes the moment to stare at Cameron again, his heart thudding. He worries at his lip, trying not to remember the scent of Cameron's hair. He pushes his hands deep into his pockets, curling his fingers as though he doesn't trust them.

"Were-um-are-the kids OK? I mean, about what happened-" he says, reminding himself to tear his eyes away from Cameron's back. "After-you know-"

"Oh, yeah." Samantha yanks her coat tighter around herself, watches as Cameron shouts to Elwen, guiding him in off the road as a truck rumbles down the country lane. "They were OK, once we explained to them it was a bunch of idiots who couldn't accept Dave didn't control the family courts. No matter what else you guys try to pin on him" she says, with a grin at Ed that makes Ed blush and fumble with his ring again. Samantha's hand touches his arm again gently.

Ed frowns, still blushing, but the name of the charity stirring a vague memory in his head. "Hang on-wait a minute, aren't they the ones who tried to-there wath th-some plot to kidnap Blair's son or th-something-"

"Yeah-or, no, actually, I think the groups were linked, but they were some-some kind of fringe group, I'm not sure-" Samantha pushes her hair back, her boots grinding the wet gravel deeper into the road as they walk.

"Right-" Ed pulls his coat tighter round himself, eyes flickering to the way Samantha does it.

"But we usually manage to keep them away from it-the kids" Samantha tells him suddenly. "And they were trying to film them, which is why we got the police in-"

Ed winces.

"He's-er-" Ed hadn't meant to bring up Cameron, and he almost laughs, because typical fucking _Cameron_ wriggling into his words anyway. "He's-he's protective of, of the kids, isn't he-"

Samantha glances at him and Ed hastily backtracks a little. "I mean-he always seems-"

Samantha watches him for a moment and Ed struggles to rid himself of the notion that she's examining him, her eyes scanning him a little more closely.

But then, abruptly, Samantha says "Yeah. The kids have always loved it here, as well, we've been here since before they were born-"

"It's your constituency ho-did you already have the house or-"

"No, no, we bought it when Dave was elected-we rented it beforehand, though, in 2001-"

"D-didn't-" Ed stumbles once again against his name. "He grow up around here-you know, in the countryside-"

For a blink, Samantha's smile twitches a little deeper, but then she says "No, but near-near here, he grew up down in Berkshire, in Peasemore-"

"Peasemore" Ed says, as though he knows where it is. "But didn't you-"

"What?"

Ed fidgets as they walk. "I thought you-grew up together or something-"

Samantha laughs. "Oh. No, we, we met a couple of times when we were little. But I don't think we remembered each other, really-I only met him properly when I was-I think I was sixteen-"

Ed feels something squeeze fondly. "Was-"

There's an odd pressing longing in his chest suddenly, a sweet ache at the back of Ed's throat, the way there had been when Cameron showed him those photos the night before.

_What was he like?_

Samantha's watching him and answers the unspoken question a little more quietly. "Cocky. But sweet." She gives Ed a long look and says, with a slight smile, "You _know_ how he is."

Her eyes linger on Ed for a long moment. Ed feels himself blush.

"We didn't get together for a few years, though. I was twenty-one, we were on holiday. Tuscany."

Ed stares at her and he wants to ask, wants to ask-

What did he say? What were his favourite foods? Did he like to lie by the pool and stretch out in the sun, the way he stretches back in his office chair sometimes? Did he clap his hands together when he walked towards you the way he does when he meets someone new? Did he run his hands through his soaking wet hair when he stepped out of the pool and shake his head a little, the way he does when it rains?

How did he breathe when he was lying next to you?

Ed already knows that. The thought sticks in his throat, floods his face with aching heat.

"What did you like about him?" he says, more slowly than he would have meant to.

Samantha watches him with her head tilted to one side, and for an awful moment that sends shivers of excitement down his spine, Ed thinks she's going to ask him the same question.

"That he was funny" she says, watching Ed with that small smile again. "Even when he argued with me, he made me laugh."

The heat in Ed's face grows until he can't look at Samantha anymore.

He gulps. He pulls his jacket further around him, steals another look at Cameron's back, tries not to look any lower.

"What-" He can't ask it, quite.

He doesn't need to. Samantha's hand brushes his arm, as he stares at Cameron's back, throat suddenly thick, heart suddenly beating fast and heavy and deep.

"That I argued with him about everything" she says, and Ed almost makes a sound in the back of his throat, almost, but not quite.

* * *

When he finds himself walking with Cameron a few minutes later, once they've arrived at the field and Elwen's disappeared into the pavilion to change with the other little boys and Samantha's headed over to chat to one of the coaches, it feels a little inevitable.

That doesn't mean Ed _welcomes_ it.

"Look" Cameron says abruptly, and Ed jumps a little, even though he's been standing right _next _to him and how has that happened?

"Look" Cameron says again, and Ed's about to step away, but he doesn't. "Ed-"

Ed makes a small sound in his throat, trying to get absorbed in Nancy's turquoise bobble hat where she's standing a little in front of him, holding Florence's hand. Sam peers up a little at the field, knocking vaguely into Nancy's other side, clutching what, upon closer inspection, Ed can see is Florence's rabbit. Florence herself has several small bears wedged under her tiny arms, clutching the Winnie-The-Pooh one proudly. Ed blinks, looks around for Daniel.

"He's with Sam" Cameron says, watching him steadily, before Ed can ask. "She's got him."

Ed knows he should feel relieved, but it catches in his chest that he didn't notice Daniel going. And Cameron's watching him with that steady look and that just makes it _worse._

"Look" Cameron says, and Ed's eyes roll as he hears himself say "Can you _please _stop th-saying that?"

The words crack out a little more loudly than he expected, splintering in the icy air. It's not a shout, but a couple of people look up. Ed immediately ducks his head down, shrinking into the collar of his coat. Mercifully, none of the children look round.

"OK" Cameron says, after a moment. And then, "Miliband, I know you're pretty irritated with-"

_"Irritated?"_ Ed snorts. "No. _No. I _am _fine."_

Cameron rolls his eyes. "Well, you're _not_, are you?"

Ed huffs, and hates himself for huffing. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Cameron doesn't say anything then. He just steps in front of Ed and stands still and stares at him.

Ed wants to look away very badly, but he can't. He looks back at David, stares at him.

Cameron stares back. Ed becomes aware they're standing very close to each other.

He blinks, suddenly sure Cameron's said something without him noticing. "What?"

Cameron frowns. His eyes seem bluer like this, though maybe it's just his cheeks being flushed, rosy in the cold.

"What?"

Ed blinks. "I-I thought-"

His lips are very cold. He wraps his arms around himself without realising it.

"I-"

Cameron's still looking at him. Ed wants to look away, but he doesn't. He looks back.

"Doesn't matter" he breathes, and Cameron's eyes widen a little.

Their eyes hold and Ed suddenly has the very odd feeling that they've just decided something without knowing it.

When Cameron speaks again, Ed looks away, but he can still feel Cameron's eyes holding him.

"Look, I should have woken you up this morning" Cameron says quietly, and Ed has to fight not to wince.

He half-turns away instead, Nancy's hat wobbling in the corner of his eye. "Why?" he says, his voice a little less steady than he would have liked, but not quite wobbling. "It'th fine."

He remembers the confused moment of warmth, his eyes cracking open to take in the morning light slanting into the room and then the dull thud in his chest, the heaviness of knowing instinctively what he hadn't quite realised yet.

Cameron's just looking at him.

"No, it's not" Cameron says very softly, lingering a little over the words and coaxing the heat back into Ed's cheeks. "You know it's not."

Ed's breath catches in his throat. His heartbeat seems to be humming.

"I-" The words swell in his throat and he turns his head away, unable to catch the words.

Cameron's hand finds his arm. Ed shouldn't be holding his breath, they're standing in public, in a crowd of people, about to watch a child's football match, it's Cameron, for God's sake, it's ridiculous-

Cameron's finger brushes the one soft bit of skin available between Ed's sleeve and his glove, and Ed stares at his arm as though it's not his own, breath catching in his throat at the warm tingle of Cameron's fingertip, feather-light.

"I'm sorry" Cameron says too quietly. "I didn't think you would-"

They both don't look at each other.

"I didn't think you-" Cameron trails off again. Ed almost wills him to shut up. Almost.

Ed can't look, so he turns away, stares at the field without seeing it.

"Hey" Cameron says, and then "Don't ignore me, OK?"

Ed laughs then, the sound ripped out of his throat, louder and harsher than he expected but when he speaks, his voice is quieter. _"Ignore_ you?" He stares at the field, but he's still too aware of Cameron at his side, in that jacket and those jeans and just-"When do I ever_ ignore_ you?"

Cameron watches him. Ed can feel it as strongly as if it was him watching Cameron.

"Well" Cameron says, an odd forced lightness in his tone now. "I wouldn't like you to."

Ed makes a huffing sound.

"Ed" says Cameron, and the sound of his name makes Ed jump, and he turns to face Cameron then, turns to face him and-

Cameron's just _looking_ at him, and-

"You-" Ed's voice is strangled.

Cameron just stares at him.

_Please don't make me say it._ Ed thinks it, not knowing quite what it is, but just knowing, knowing, _I'll die if you make me say it._

He turns away, the high cacophony of children's voices slamming back into each other, too high and young to be punches.

Ed stares at the field, not quite seeing it. His whole body's taut, waiting.

Cameron steps up beside him. Lets himself touch him. Their arms brushing.

Ed lets himself exhale once, breath a hot cloud shaking in the icy air.

Cameron's voice is soft. "You don't need to ignore me" is all he says, but it makes Ed tremble, a hot tremble all through his body.

"You don't need to ignore me" Cameron says again, his arm brushing Ed's own, his finger touching Ed's bare wrist, the small hot touch, and Ed lets himself feel it, he does.

* * *

"He's not answering."

Rachel waits for a response and, when none comes, kicks her husband's leg hard. "I _said _he's not answering."

Stuart turns over and gives her an informative grunt.

Rachel glares at the back of his head. "You're irritating me."

Stuart snores contritely.

Rachel sighs. She swings herself up and heads for the door, letting her foot kick the bed hard as she does so.

It earns no reaction save for a blooming of pain in her toe, which, pettily, she refuses to reveal until she's outside on the landing, whereupon, phone already wedged between her shoulder and her ear, she contents herself with leaning over the bannisters and bellowing "FUCK!"

"Pardon?"

Rachel rolls her eyes. Trust Greg to pick the phone up at the first ring.

It's only then that she becomes aware of the distinct sound of the CBBC theme tune from somewhere downstairs and curses herself, remembering the swear jar that Grace has been pointing at all week, and that Rachel presumes will be overflowing by the time the election campaign is over.

"Fuck off, where's Ed?"

There's a pause, during which Rachel pictures Greg ostentatiously peering under the duvet. "He doesn't appear to be in my bedroom."

"He's not answering his Blackberry."

"Right." There's a pause, then "How long for?"

Rachel sighs, slumps against the door frame. "Couple of hours. I was going to ring Justine, but then I thought-"

"What?"

Rachel hesitates. "Well. You know how she is when they go on holiday. Maybe she made him turn it off."

She can almost picture the crease of Greg's forehead. "She wouldn't do that now. Not at home."

Rachel sucks her teeth for a minute, mind pushing at the idea with a cautious finger before lurching away as though it might burn.

"Where's Marc?" she says, pacing slightly, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror across the landing, her blonde hair already needing another smooth with the brush and go with the straighteners before she leaves the house.

"Can't bother him. The baby, remember? They had an urgent scan, they need to make sure everything's-"

"Shit. Yeah."

"Trying to make sure the baby's not breech, something like that-because it's their first, you know-"

"Stewart?"

"I could go for Stewart" Greg says, too quickly for Rachel's liking. "I could get him on the phone and-"

"Tom" Rachel says, glancing over the bannisters at a burst of canned laughter from the TV downstairs and lowering her voice.

There's a pause. "What?"

"Tom. I'll call Stewart" she explains, resenting the words even as she says them."We've known Ed longer. If we get there first, it doesn't matter as much."

"Get there-wait, wait, we're-" She can almost hear Greg's face crumpling. "We really need to go over-"

"You heard-"

"But it's only to go over notes, it's not even-"

_"Yes"_ Rachel says, already scrabbling in her handbag for a brush, one eye on the mirror. "But Ed's not answering-"

Greg doesn't say anything. Rachel presses her advantage. "He _never _doesn't answer."

Greg sighs. "Well. Are-are you sure it wouldn't be best if I talked to Stewart-"

"Sod off, Greg, _you're _talking to Tom."

"But-"

Rachel's already hung up the phone.

She presses her hands to her temples for a long moment, takes a long breath.

  1. OK.

No need to overreact. Not yet.

No need to involve-

Rachel's pulled out of her reverie by the sound of the bedroom door creaking open. She turns to see Stuart staring blearily at her, leaning against the door frame, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. "Did you say something?"

Rachel rolls her eyes, and this time, aims her hairbrush at the door frame.

* * *

"Oh, _shit."_

"What?" David glances at him quickly, the shouts on the pitch still echoing.

"Oh. Oh God. I left my B-" Ed scrabbles in his pockets, panic tightening in his chest. "My Blackberry at your house, oh God-"

"Hey." Cameron's hand finds his arm and any other time, Ed would notice that. "Hey. It's all right. We can get it later. I can get one of the guards to get it."

Ed's stomach is clenching tightly, his hands scrabbling into his hair. "N-no, you-oh _God-"_

There could be anything happening, any story slipping out right now.

"No, oh-God, I've got to-" He turns round, looking for the way back to the road. "Maybe I can juth-st-go back and-"

"Protection team won't let you-" Cameron's hand tightens on his arm, but Ed barely notices, the panic knotting tight in his chest.

"But I-I've got to-_God-"_

Cameron's other hand finds his arm now, leans in. "Ed. You need to calm down."

"But-but I-"

"Elwen'll be disappointed if you leave" Cameron says, his voice suddenly tighter now. "He'd want you to stay."

Ed stares at him, his mind struggling to grasp hold of the words. "But-but-"

"What's wrong?" Samantha manages to ask without looking back, still clapping as Elwen manages to kick the ball through another boy's legs.

Cameron manages to shake his head without taking his eyes off Ed. "Nothing, just need a moment" he says, and he takes Ed's arm gently. If he'd grabbed it or done it without looking, it would be easier to shake him off. But Cameron does it gently.

Stunned, Ed just lets himself be led back a little before he's quite worked out what's going on. Cameron, as it happens, comes to a halt after only a few steps.

"All right" he says, looking Ed straight in the eye. "What's this really about?"

Ed blinks. "I've jutht told you-my phoneth back there-"

Cameron stares at him, his forehead creasing. "Wait-wait-here, we can walk and talk-"

Ed takes a deep breath, bloody _cringing_ inside at the way Cameron's looking at him, but-

But he needs his phone.

But Cameron doesn't let go of his arm, and he ends up in step with him, awkwardly, their feet bumping into each other.

"This is really just about-ah-your phone?" Cameron asks, leading Ed around the field so that he can still peer over at the children's heads.

Ed nods, struggling to concentrate on breathing. In and out. In and out.

He takes one shuddering breath. Then another.

He manages to look up at Cameron. "Y-yeah" he manages, voice rasping a little in his throat. "I mean-what elthe would-"

He doesn't know if it's his imagination, but at that, he thinks he sees Cameron wince.

Ed blinks, but Cameron's already grinning again, looking away for a second then back to meet Ed's eyes. "Ah. I see."

Ed blinks, but his fingers curl in his pocket, and that's enough to remind him.

"Oh, _God-"_ He chews at his lip, tugging at his jacket. "Tom'th going to-"

Cameron sighs. "Look, you're here. Your phone's perfectly safe. You know that, Miliband-"

He does, but that doesn't make it any-

"Would it help if I told you we weren't planting stories about you today?" Cameron asks, joke slicking his voice a little too loudly as he peers at Ed.

Ed, worrying at his lip, mind still on his phone, has to scrabble for the words, stumbling into them. "Well, I'd be hardly likely to believe that, would I?"

The words uncoil and snap themselves out, a little more viciously than Ed expected.

This time, they both wince.

Ed stares at Cameron, his mouth opening-whether to tell him he didn't mean or that he didn't mean it like _that-_

But almost immediately that smile's back, hoisted into place, and Cameron's hand is letting go of his arm, even as Ed opens and closes his mouth hopelessly.

"Ah. Point-point taken, I think-"

Ed opens his mouth, but Cameron's already turning back to the game. "Go on, Elwen" he yells as loud as the others now, his eyes fixed a little too firmly on the pitch. "Get it in the middle-"

Ed has little choice but to follow him, cursing himself for opening his mouth, while trying to tell himself very firmly that there's nothing wrong at all.

* * *

"It's too early" Stewart mutters, for the fifth time, Rachel estimates, since they left the car, and if she tried counting how many times since she first rang him, on her way to his in the car, it may result in an arrest for a crime that would be even more painful than whatever she's going to do to Greg for somehow managing to wriggle out of this.

"Do you know, I've kept track of the amount of times I've been woken up early this month" says Stewart, a ginger wisp of hair blowing gently in the breeze. "And do you know how many that is?"

Rachel grits her teeth. She can picture Stewart as a teenager all too easily, sad attempt at a rat's tail moustache wriggling across his top lip, hand always waving like a lone reed to remind the teacher that _isn't that essay on the Napoleonic Wars due in, sir?_, whine as grating as if he'd planned it. The Nice, Nice Guy, who loudly bemoans to his few male stragglers, all in some way as pathetic as him, the fact that the girls to whom he offers a creepy shoulder to cry on at parties won't look at him twice, patting himself on the back for not trying to tiptoe his snivelling little fingers beneath their waistband, only to glaze his boxers in his rush the time some kind-hearted mortal pitied him enough to introduce his penis to only the second hand it had known in its' life. Rachel finds it disturbingly easy to picture him, face swollen with almost-erupting teenage acne and an attempt at swagger that would look as if he'd contacted chlamydia.

Rachel would rather have done this with The Monk than Stewart. Sometimes, The Monk doesn't talk.

She takes a little too much pleasure in stepping on Stewart's foot as they make their way up the path.

"Ow!" Stewart gives her an aggrieved look, which Rachel ignores. She thinks of her husband back at home, probably only just beginning to wonder vaguely where she's gone as he drags himself from a comfortable slumber, while the kids merrily lay waste to the living room.

(And Stewart _would_ have to have the same name as her husband.)

(Which is just _rude_, really.)

"Look, we've left Bob a message" Rachel snaps, while Stewart rubs his shoe pathetically. "But this isn't really a publicity thing yet. But Tom's checking round a few contacts and then-" Rachel grinds her teeth. "Greg said he'd meet us here if we haven't found him."

"He's probably just still in bed" Stewart mumbles. He wrinkles his nose. "Wait. What if we interrupt-"

His nose wrinkles more. Rachel appraises him coolly and resists the urge to point out that really, it's rather hypocritical of Stewart to find the idea of others having sex disgusting.

Instead she snorts, because _even so-_

"It's _Ed and Justine"_ she points out, with a toss of her blonde hair. "I think the last time that happened was around the time that my dad thought he'd be Prime Minister." She reconsiders, then wrinkles her own nose. "Or the time he _was _Prime Minister."

Stewart frowns. "Your dad was never-"

Rachel rolls her eyes and rings the doorbell.

She's not sure if she's expecting Ed to answer or not-it would certainly be unusual for him to ignore his phone-but instead, it's Justine who opens the door.

Rachel tries to smile. "Hi." It's not as though it's unusual for them to be here this early-but it's unusual for them to be here without warning.

Justine's already overlarge eyes widen a little more. Rachel's always thought that big eyes are supposed to be an attractive look, but somehow on Justine, the effect's a little off, wrong, as though someone's jammed plastic eyeballs a size too big into a misshapen doll's head.

"Did we forget a meeting or something-" She glances reflexively over her shoulder. Rachel peers behind her, wondering if Ed's about to appear, hair sleep-mussed and eyes heavy.

"No, no-" She curses Stewart silently for not speaking. "No, it's just-Ed's not picking up his phone-"

"Right-"

Rachel waits but Justine just stares back, her freckles seeming oddly more prominent than usual in the February morning light.

"So-is he just-" Rachel searches for a way to politely ask if their boss is ignoring them and steps on Stewart's foot again because she can. "Not answering the phone or has it not been ringing or-"

Justine's head jerks, as if she's just been slapped awake. "Oh-oh, no, he's not here-"

It's Rachel's turn to feel her head jerk. "What do you-we don't have-I mean, do you mean for work or-"

"I wouldn't think work-"

Justine's eyes narrow the slightest bit, and Rachel has that same creeping sense up her spine she feels when Justine nods her head in response to a question before it's even been finished. Like she's gauging how best to trip out her next words.

"I-he's in Oxfordshire" Justine finishes, with barely a breath between the words.

Something about the place sends Rachel's hairs rising in warning, a vague memory that it's too early to lay her hands on properly.

"Are you-do you want to come in-" Justine's already stepping back into the hall and Rachel accepts the invitation with a shoulder-slump of relief at the warmth as the door clicks closed behind them.

"The boys not up?" she asks, casting an automatic glance towards the door under the stairs next to the coat cupboard, where she'll sometimes get a glimpse of dark curls or too-big grey-blue eyes that blink too roundly, eyelashes trapping brief snatches of conversation, as the boys are shuffled upstairs or down by Zia, her words only for them, the only things that are.

"No, they're with him."

Rachel blinks.

"They're-er, Ed took them off for a weekend, give me a bit of space to catch up with work-"

Rachel returns the slight smile. She'd be thrown by its' sudden leap into Justine's face if she hadn't grown up with cameras hovering, waiting to snap like slick black-snouted crocodiles. That doesn't mean she likes it anymore than she did them.

"Do you want a cup of-"

"Yeah, yeah-" Rachel follows her to the kitchen, a vague childish curiosity poking at her-she's never actually seen Justine make a cup of tea.

"So, did he rent somewhere-" she asks, as they step somewhat gingerly into the tiny kitchen. The place always reminds Rachel of a hospital, with blank walls and that yawning empty noticeboard, only sprinkled with a few court notices and council letters. The dining room always gives Rachel a strangely rigid chill to the bones, something in there just feeling like a lacking, like reaching for something only to find you can't remember what but that you just know you can't find.

They'll have to brighten the kitchen up a bit when they film here. Get some photos of the kids up, humanise them a little.

"Did he-"

"Rent-"

"Rent somewhere?" Justine frowns, carrying the kettle awkwardly to the sink, as though she's not quite sure what to do with it.

"Yeah, for-with the boys, I-"

"Oh-" Justine yanks the tap into life, the water crashing too hard into the kettle as though asserting its' livelihood. "No, no, he's-"

A dart of the eyes, almost unnoticeable. But not to Rachel.

"-he's staying with David" Justine says, almost in the same breath.

At her side, Rachel feels Stewart stiffen.

He's not the only one. Rachel blinks, pulls her jacket tighter around her to give her time to arrange her face. "Oh" she says carefully, because this has suddenly become a landmine conversation. Just quivering under her feet.

"Yeah, he went down yesterday morning." Justine yanks the tap off too hard. Rachel almost winces.

"Is he over from America?" That would be-not good. That isn't nearly the word. More than anyone would have dared to hope for.

"What?" Justine stops, kettle wedged between her hands, forehead creasing.

Rachel returns the look.

"New York, is he, did he-"

Justine's brow clears at _New York,_ the way everyone's does these days.

"Oh. No, not, not, er-" Her hand twitches slightly. "Not that David, not-his brother."

Rachel has the very odd sensation of having suddenly stopped dead, even though she's barely moved. Beside her, she can almost feel Stewart paling.

"Oh. Oh, right-"

"David, David Cameron-"

Justine flicks the kettle on. The water begins to boil, the steam already trying to escape too fast.

Rachel stands there, her mouth working silently.

"David Cameron" she says too softly for Justine to hear, just loud enough for it to sound like any other vague name.

Justine's head jerks slightly in a nod of her own.

The kettle's boiling, the water chattering angrily against the side. Rachel can feel Stewart's gaze fixed on her, frozen. Her own breathing suddenly seems far too loud in the tiny-how has she never noticed how tiny?-kitchen.

This is-this is-

This is-

Bad.

This is-

Not just bad-

This-

She can't even bring herself to step on Stewart's foot again.

These are not normal times.

* * *

Elwen looks around them, hair pressed damply to his forehead, prancing and proud as a newly-walking faun. Ed pats his shoulder warily, and is rewarded with a grin, Elwen's freckles standing out under the healthy flush of his cheeks in the winter morning air.

"Ready for the Tite?" David asks, tugging at Nancy's bobble hat affectionately. "I need a roast. I demand a roast."

Samantha glances up from her phone, a slight smile tugging up the corners of her mouth. She opens it, but Nancy gets there first. "It's a pub Dad hasn't left me in yet."

"That could be arranged-" David chucks her under the chin. "Pretty easily-wouldn't get much money for you, though, your value's gone down a bit-"

Ed watches with slight fascination the way David leans up to squeeze Florence's leg, where she's sitting on his shoulders, as he cuddles Nancy with one arm. He glances down at Sam, who's toddling at his side. "Shall I pick you up?" he asks, holding out his arms, wondering if this is the right way.

Sam looks up at him with big dark eyes, blinking confusedly, and then shakes his head slowly. He toddles ahead and Samantha glances back, reaching for his hand. "Are you all right, darling?"

Sam reaches up happily for her hand. Ed feels a dull stab of something in his chest.

He already knows Cameron will be glancing at him, so he fixes his gaze firmly on his shoes.

"Oh, Giles just texted-" Samantha glances back over her shoulder, her hand curling tighter around Sam's wrist as he wanders a little. "Dave, Giles just-apparently they're going to-"

"Oh, Giles is there?" David adjusts Florence carefully on his shoulders as her chubby little hands splay themselves on his cheeks. "And Vic and the kids-"

"Yeah, yeah-"

"Oh, great, great-" Off Ed's curious look, Cameron leans in a little, his navy fleece coat brushing Ed's arm. "Best friend. One of them, anyway. He and his kids live around here, so we-"

"Right-"

"Is that-that all right?" Cameron gives him that appraising look that Ed's seen him give kids when he meets them for the first time. Something bristles in Ed's chest.

"Of courthe." Ed glares at his feet, wondering why he feels so small and sulky suddenly. Like the baby of the group. At least his phone would give him something to do.

"Mum-" Nancy's tugging at her mother's sleeve. "Will that guy with the banner be there again?"

"Oh, no, no, darling-" Samantha squeezes her shoulder. "No, they can't come back anymore, remember-"

Ed glances at Cameron again. Cameron peers at him a little more closely. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Fine." Ed's voice is far too right. He stamps his feet, trying unsuccessfully to dredge up some warmth from the icy ground. "How did-how do you know him, then?"

"Who?"

"Giles."

"Oh." Cameron adjusts Florence, gives Daniel's shoulder a quick squeeze as he ambles back and forth between him and Samantha. "Since prep school-since we were seven, actually, him and his brother."

Ed doesn't say anything.

Cameron glances at him, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, he went to Eton. Before you ask."

Ed darts a quick glance at him. David grins, clearly waiting.

Ed shrugs. "I didn't th-say anything" he says, his own grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Cameron just grins, waiting.

They walk a few more steps in silence. Ed can feel Cameron watching him, can feel it in the grin aching at the corners of his mouth, the heat in his cheeks.

"You really do like to focuth on Eton" he mutters, when he knows neither of them can take it any longer.

There's a moment of silence before Cameron splutters into laughter, the sound ripping itself out of his chest. And Ed's laughing too, his shoulders shaking, the icy air gripping his cheeks and tears prickling his eyes, his body aching with shuddering laughter and Ed can't tell if he likes how it hurts or not.

* * *

The next day, the protesters had still been there.

They'd been the night before when they'd got back from dinner but Nancy had been half-asleep and Florence had been dozing in Dad's arms as he carried her in, so they hadn't heard much. She hadn't got a proper look at them the day before, but this time she could see them out of the window. She and Elwen had been scrambling up at the living room window, pressing their noses against the glass. "Have they been there all night?"

"Get away from the windows." Mum had been tugging them both back from the glass.

"Why? You let us watch in Cornwall-"

That had been funny. They'd been staying with Uncle Giles and halfway through the holiday the same group of people had turned up. Nancy would recognize a couple of them that day in winter from the holiday-the guy with the bald head and the woman with the dark ponytail and the sad, saggy face, like a potato that had turned to liquid inside its' skin.

In Cornwall, the guy had had a microphone and they'd all crowded round to take turns making faces at him out of the window.

Elwen and Jackson had been knocking their shoulders into each other as they tried to stand on the window seats. "Why does he keep stopping at the gate-"

"Dad's police won't let him get up the driveway" Nancy had told them as Rex joined them, Perry trying to lean over Nat's shoulder to get a look at his phone.

Freya had sighed, wandering over with a graceful untangling of her legs, ghosts of the blonde dye in her long hair just barely visible in the overcast light through the window, the highlights washed almost a pale green by the sea.

"God, what a bunch of losers." She'd snapped a couple of pictures of them on her phone, leaning over them in her denim shorts to try to get a better shot.

The man with the microphone had been shouting something that none of them could quite hear. Something about _"I can say what I like-"_

"God, what a prick" Nat had said, glancing lazily out of the window. "Don't batter your wife if you want to see your kids..."

With no grown-ups there to tell him to watch the language, Nancy had glanced up at him, and Freya had answered the unspoken question. "They're people who are pissed off the courts have said they're a danger to their kids."

Nancy had mouthed an "Oh", turning back to the window. Perry had spotted them earlier when they'd come back from the beach, and had come clattering into the house after the others, saying they'd all been outside the driveway before the gate had been closed. And the other day, when Isaac and Xander and Seth had been there, one of them had been filming when they were trying to get down the lane-Isaac had pointed out that they might have got some of his football on video. But Nancy had been taken out a back way, with El and Flo and Mum and Dad, so she hadn't seen them then.

Nat had thrown a finger up at them through the glass, the way he did when he'd spotted them on the beach earlier. Nancy had stuck her tongue out at them when Dad was whirling her in the air so he couldn't see, before Dad had let her fly into the sea, the salt tingling her lips and the icy water a harsh slap across her face that made her scream, aching with laughter as her head broke through the surface.

The man outside the house had thrown the microphone up into the air and Elwen, Jackson and Rex had dissolved into laughter, Perry sniggering too as he perched on the windowsill. Freya had snorted and Nancy had let herself press under the crook of her arm, her cheek pressed against Freya's blouse and the sweet damp smell of her skin, under the breath of floral perfume, a teen-girlness about the scent that made Nancy want to breathe it in, hold onto it.

But this time, Mum had shaken her head. "They're closer this time. I don't want them filming you."

Nancy had watched from behind the curtain instead, a strange thrill in her chest as she watched them shout, and she could see it in Elwen's eyes too, the way she could in Cornwall, knowing there was a dinner of lobster and home-peeled fries and gateau waiting downstairs, with a night of songs and Flo and Rex racing each other round, gel-pen flowers glistening on their cheeks, while the people shouting were out there in the dark, where they might as well be a thousand miles away. Nancy had pressed her forehead against the glass, smiling as hard as they shouted, without ever being able to touch her.

* * *

"Hey-" Cameron clamps his hand down on the shoulder of a stocky, well-built man with a receding thatch of blond hair. "Where've you been hiding-"

The man bounces up from the table and throws his arms around Cameron in one long move. "Dave-"

Ed watches the two men hug, their hands almost thumping each other on the back. Sam's hugging the woman next to him, a tall, dark-haired woman with very dark eyes.

"Ed-" and Cameron's reaching behind him for Ed's sleeve, sending Ed's heart into a cacophony of fumbling beats. "This is Ed. Ed, this is my friend Giles, Giles Andreae."

"Hi-" and Giles' hand seizes Ed's, gives it a pump. Dimly, Ed notices that Giles hasn't needed to be told his surname.

"H-hi-"

"And here's-erm-"

"Oh, yeah-" Ed touches his son's shoulder awkwardly. "This is, um, this is Sam-"

"Hi, Sam-"

"And Daniel, my kids-"

Giles drops down to his knees to touch both the boys' shoulders. Sam looks up at him with his big, dark eyes, and Giles gestures over his shoulder. "This is my wife, Vic-"

Vic gives a wave from where she's already engrossed in conversation with Samantha. Behind them, a young man climbs up lazily from the table, is greeted with a clap on the back by both Giles and Cameron. "This is Flynn, my eldest-"

"Hi." Flynn takes Ed's hand firmly without waiting for an invitation, giving it a shake. His grip is surprisingly strong, his dark eyes meeting Ed's firmly, with none of the usual darting eye contact or nervous fumbling of teenage boys. "I'm Flynn."

The sheer confidence throws itself out from him, jolting Ed a little. Ed shakes Flynn's hand, his own feeling somewhat smaller than usual.

"Here, let's sit down-"

Ed steers Daniel and Sam cautiously to the long table, hands on their shoulders. They scramble into the long wooden bench covered in comfortable cushions as Nancy, who's already tossed her coat casually over one of the benches, hugs Flynn, his arms seeming to envelop her little frame. Elwen scrambles in next to a smaller boy, with sandy red hair that almost curls, whose gaze is focused intently on an iPad propped up against one of the pots of cutlery. "Hey." The boy glances up, shifting over a little, so Elwen can wedge himself in next to him.

Giles gestures to the other boy and girl slumped on the bench seat. "This is Nat and Freya-"

The girl looks up, soft brown hair falling around her heart-shaped face, escaping from the blue hoodie she's got yanked up over her head. She wriggles down in her seat, the word MARLBOROUGH stretched in bright letters across her chest. "Hi."

Nancy's already wriggling under Freya's arm. "Hey."

"Hey, Nance-"

"And there's Jackson-" Cameron indicates the small boy with the reddish hair, whose face and Elwen's are cast blue in the light from the screen.

Ed suddenly realises he's still standing up and Cameron tugs at his sleeve. "Planning to sit, Miliband?"

"Oh-" He sits down a little too hurriedly, Cameron's hand on his arm.

"Yeah, the kids came home for the weekend-" Giles is saying, slumped back in the same almost luxuriously lazy manner that Cameron has, as if not for a second doubting that it's his right to do so. "So we thought we might as well-"

Ed frowns. "Home from-"

"School" supplies the boy called Nat, one of his headphones falling loose from his ears, as he examines his phone closely, Nancy wedged between him and Freya.

"Oh." Ed blinks. "Oh."

Cameron, next to him, grins very slightly.

"Th-so-so-where are you-" Ed glances at Flynn, who gives the waiter an almost infinitesimal beckon and a huge grin as they reach the table, in a way Ed would never have quite dared to at his age. "At th-school-"

He realises he could have known the answer a moment ago, but it's Freya who says, letting a headphone fall out from her hoodie, "Marlborough."

Ah.

"And the boys are at Eton. Not Jackson, of course" Giles says, as though Eton and Marlborough are perfectly common school option, which for them, they are. "But he'll be going in a few years-"

"Is his name down?" Cameron asks, leaning back lazily, Samantha juggling Florence on her knee. Something about the lazy slouch of his shoulders makes something unroll in Ed's chest.

This is usual for them, he realises.

"Oh-first, are we getting a roast?" Cameron asks, clapping his hands together, and Ed jumps a little, because this is their normal, of course it is.

But he can't quite picture them as they are here, in jumpers and the scarf that Cameron's draping over his chair, and Florence scrambling onto her father's knee, in Eton tailcoats and Bullingdon uniforms, slouched against a wall, posing nonchalantly on the Oxford steps.

Or he can.

But it's harder.

It's harder.

* * *

They'd been getting ready to go to the Fun Run that morning in December. (Dad runs in it every year-Mum says he's like a Labrador, running out into fresh air.)

Mum hadn't wanted them to go outside while the people were there, but Elwen had slipped out the door and Nancy had followed him, following Dad's security guards. It was all right, she reasoned-Dad's protection team were there.

The icy morning air had bitten her in the face and Nancy had yanked her hat a little further down, as Elwen had scurried behind one of the security cars.

Nancy had glanced at the people in the lane outside. She couldn't quite make out their faces from her position on the driveway, but she could see a huge splash of pink that was one of their signs. They weren't shouting anything and so Nancy had wandered across to join her brother behind the car.

"Have they yelled anything?" she'd asked, half-hoping they had so she could laugh, her teeth chattering. She'd stamped her feet a little, pulling her winter coat tighter around herself.

"No" Elwen said, popping his head out from behind the car. "They just keep filming us."

Nancy had popped her own head out to see a group of mobile phones trained on the cottage.

"Shall we wave?" Elwen had been darting up to do just that, when Nancy had pulled him down. "Mum'll kill you."

"Why? It's only being friendly-"

"We're not meant to be _friendly."_ Nancy had yanked him down furiously, causing Elwen's feet to nearly slide out from under him. "Last time when Dad let us wave at those people in London, she flipped."

"Why?"

"Because they're following us about, _duh."_

"Is it because they don't have their kids?" Elwen had peered round the vehicle with frank interest. "Are they wanting to take one of us?"

Nancy had snorted. "Yeah. You."

"They'd _want _me more-"

"Fine, go and ask to go home with them-" Nancy had tried pulling him out from behind the car. "_Ow-"_

Elwen had been pushing her back, their hands digging into each other's arms. They'd been so busy engaged in their deadly warfare that they'd failed to notice Mum until the door had crashed against the wall inside and then Mum had been standing there, Florence balanced on one hip, with a face like thunder.

Elwen's laughter had trailed away. "Uh-oh."

Mum had marched out, stopping just behind their car across from the vehicle Nancy and Elwen crouched behind, Florence beaming at them in her hot-pink winter coat, silver tiara half-falling off her head. "Get over here _now."_

Nancy and Elwen had exchanged a glance, biting their lips as grins pushed at their mouths.

_"Move."_ Mum had taken a step towards them, only for Florence to wriggle. "Mummy, cold-"

Mum had adjusted her, with a glance towards the lane. "Right."

Nancy had known they were dead. Bye-bye, Horrible Histories tomorrow morning. Farewell, ice cream at The Tite after the Fun Run. Goodbye, any chance of going to Wilderness Fest-yeah, just, goodbye.

Elwen had scurried across while Nancy was still calculating her chances of survival. Mum had glared at her and Nancy had mentally put off her chances of going to Wilderness for at least three more years. "Nancy-"

At that moment, one of the protection officers had tapped Mum on the shoulder and jerked his head towards the car. Squirming, Florence had been handed carefully over to him by Mum and placed inside.

Granted a temporary reprieve from being banned from going to a festival for quite possibly the rest of her natural life, Nancy had peered round the car again. Some of the people in the lane were now standing on the embankment, peering over the fence.

Elwen was scrambling into their car too, Mum glaring at him. "Get in the car-"

"But-"

"Go."

Elwen's head had disappeared, but Nancy just knew he was rolling his eyes. She'd sighed, unfolding herself reluctantly as she braced herself for the hurricane.

The door to the cottage had crashed open again and Nancy had pressed herself flat against the car in automatic response. Dad had stormed out of the cottage, still in his short-sleeved shirt without the jumper Mum had told him three times to put on.

Nancy had already been getting ready for the bellow when Dad stormed right past her. Nancy had blinked as one of the protection officers had marched towards her. "Come on, Nance-"

Nancy had blinked. "Where's Dad going-"

She'd really thought for a moment Mum might just march over and bodily drag her into the car, but then Florence's voice had risen in a high, complaining wail and Mum had ducked down into the car, half-climbing in to get to her.

"Mr Cameron-" and Nancy had glanced round to see the bald man shouting. It might have frightened her, but she was a little too young to know that.

The man's standing there, holding a phone. "Aren't you interested to know why we're all in your-"

_"NOW LOOK-"_

Nancy had nearly jumped out of her skin. Dad had been marching up to the gate, right next to the man. A hand had fastened on Nancy's arm in an iron grip and she'd yanked at it furiously before realising it was the protection officer. She'd gone still, eyes fixed on Dad at the gate, fizzing with excitement at the sight of his finger jabbing into the bald man's face.

"You are _intimidating_ my _CHILDREN-"_

Dad had been yelling loudly enough for Nancy to hear every word. She'd watched, her arm held firmly by the security guard, her heart giving rapid little excited beats. Her cheeks had been flushed with the same excitement that had flooded through them in Cornwall.

"You are frightening the _neighbours_-" Dad's finger had been jabbing into the man's face. It had felt like a balloon was swelling in Nancy's chest as she peered around the car. _I'm here_, she'd thought, staring at them, the raw anger in their faces sending her heart pounding, a strange exhilaration running through her. _I'm here and you can't touch me._

"The neighbours have been complaining-" Dad's security had been there, gathered around him as Nancy watched, her eyes fixed hungrily on them all. "And I really think you've made your point and you can _go now."_

Nancy had peered round the car, enjoying the spectacle. The bald man had been saying something but Dad's voice had crashed over his.

"_No, _you are _FRIGHTENING MY CHILDREN-" _Dad's voice had swelled the way Nancy's only heard it do a few times, his finger stabbing at them, and Nancy had wanted him to get closer to them. Wanted him to dig his fingers into one of them and them not be able to do anything about it. A thrill had gone through her chest, her cheeks aching with the sound of Dad's voice.

"-_and _the neighbours and that is _not fair."_ Dad had spun around and marched back towards the car, the security officers flooding towards the gate like a school of fish.

"What about _my _child?" the woman had been screaming. Nancy had stared at them, something about the raw outrage of their faces-as though they simply couldn't believe that they weren't allowed closer, that they couldn't touch them-feeding something excited and hungry in Nancy's chest. She wanted to stand where they could see her. She wanted to stick out her tongue, to see them shout even more.

"I haven't seen my child for _four and a half years_ under your government-" one of the other men was shouting. Without quite realising it, Nancy had stepped out from behind the vehicle.

_"My_ children are frightened and scared-" the other man had been yelling. Nancy had smiled a little at the sheer volume of his voice. She'd thought of their children, warm and safe somewhere, away from them. She'd felt a glow for them, these children she'd never met, whose names she didn't even know.

"Your point's been made" one of the police was saying at the gate. "So I suggest you move on-"

Dad was already back at the car, bending to look inside, and Nancy had glanced over at the sound of Florence's voice, upraised in a wail. "Where's Nancy?"

One of the security men had put his hand on Nancy's shoulder again.

Dad had turned back to her, and his eyes had widened slightly at the sight of her. "Nancy, get in the car, come on."

Nancy hadn't resisted, for once. She'd scrambled into the car, only for Mum's hand to fasten on her sleeve. "What the _hell _were you doing out there-"

"It's brilliant" Nancy had informed the car. "Dad just nearly punched a protester."

Mum, who'd been lowering herself down to see to Florence, had bolted upright, her head smacking into the ceiling. "_What?"_

Elwen had burst out laughing. Florence had been looking from one to the other, her little face crumpling with confusion.

"OK, he didn't _actually_ punch them-" Nancy had reached to touch Florence's chubby cheek, as a fat tear had dribbled out. "It's OK, Flo-"

Dad's head had popped round the other side of the car. Elwen had shrieked.

"Jesus, El-" Dad had grabbed the side of the car, nearly sending his own head into it.

"You scared me!"

"Well, who'd you think I was, I-" Dad had caught sight of Flo. "It's all right, Flo, here-" He'd reached in to pull Florence's teary face against his own.

"Who is it?"

"Who's what?"

"The person you nearly punched." Mum had been rubbing her head, muttering about reinforced roofs, one arm still around Florence.

_"Punched?"_

"Yeah, Nancy said you-"

"I didn't say_ punched_" Nancy had explained, sensing her parents ire potentially turning on her as she scrambled over the seat, taking refuge in the back of the car. "I said _nearly _punched."

"_Nearly-"_

"Oh, for God's sake, Nancy-"

"Well, he _could_ have" Nancy had explained, popping her head up over the seat again.

"What are they doing?"

"The protection-the first protection cars are going to go out now-"

"No-no, what are _they-"_

"Oh, they're just-bunch of nutcases-" Dad had glanced out of the car. "They're still filming the house-"

"They're what?"

"Filming-"

"Right, that's-" Mum had been fumbling in her bag for her phone. "That's-that's it-"

"What's it-"

"They're not meant to be filming-filming the kids-"

Mum had been scrambling for the car door.

"Mum-"

_"Mummy-"_ Florence's voice had risen in a wail.

"Mum, _don't-"_ Elwen's face had been paler than usual, his freckles standing out against his skin.

"Guys, I'm only going to film them, I'm not-" Mum had been scrambling for the door when a sudden bellow had echoed through the air. _"_MY CHILDREN HAVE BEEN CRYING FOR _FOUR AND A HALF YEARS-"_

Florence had clamped her hands over her ears, and Dad had scrambled in next to her to cuddle her. "Shh, shh, it's just some silly people-like the silly ones in the street in London, remember-"

_"This government's IGNORED IT-"_ This shout was fainter on the air. Nancy had pressed her nose up against the window, trying to get a closer look.

"Nancy." Dad had just said her name quietly.

"What? They can't see-"

Dad's eyes had met hers' as Nancy had glanced over her shoulder and for a second Nancy had had the odd sense that he knew exactly what she was feeling-that strange, almost savouring excitement. Like watching a horror film curled up snug and safe on the couch, but more of a thrill, stealing her breath.

A woman's reedy, high voice had pierced Nancy's thoughts. "Mrs Cameron, my daughter doesn't get to see her mummy!"

Dad had ducked back, already fumbling for the door. "Jesus, Sam-"

But Mum was already out of the car, her phone clutched in her hands like a weapon. Nancy had watched as she fumbled with it, before marching straight towards the protesters.

_"-four years in a row_ to see me at Christmas-" one of the men had been shouting, but Nancy and Elwen had both had their noses pressed against the window by then, each of them dangling a hand over the seat in front to pat whichever part of Florence they could most easily reach.

_""Please, Daddy! Please, Daddy!" _Do you want to see the videos-"

Elwen had cheered as Mum had marched towards the gates. Dad had glared at him. Elwen had beamed back. "What? Mum's going to flatten them."

The woman with the ponytail had been saying something to Mum from the other side of the lane, but Mum had been holding her phone up. Like a gun.

"Mummy-" Florence had been struggling in her child safety seat and Dad had drawn her into him, kissed her head gently. "Mummy's coming-"

"-that all of our children have been _kidnapped-"_ Mum had been turning round and heading back towards them, even as the man's voice echoed on the air. "By your husband's _government-"_

Nancy had glanced at Dad. Dad, meeting her eyes, had shrugged. "I wish I knew where he thinks I'm hiding all these kids" he'd remarked, his voice already relaxing as Mum reached the car again. "I could give you a couple more brothers or sisters."

Elwen had sniggered, but Florence had managed a teary smile. Nancy had felt it under her hand, as she stroked her little sister's damp chubby cheek, even as Dad had popped his head out once more before dropping back into the car, one of the security yanking the door shut behind him.

Mum had climbed in then, a cloud of perfume and sweet briskness in her dark hair and the door had slid firmly closed behind her with a click, sealing the noise off.

Mum had still been scrambling into her seat as the car started moving, Dad reaching over Flo's head to grab her arm. "You all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, they were just-" Mum had been fumbling with the phone, pushing it into her bag.

"You can give it to us when we get there" the security officer in the passenger seat had supplied helpfully. "We can turn it over to Thames Valley, get an order-"

"Did you thump any of them?" Elwen had demanded excitedly, as the car rolled out of the gate.

Nancy had leant past him to look out of the window. She'd known the people outside couldn't see them now-no one can see into their car from outside, except at the very front. But she could see them and she'd watched them, that excitement building higher in her chest as she'd seen one of the police officers push the bald man back-

The car had pulled round into the lane and that was when the woman's voice had swelled, falling into the air like a plastic mug spilling out. _"Our children are scared, too!"_

Nancy had stared at her through the window, almost feeling the prickling of her frustration. Her wanting to reach out and slam her fists into their car as they swung past her. The fact she couldn't.

Nancy had laughed, almost without knowing it, the sound wobbly like a lamb learning to walk. Then she'd laughed again, louder, the tottering steps of sound more confident and more delighted in that confidence.

Nancy had laughed as she watched them. She'd kept her nose pressed against the window, watching them and their angry little scream of a banner fade into the distance, watching them whilst none of them could watch her.

* * *

Ed's fairly sure he is the only person drinking hot chocolate.

Apart from the children.

He doesn't entirely _mind_, though.

It's more that-

"Aren't you applying to Lady Margaret?" Giles is saying, spearing a bite of Yorkshire Pudding. "Isn't Romy there?"

"Yeah, all three of their girls went there" Samantha's saying, wiping Florence's mouth for her. "And Craig's eldest's there. But you basically have to live on the steps to get in-"

"Yeah, we had that issue" Vic says, taking a gulp of lager. "Because we hadn't got their names down the second we learnt the gender of the bloody _foetus_, Marlborough had a bit of wiggle room-"

Ed can't suppress a small snort.

Giles glances at him. "Oh, I keep forgetting-" He grins, pointing a finger at Ed over his glass. "You're one of these-against private education, boarding school types, aren't you-"

Ed prickles a little. "I wouldn't send my kidth to private school, no." He stirs his hot chocolate slowly. "It doethn't mean I don't approve of people who use them."

Cameron almost chokes on his beer. Giles snorts, throwing a napkin across the table. "Got over your strawberries, Dave?"

Cameron ignores this, turning instead to stare at Ed.

_"You _don't think less of people for where they went to school?" He's putting his glass down slowly, shaking with laughter. "_You _don't think-?"

"No, I never th-said I did-"

"You didn't _have _to say you did-" Cameron's still laughing through another gulp of his beer. "It's rather-written all over your _face_ every time you look at me-"

"It ith _not _written all over my face every time I-"

"For the last few years, I've thought my full name was _The Old Etonian David Cameron-"_

"Oh, well, i-i-i-if that'th your biggest problem, if that'th your biggest problem-"

"I never said it was my _biggest _problem-" Cameron's cackling, stabbing a forkful of beef. "I'd say it might be _your_ biggest problem-"

"Been a quiet weekend, has it?" Giles asks Samantha, with a grin.

"To be honest" says Flynn, who's been watching the whole conversation with a slightly bored air, one eye on the iPad the other kids are gathered around. "I don't see the issue. In fact, given our parents can afford to send us somewhere private, surely that just frees up places in good state schools for other kids."

"But we th-shouldn't _need_ private th-schoolth-" Ed explains to him, with a gulp of hot chocolate. "Look-the point is-if we got all th-state th-schoolth up to the th-same standard, surely there wouldn't be any need for private schools-"

"But that's just utopian" Flynn says lazily, as if the conversation's nothing more than another squirt of whipped cream on his hot chocolate. "Everyone'd like to think that one day there'll be no bad schools. But what, sending your kid to a worse school when you can afford to send them to a better one is meant to save society?"

"No, but it would reduthe the _need_ for private schools, if people weren't willing to pay for them-"

Cameron's foot nudges his own a little, but Ed doesn't notice.

"But why shouldn't you?" Flynn says, popping a marshmallow in his mouth and choosing to mix it peculiarly with a mouthful of beef and potatoes. "If you can afford to give your kid the best thing possible, why wouldn't you?"

"Becauthe if everyone does that, then only the richetht will be able to have the best education-"

"So, what, people should put their kids second to an ideology?" Flynn watches him with an amused grin, with a slouch that reminds Ed a little of Cameron.

"No. But the fact is if people felt able to th-send their kids to th-state th-schools-"

"_If-_see, _if"_ Flynn grins. "No-one's going to send their kid somewhere they think isn't good based on this hypothetical _if_, not even _if_ they had a gun to their head_."_

Ed struggles for a moment.

"Plus, even if _everyone_ sent their kids to state schools, we'd probably just end up with, like, really overcrowded state schools" Flynn adds, digging into a roast potato as though that's the most important part of the conversation.

"Can you do the TV debates for me?" Cameron asks suddenly, and a ripple of laughter cracks through the slight tension building around the table.

At the same moment, Cameron's hand lands on Ed's wrist. It's there for less than a second and Cameron's looking at Flynn, but it squeezes gently, just for a moment.

Ed's only just trying to catch up with that when Vic, sliding back onto the bench with a fresh glass, says "Yeah, Flynn, tone the debate prep down a notch, would you?"

Flynn goggles. "You weren't even _here!"_

"I was in spirit."

Flynn rolls his eyes but Giles has already turned back to Samantha and Cameron. "Anyway, you dodged the question about the strawberries, Dave."

Cameron grins, glancing at Ed. "See, there's something the two of you agree on."

"Brilliant." Giles chucks back another swig of beer. "Fantastic, I can expand my horizons" he adds, with a wink at Ed. "If Ed can put up with me-"

Ed swallows, aware that he's supposed to smile, struggling to measure how much.

"I can put up with you" he offer shyly, and Giles laughs, but there's nothing mocking in the tone. Ed waits, on tenterhooks for a sign he's misjudged it, but Giles' eyes are twinkling, smile creasing his slightly chubby cheeks.

It's very odd. If Ed had been asked to picture Cameron's best friend-

If, a few months ago, he'd been asked to picture Cameron's best friend-

He sneaks another glance at the jocular man in front of him, now reaching round to ruffle his youngest son's hair, one hand on his wife's shoulder.

It would have been much simpler a few months ago.

* * *

"Anyway, James'll be here soon" Giles had chuckled suddenly a few moments later, as Ed savoured the tip of the whipped cream swirl on top of the hot chocolate. "Ed won't be alone on his-er-views on private school, then."

Ed had looked up. "James?"

"James?" Cameron had perked up even more. "What, how-from _Edinburgh-"_

"He popped down to do some research for his next book-only bloody texted me this morning, or we'd have offered him the spare room last night-" Giles had reached out to dab whipped cream off Daniel's nose as if he was Jackson. "Said he'd pop in and say hi before he goes to catch the train-"

"Melou and the kids with him?"

"Nah, just him. Don't think he wanted to bring all the kids when he's only down for one day-"

"Who'th James?"

"Dave's friend from school" Samantha had said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. "Bloody hell, if James is coming, you might want to get the stout in-"

"Will he lecture us all again-" Vic had muttered, wiping Jackson's mouth carefully with a napkin. "We'll get about an hour before we have to-"

"Before the bartender commits suicide-"

"Uncle James coming?" Freya had asked, unhooking one of her headphones, the other nestled in Nancy's ear.

"Oh, _epic-"_ Flynn had slapped his hands together, nearly knocking his iPad into Elwen's lap. "Sorry, mate-"

"Bloody hell" Freya had said succinctly, before placing the headphone back in her ear.

"James will talk me into an early grave" Cameron had muttered with a grin, swallowing his lager. "Or a resignation, which means Ed will love him."

"Ed will love him anyway-" Vic had taken a sip of her own lager. "Since he'll probably help him take Dave apart-"

"I object on the basis of inaccuracy-" Cameron had winked. Ed had felt that jolt in his chest and had had to fix his gaze on his hot chocolate for a moment.

"James will probably give you a vote" Samantha had explained, seeing Ed's look.

"Definitely won't give Dave one."

Ed had blinked. "And he'th your _friend?"_

He hadn't been sure why every adult around the table had burst into laughter, but Cameron's hand had squeezed his arm.

Now, Ed watches Cameron glance over his shoulder and then jump up with an exclamation, and Giles follows him. They both head towards a man with a large pair of glasses and a beard flecked with grey, who looks as if he's just been blown in on a storm and hasn't quite worked out how yet.

He's swamped by the two men, each throwing an arm around his shoulder, their flushed cheeks and joyful exuberance crashing into each other. Watching them, Ed has the odd flicker of thought that he can't quite explain that James looks more like one of his friends than one of Cameron's.

"How come you didn't tell us until this morning-"

"Didn't know, did I?" James laughs a little, hand rubbing his head. "Didn't know you were even here..."

Ed watches them over the back of the chair, as the man's half-pulled by his two friends towards the table. "I was going to bring Amelia, but there's no way she'd have been up, she's probably just rolling out of bed-hey, Sam-"

Ed wonders whether to stick his hand out or not. Cameron solves the problem for him by tapping James' shoulder. "Look. Your hero."

James turns and Ed blushes, which was probably Cameron's intention.

"Bloody hell" James says frankly. It occurs to Ed that he should probably get up. Bob would kill him.

"H-hi-" he manages, taking James' hand. "Ah-"

"So you're the guy that argues with Dave every week" James says, making Cameron throw his head back in laughter.

"Yep, Ed's taken your place-"

Ed glances at Cameron. "What?"

James laughs. "I helped him cut his teeth. We used to debate all the time at Oxford-"

"And Eton-" Cameron cuts in, banging the empty seat on his other side. "See, that's what James never-"

"Not _never-"_

"That's what James doesn't like to admit-"

"I never said I don't admit-"

"It's what you said-"

"I never-"

_"I just go to a college near Slough-"_

"See, _this-"_ James spins round with a grin, pointing at Cameron. "_This-this_ is what I meant when I say he-"

"Cut his teeth-" Cameron's saying, laughing so hard that he's half-bent over the table.

"You know every time I hear you two going at each other on TV-" James points between them. "All I can think is that's _exactly_ the way he was at uni-"

"What-are you saying, you, ah, _broke me in-"_

James snorts through a mouthful of beer, as Samantha buckles in laughter.

"That was-unfortunate, Cameron-"

The word _Cameron_ sizzles fondly in the air and only Ed notices.

He takes another gulp of hot chocolate purposefully. He waits, watching Cameron seize James' arm, and feels something jump a little in his chest.

* * *

"So _Royals _is pretty good, but _World Alone's _pretty underrated. Definitely my favourite." Freya adjusts the volume a little higher, letting Nancy press her cheek against her arm as they listen.

Nancy listens, letting each word the girl on the headphones sings shiver in her ear. Each one sounds like it's dredged up from somewhere, turned over carefully on a tongue and tasted before being allowed to ripple into the air. Like the girl enjoys savouring the taste of each word, wrapping her tongue around them.

"You still listen to Bruno?" Freya asks now, letting her head fall back, shaking her hair loose and checking her reflection in the camera on her phone.

"Yeah." Nancy fidgets. "Bit-I like _Grenade."_

"Cool." Freya nestles back, casting a glance at their parents at the other end of the table.

"Frey?"

"Uh-huh?"

Nancy glances at Elwen across the table, but he's absorbed in the iPad.

"You know at school?"

"Yeah?"

"Do people ever ask you about Dad?"

Freya, thumb swiping over her iMessage, shakes her head. "Nah. Not really. Like, a lot of them probably don't know. But the ones who do-you know, it's Marlborough. Half of them are related to someone famous."

Nancy reflects, glumly, that she's not likely to be so lucky.

"I mean" Freya says, flicking back to her music. "One girl came up to me once in Shell Year and was like "_So."_ Like, in italics. And I kind of knew what was coming, but I decided to piss her off, so I was like, _"So."_ And she just goes _"So."_ So I just go _"So"_ again. And then she-"

"Is there a part of the conversation that doesn't involve everyone saying _So?"_

Freya sits back in her seat. "Anyway, then she kind of slaps her hands together and says _"So_, what's Dave like?" And I said, "I don't know, he's pretty cute whenever we sleep together, I'll let you know the next step of our passionate affair." And she kind of looked at me like-" Freya does an approximation of someone who's been smacked over the head with a heavy object.

"What happened then?"

"No idea, because I wasn't wasting any more time." Freya spoons up some carrot-and-turnip. "For all I know, she still thinks I'm having some wild affair with your dad. If you're lucky, you could end up calling me "Mum"."

Nancy snorts. Freya dabs her mouth with a napkin.

"Seriously, don't stress" she says, more quietly now. "Most people will forget about it after two days. Everyone else will be new too."

Nancy knows this, but it doesn't help much.

"Like, Dad did a reading once at Port Regis and it was awkward at first, but everyone forgot about it after, like, one day."

Nancy sighs, throws her head back against the seat. _People are talking, people are talking_, the girl murmurs in her ear like a heartbeat.

"Which school are you going to, anyway?" Freya asks, chucking one finger under her chin.

Nancy shrugs. "Grey Coat, I think. Mum and Dad put Lady Margaret first, though, and Romy's there. And Maya-Iona'll probably get in, but they live round there-"

"Yeah, Dad was saying." Freya flicks at her dark blue nail varnish, frowning at the chips. "But Bea's at Grey Coat, right?"

"Yeah."

"They're both all-girls, right?"

Nancy nods. "Yeah. We looked at Holland Park, but it was too far or something. And Dad wants me to go to an all-girls."

"Does he not want you around boys or something?"

Nancy shrugs. "He and Mum went to all-boys, all-girls schools, and they think they're better."

Freya shrugs. "Do they not know Marlborough's name?"

Nancy shakes her head. "Mum went there, but she says no boarding schools."

"Mmm." Freya picks at a knot in her headphone wires with the tip of her fingernail. "Do they not want you having a boyfriend or something?"

Nancy shrugs, not being particularly interested in the issue.

"Tragic" Freya grins.

"That'd be stupid" Nancy says, trying to get another look at the playlist. "What if I wanted a girlfriend, not a boyfriend? An all-girls school would be easier."

"True." Freya high-fives her, and takes another gulp of hot chocolate. Then she frowns. "Why? Have you got one?"

"One what?"

"A girlfriend. Or boyfriend."

Nancy rolls her eyes. "No. It was just a point."

Freya just high-fives her again, the same way she had when they'd arrived at the Fun Run after the encounter in the driveway, which Nancy had described in painstaking detail.

"Bloody hell, you look you could use a beer already" had been Uncle Giles' verdict to Dad, before the Fun Run had even started.

Dad had snorted, glancing down the road. "I think they've already shown up here."

Nancy had peered too. Sure enough, she'd been able to make out a couple of people holding phones up.

"Are they the ones you saw earlier?" Mum had asked her and Elwen in an undertone, so Florence couldn't hear.

It had been when they'd first arrived. Dad had been talking to one of the race officials, Elwen wandering back from him to join them, while Mum had been wiping at Florence's face, getting rid of the traces of the comfort Yorkie she'd been fed in the car, while nodding along to what Dad's security were telling her about where they'd be through the race.

"Mummy-" Florence had burrowed into her and then pulled away again, tugging the hood of her jacket over her mouth.

"Now, why didn't you-" Mum had glanced down at her, as Florence wandered back and forth, kicking at the ground. "Why didn't you bring all your bears out with you-"

Florence had shrugged, her tiara slipping sideways a little. Mum had squeezed her shoulder, and then, at a signal from one of Dad's security guards, headed towards him, Elwen stepping up to Florence who'd glanced up at him. "Hold me" she'd demanded, big blue eyes fixed on her brother.

Elwen had patted her shoulder, putting his arm around her, and it was then, as Nancy had headed towards them, that she'd become aware of someone standing just behind her, only a few inches away.

Nancy had glanced around for Dad's security and then felt a hand on her shoulder. She'd pulled away hard, only to see one of the security team looking down at her. "Here, your mum's just moving down there with the others-"

Nancy had hurried to join them, the guard's hand still gripping her shoulder tightly.

"Don't look round" he'd said in an undertone, as they reached Mum and Elwen and Florence, a little ahead, Mum spinning round to bend down to her. "What happened?"

Nancy had shrugged, glancing back for the person who'd been standing behind her, only to see a man's back hastily, retreating, phone in hand. "Someone was behind me-"

The security guard had said something in Mum's ear. Mum's face hadn't changed, but she'd just nodded, and then drawn Nancy to her gently, with an arm around her shoulders. "Let's make sure we stay together, all right?" she'd said, off Elwen's confused look, Florence playing absent-mindedly with her tiara. "Make sure Dad can see us all-"

Now, Nancy had peered down the lane and shrugged. "Can't see."

Dad had just rolled his eyes.

Giles had clapped him on the arm. "Don't worry. I'll have a word with the others. If anyone starts anything, we'll just all shout them down."

"I'll start now." Flynn had put his hands to his mouth. _"Go and get a job!"_

Auntie Vic had slapped his arm. Flynn had rubbed it, looking deeply aggrieved. "What was _that_ for?"

"Shut up, before you manage to get us all lynched-"

"They're not those kinds of protesters, son" Uncle Giles had said, casting an amused look down the lane. "They'd be easier to deal with..."

It had been a few minutes later, when they'd all been sliding on and off the walls by the Tite, Flo perched on Mum's shoulders, when one of the protesters had started shouting.

Nancy hadn't been able to catch more than the words _"Prime Minister's broken promises-"_ before a sea of boos had risen up, started enthusiastically by Uncle Giles and Flynn.

"_SHUT IT!" _Freya had bellowed, for her part, before shivering and yanking her scarf tighter around her throat, as one of the race marshals blasted a horn right as the protesters tried to raise their voices, triggering a volley of cheering. A couple of the people around Dad had been clapping him on the back. "God, it's fucking cold."

_"Freya."_ Auntie Vic had rapped her shoulder sharply.

The protesters had fallen silent, but the cheering had only subsided when one of the organizers had stepped forward.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you very much for coming-" He'd grinned with a wink at Dad. "It looks as though I've got some competition this morning..."

There'd been an outbreak of cheering, laughter rippling through the crowd. David had turned and given them a wink. Freya had given Nancy another. "See?"

She'd squeezed Nancy's arm and pulled her into her side. Nancy had felt a shiver of that excitement again, but she'd felt a warmth welling inside her too, Freya's arms slung around her and Elwen's shoulders.

* * *

Ed would feel exactly like a walking stereotype if he hadn't been drinking hot chocolate.

As it is, he takes a long gulp of hot chocolate and tells himself that he is _absolutely fine._

"You _are _an expert at not answering questions" James had been saying, striking the table with the side of his hand. "See, you're doing it with me_ now-"_

"How am I not answering your question?" Cameron had been laughing, his head thrown back. "And your complaint is exactly-?"

That conversation had been about private schools. But that was nothing.

"So technically-" Cameron had been taking another gulp of lager. "Technically, you yourself would benefit _substantially_ from an inheritance tax cut-"

"I didn't say I wouldn't-I wouldn't say I wouldn't benefit-"

"But you _would_ benefit-well, isn't that convenient-"

And redistribution.

"_As if_ you supported redistribution-" Cameron had been guffawing. "You supported it for _five minutes _when we were at university when you were in your Che Guevara phase-"

"Oh, for God's sake, that is _not _a _Guevara-"_

"Well, if you don't even know your own _position-"_

"I didn't say I was in favour of redistribution-I said _some _redistribution in some areas didn't have to be an entirely negative move-"

"Are you sure you can remember what you said, since you can't seem to remember your own _positions-"_

The entire conversation had been punctuated with laughter. Cameron's cheeks had been so flushed that Ed could almost feel the colour, warm in his own cheeks.

And it had been between Cameron and _James._

Which is fine, Ed tells himself fiercely, glaring at the whipped cream sinking slowly into his hot chocolate. It's perfectly fine.

In fact, surely, it's _good_ that Cameron can have friends who are-who-

-and how can James be from _Eton _when he's a, a-

He shakes his head.

It's fine. It's _fine._

Probably Cameron-it's probably _good_ that Cameron has someone else to oppose him, and-

So everything's fine. Everything is _absolutely fine._

Ed nods firmly to himself as he stares at the hot chocolate.

And if he's decided to come over here to get a hot chocolate, since Cameron seems to have found someone _else _to oppose him right now, that is _fine._

And if Cameron hasn't even seemed to notice because he's so busy laughing as he argues with _James_, and slapping _James _on the back, and giving_ James_ those same grins he sometimes gives _Ed _across the chamber when he knows he's about to rebut one of Ed's points, without even _answering_ it, well, that is _absolutely fine._

"Acquainting yourself with that hot chocolate, Miliband?"

And if Cameron's actually giving him that same grin _right now,_ that is _absolutely fine._

Ed lifts his face, swallowing grumpily. "It'th called _drinking_, Cameron."

"Doesn't really count though, does it?" Cameron drapes himself on a stool next to him. "Anyway, you're my guest. I can hardly abandon you, Miliband."

"Oh, don't worry about me." Ed hopes to sound appropriately aloof and withering. "I was jutht allowing you to _debate."_

The hot chocolate promptly sticks in his throat, and Ed erupts into a coughing fit.

Cameron's hand rubs his back, patting him, which doesn't do anything for the heat in Ed's cheeks. "Don't worry, nobody offered me _that _standard of debate."

"Hilarious" Ed manages to gasp, once he can breathe again.

Cameron chuckles. "It was." He nudges Ed's arm. "Anyway, how come you didn't chime in? I'm usually praying you'll be able to keep your mouth _shut."_

Ed snorts. "Didn't think you needed too much of my input, it looked like."

He intended for it to come out witheringly dismissive. Instead, it chokes out into a high-pitched cough, which trails off into a slightly sulky mumble.

"Well, it certainly never deters you any other time."

"Well." Ed takes another spoonful of whipped cream. "I rather thought you had thomeone _elthe_ who's opposing you _juthst _fine."

Cameron gives him an odd look. "James is always like that. It's just the way we-"

Ed hmmphs and leans further into his hot chocolate.

"-have always-" Cameron stops. He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Slowly, Cameron leans in to stare at Ed. "Wait."

Ed feels the heat creep very slowly into his cheeks.

Cameron stares at him very, very closely, then grins. "Miliband, are you..._jealous?"_

Ed almost chokes.

_"_Jealouth? _Jealous? ME?!_ And why would I be _JEALOUS?! _Of _what?!_ Being-the fact that he's _debated _you for longer? The fact that he's _known_ you longer? The fact that-" Ed snorts loudly. "_Me?_ _Jealous?_ As _IF!"_

He takes a long defiant gulp of his hot chocolate, then promptly spits it out everywhere. _"Jesus_, that'th _hot!"_

Cameron doesn't laugh. It very clearly takes a great deal of effort but Cameron doesn't laugh. Instead, he pats Ed on the back, which is somehow much worse.

Ed doesn't speak for a long moment, during which he stares furiously at his hot chocolate.

It's Cameron who breaks the silence. "It's quite a nice sight, seeing you jealous-"

"I AM NOT-"

Cameron waves his hand frantically, and Ed lowers his voice to a ferocious whisper. "_JEALOUS."_

"All right, all right, I'm only teasing you" Cameron says, still with that grin that makes Ed want to-to-

There's a long moment of silence.

Cameron clears his throat ostentatiously, shifts his weight on the stool. "Though" he says, conversationally, his arm gently nudging Ed's. "If you _were _jealous, at all, that would be completely unnecessary."

Ed glowers at his drink.

"I mean, James might debate with me" Cameron continues, the back of his hand brushing Ed's now. "But I don't think he provides _quite_ the level of skilful opposition that the Right Honourable Member For Doncaster North provides me."

Ed grunts. Somewhere, on the speakers, a song is playing, low beats and a girl's husky voice almost whispering. _People are talking, people are talking._

_"Or_ quite the same level of repartee-"

Ed grunts again.

"I think he'd have to hate me rather more" Cameron says, with a grin.

Ed really does try to keep quiet.

But after another, more cautious sip of his hot chocolate and another few moments of Cameron's smile, he mutters "Given I've jutht th-spent a weekend with you-"

He pauses.

Cameron doesn't say anything.

Ed's cheeks burn. He keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his drink.

"Given I've jutht th-spent a weekend with you-" Ed's cheeks are burning, his fingers trembling a little. "I think you're rather ignoring the evidence regarding that subject, Cameron."

Cameron cocks his head at him. Ed keeps his gaze fixed very stubbornly on the hot chocolate.

The song plays on, low and oddly sending shivers down Ed's spine.

"Freya made them put it on" says Cameron, his voice a little lower.

Ed can't quite look at him for some reason. The huskiness of the song and the dim lighting of the bar is making his cheeks feel very warm.

"You've got whipped cream on your lip" is all Cameron says, softly.

His thumb darts out and-

And-

It swoops across-

Across Ed's mouth, so quickly it could almost not have happened at all, except for the way Ed's mind catches the warmth of Cameron's thumb, the press of their skin together. The way Ed's heart throws itself against his ribs. The way it tingles in his chest.

He can't look at Cameron, but his cheeks are burning, and a wild, stupid smile is pushing at his mouth. He doesn't look at Cameron, but he can sense his upraised cheek, the twitch of his mouth, twitching with exactly the same smile of his own.

* * *

Rachel, perched on the edge of one of Ed's brown couches, smiles.

Justine smiles back.

The seconds tick by.

Rachel's been in Ed's living room plenty of times over the years. She was one of the first to visit after they moved in.

"So...you liking it?" she'd asked awkwardly, as Ed handed her a cup of tea without any milk. She'd glanced around the near-blank room, the table behind the French doors covered with a plastic tablecloth. If it had been anyone else, Rachel would have assumed that it was a temporary holding drape thrown over the chaos of moving, but from what she knew of Justine's taste, Justine had probably selected the awful thing intentionally.

"Um-" Ed had done exactly the same sort of swivel-eyed look about the room that Rachel's seen him do whenever he's asked about the kids or the house or Justine. "It'th all right-I th-uppose- I haven't really been-been here much-"

There'd been a squirming wail from the Moses basket on the couch and Rachel had turned to see baby Daniel, almost a month old, face scrunched and scarlet, his mouth a tiny, angry gash of red wails.

"Aww-" Rachel had gone to move towards him automatically and had glanced at Ed, waiting for him to do something.

Ed had blinked. "Oh-um-" He'd squinted at the baby, as though it was a flickering TV signal. "I don't know."

It had been Rachel's turn to blink.

"Justine just leaves him to cry" Ed had said, as if that explained everything. "It's good for him."

Rachel had blinked again, trying to rearrange the words into something that made sense. "I-"

Daniel's crying had raised another pitch and Rachel had glanced at him, noticing the way his hands had curled into angry little red fists, punching up into the air.

"Um-" She'd stepped towards the couch and when Ed didn't make a move to stop her, she'd bent down. "Hi, Daniel-"

The baby's cross little face had glared back up at her. Automatically, Rachel had scooped him up carefully, settling him into her chest, the way she had with Joe and Grace so many times.

"Hey-" She'd shifted Daniel in her arms, one finger stroking his ruby-red soft little cheek. "Shh, shh-" She'd pressed a few soft little kisses to his head. "Heyyy-"

Daniel's little mouth had pouted, his sobs slowly quieting into a few sad little mewls. He'd burrowed further into Rachel's chest, turning his face into her shirt. "There we go, hey?"

Baby Daniel had settled in her arms and Rachel had kissed his cheek, moving back to the couch, cuddling him close. Ed had been in full flow about the United Nations meeting he'd been at the previous month, less than two weeks after Daniel had been born, about the Copenhagen conference he was preparing for, but all he'd done at the sight of her holding his son, had been to blink and then launch into another point about carbon emissions.

Rachel had held Daniel for the rest of the conversation as it stretched into the afternoon. Once, Ed had patted Daniel's hand, quickly, with his hand darting back under his leg a moment later, crawling out of his sight like a spider.

Now, Rachel sits and smiles at Justine, turning her phone over and over in her hands. Stewart, a short distance from her on the couch, scratches his head. Justine sips her tea.

The clock ticks slowly.

"That's a nice jumper" Rachel offers, nodding at the turquoise sweater Justine's wearing. It's not just a compliment-it will work well on camera, good for media interviews, much better than most of Justine's clothes, which reminds Rachel of the task she's given Ed and Justine over the weekend.

Justine nods, with that small smile that she always summons when someone compliments anything to do with her clothes or appearance. "Thanks. I just got it a few months ago."

Rachel smiles. There's another short silence.

Stewart sits up suddenly, eyes brighter. "I just got these pants!"

Rachel measures the distance between her foot and his shin.

"Nice" she nods instead through gritted teeth, and then turns back to Justine. "Anyway, I was going to ask if you guys had sorted out all the photographs and stuff-plus we need to go over how much filming we need to do with the kids, whether you want to take them out on any campaign events-"

The phone rings. Rachel glances at the screen and freezes.

"Oh no."

"What?" Stewart glances at her, then at the phone screen.

He too freezes. "Oh no."

Justine glances between them. "What?"

She too glances down at the phone screen and then trails off. "Oh."

In the middle of the phone screen, buzzing insistently like a pulse, one name flashes over and over again in time with the shrill rings, like a drumbeat building faster and faster, louder and louder.

_Alastair._

* * *

"Hugs." Freya yanks her into her chest, so that Nancy's nose is suddenly buried in a chiffon scarf and a cloud of perfume. "We'll be seeing you soon anyway-"

"Yeah, we can take the kids anytime-" Uncle Giles had said, slapping Dad on the back. "You know, during the campaign-"

He glances at Mr Ed Miliband and then away. Jackson saves the moment by shoving into Elwen's shoulder hard enough that the two of them spin, nearly falling over on a patch of ice, leaving Mum to grab them.

Freya takes the moment to pull Nancy in for another hug. "Hey. Don't worry. Chill out about Grey Coat. I'll come and strangle one of them with my headphones if I have to. Which reminds me, Bose are the best ones to use in a fight."

Nancy snorts. "The only Bose headphones we have are Dad's Union Jack ones."

Freya chews her lip. "Yeah, maybe don't use those."

After the Fun Run, everyone had headed into the Tite, the same way they did every year. Nancy had glanced about at first but it had only been people they knew in there and by the time she'd been making her way through a slice of chocolate fudge cake with vanilla ice cream, she'd been feeling a lot better. (Chocolate cake has soothing qualities for Nancy, as does Mum's sewing machine and David Walliams.)

It hadn't been until later when they were standing outside the pub that Nancy had remembered the protesters. She'd glanced about for them worriedly until Dad's hand had squeezed her shoulder.

"It's all right" he'd said, without asking what she was thinking about. Nancy had glanced at Elwen, who'd said what they were all thinking. "Will they be there when we get back?"

"No." Dad had taken another gulp of lager, patting his damp hair down with one hand. "Police'll have moved them off by now-"

"How come they were there at first? You know, earlier-"

"Oh, it's a bit complicated." Dad had taken another gulp of beer, reached down to tug Elwen's gloves further on. "Just-basically people who want to protest are allowed to, but they're not allowed to come into your garden or go near you. That's why they got moved off while we were out." Off Nancy and Elwen's confused looks, Dad had added, "Because they were shouting at you and obstructing the driveway. You lot aren't people they're allowed to yell at. Before that they could, you know-sit outside with their banners and things-but-"

"What, even if they're idiots?"

Dad had chuckled, tugging Nancy's hat straight. "Yeah. But if they're idiots, they're more fun to laugh at."

"Like those people that burnt the big mask of your face-" Elwen had been hovering on one foot, arms out.

"El, it's slippy there-"

"And then the face nearly fell on their _heads-" _Elwen had nearly slipped, falling against Nancy.

"_Ow-"_

"OK, guys, be careful-" Dad had squeezed Florence more safely into his side. "Mum'll kill me if you come back dented-"

"It's _cold-"_

"Cold, Nance?" Dad had tugged her hat straight on her head again.

"Yeah-"

Elwen had glanced up at him. "Why are you still in them?" he'd asked, with a glance at the Lycra Dad was still wearing, with the medal draped around his neck.

"It keeps you warm" Dad had told him with another swig of the lager as Elwen moved closer into them. "It's very cold when you have to go through the water-"

There'd been a clicking sound and Nancy had glanced round to see one of the black cameras a few inches away from her. It had been one of the reporters she recognizes-he'd taken a photo of her and Freya after the Sports Relief run earlier that year for Mum and Dad to take home, but he's not the only one. Elwen had noticed them too.

"Everyone keeps-doing all the clicking sounds-" he'd said. "And I don't like it-"

"Yes-" Dad had glanced at the cameras over Nancy's head. "Right-I think Mum would want you to go back inside-so, just come round there-"

Nancy had followed him, Dad steering Florence with them, Elwen following.

"So they can't see you-"

"Nah-" Florence had patted Elwen hard on the back, pushing him ahead so that Nancy caught her sleeve as Dad manoeuvred them round the arch around the door, out of sight of the cameras.

"That way, you can't be seen-"

Florence had been extending one leg behind her and Elwen had grinned up at Dad. "I can, I can, I-" He'd moved his arms out in front of him, leaning forward, almost taking his foot off the ground. "Look like Moses-"

"_Ow!"_ His hand had knocked into Nancy's arm, making her grab Florence to stay upright.

"All right-_well_, if they can't _see_ you, maybe you can stay there-" Dad had reached over their heads to take someone's extended hand, shaking it, while Nancy had leaned back against the wall. "We'll go back in the warm in a bit, I think Mum's just finishing up inside, then we'll head back to the car-"

A few minutes later, Nancy had been hopping up and down to keep warm, stepping up and down off the little step that ran round the outside of the pub. Dad was chatting to people, with the circle of people with cameras ringed around them. Nancy had glanced at Dad for help when they'd started clicking, but one of the cameramen had shaken his head. "Don't worry, sir, we'll crop the kiddies out, they won't-"

She'd pulled her fur hood tighter around her, whilst Elwen had been starting to get fidgety, and Florence had been puckering her little mouth. Dad had glanced at them and squeezed her shoulder. "I'll take you back to the car in a minute-"

Dad had been chatting to one of the people from the village-"-that you do, because I started a few years ago-" while Florence wrapped herself around his legs. _"Daddy-"_ She'd burrowed in happily, while Dad, clutching his glass of lager with one hand, patted her with the other. _"Daddy."_

Nancy had stepped up behind him, trying to reach Florence's shoulder as Dad took a sip of lager. "But when you _start-"_

_"Daddy-"_ Florence had beamed up at Nancy gleefully from her position, securely wrapped around Dad's leg.

There'd been a flurry of clicking from the cameramen that were grouped around Dad, and Florence had tossed them a confused look over her shoulder, pouting as she blinked her loosening ponytail out of her eyes. "They're taking _pictures-"_

Elwen, who was closest to the cameras, had glanced up at Dad, as one of the cameramen behind him had crouched down, tilting the camera up. "Don't worry, we're not going to get the kids-"

Dad had said something too quietly for Nancy to hear, then glanced down at Elwen. "K, Elwen-you go here-you go there-"

Elwen had moved to step round him, out of sight of the cameras towards Chris, but at the same moment, Florence had been pulling crossly at her tiara, which was half-dangling off, and Dad had bent down to fix it for her, making Elwen step back.

"Hang on a tick-" Dad had been tugging strands of Florence's hair loose from the silver wire, and one of the cameramen had stepped a little too close, jostling Florence, whose little face had creased into a scowl which she aimed up at them. _"Hey-"_

It had been then that Nancy, stepping down to help, had glanced over Dad's shoulder and had stopped.

One of the men from earlier had been standing on the step, right next to them. He had a square face, with a hat on, and white hair escaping from underneath. He had a mobile phone in his hands, and Nancy could see that the camera was pointing right at them.

Nancy stood still, watching him. Her eyes had flickered to one of Dad's security team, who was standing right next to the man, with one of the police officers on the other side.

His eyes had met hers, and he'd widened them slightly. _Stay there_, he'd mouthed at her. Nancy had known not to nod back.

She hadn't been scared exactly. Instead, she'd turned to look at the man. He'd been one of the ones who'd been shouting that morning, one of the ones who'd been by the car. Perhaps it had simply been the fact that all the security were around them, and that one of the police officers-in a cap which helpfully read POLICE-was already looking at the man, standing close to him-but Nancy had just looked back at him. She'd wondered why he thought Dad could help. She'd wondered why he was filming them, and whether they were the same age as his children.

The man's eyes drifted over the phone and then locked with hers.

They had only looked at each other for a second but something had crawled oddly in Nancy's chest at the sight. The man had just stared at her, hard, over the camera, but it hadn't been an angry look. Instead, it had been an odd, hungry look, as though he was starving and the longer he looked at her, the more he could fill himself up with something that was like food but not, not quite enough.

Nancy had looked back at him for a long moment, something odd welling in her chest at the sight of his eyes, searching her face for something, and then she'd stepped round Dad's shoulder, down next to Florence so she could speak into Dad's ear without it being noticed.

"Dad" she'd said, in an undertone. "It's one of the people from earlier."

Chris, who'd just stepped up next to Dad and was looking carefully away from them, had, at the same moment, glanced down at Florence, giving her a smile. "One of them's over there" he'd said to Dad through the grin, while Florence beamed back up at him as Dad tugged the last few strands of hair loose from her tiara.

Dad hadn't looked up but had jerked his head slightly in the tiniest nod, Nancy being one of the few people whom he wouldn't have had to say anything more to to make her understand. Nancy stepped back round him, glancing at the man again, who didn't seem to have noticed anything. She'd wondered if he had any daughters.

Chris had been beaming at Florence, whose dimples had been creasing her cheeks as she blinked up at him. "Right" he'd said, in an undertone to Dad, with a glance at one of the police officers.

Someone else from the village had already been in front of them to shake Dad's hand. "Great sponsor today, sir-"

"Thank you very much-" Dad, shaking his hand, had stepped back surreptitiously, so that his body was between Nancy and the man with the camera, and Nancy had felt herself relax in her coat. At the same time, he'd taken Elwen's sleeve with one hand and tugged him gently into his side, away from the man.

"Well done-" Dad had been saying to the man from the village, who'd given Nancy and Florence a quick "Hi, guys" as he stepped round, jostled slightly by the crowd.

Nancy had been peering round Dad's back, almost pressed against the wall.

"Er, came sixth-" the man from the village had been saying, while Dad nodded. "Oh, that's amazing, yeah, yeah, yeah-" He'd been taking another sip of lager as Florence, glancing up at the ring of cameras and jostled once again, clutched angrily at his leg. _"Hey-"_

Elwen had had his arms wrapped around himself, Dad's next words to the man muffled by the noise of the crowd. Nancy had caught "-of the whole thing, it's here-", before Elwen, clearly fed up of standing in the cold, had rolled his eyes. "Daddy-Daddy, _Daddy-"_

Florence had been making complaining sounds in her throat, as Dad finished the conversation quickly, clapping the man on the arm. "Right, thank you very much-"

Chris had glanced at the man with the phone again. Dad, giving the man he'd been talking to one last grin, had turned back to them. "Right. Shall we go back in the car?"

The security guard had given Nancy an infinitesimal nod, and she understood immediately. Elwen and Florence hadn't noticed the man with the phone, and they needed them to move quietly.

Dad bent down, hugging Florence into his leg with one arm, turning to Nancy, who was already stepping down off the wall. "Guys-"

Elwen had been half-past the man with the phone, Dad just bending down to pick up Florence, when the man had spoken. The security guard had moved so fast Nancy had barely had time to blink, before he was in front of her, holding her back.

"All right, Dave?" the man had said to Dad, loudly, and Elwen had turned round, standing on the steps of the Tite, his eyes flickering to Dad confusedly.

Dad had barely blinked. "Yeah, all right" he'd said, as if the man was anyone else, pulling Florence up his side so that her little arms wrapped around his shoulders, and the police officer had moved towards the man.

The security guard, as if on a silent signal, had stepped forward, and jerked his head at Nancy, reaching out to touch her arm. "Go to your dad-"

Nancy had moved quickly, half-pushing past the man, and in a matter of seconds, had been at Dad's side, whose arm had wrapped quickly around her shoulders. "Nance, are you OK-"

"Yeah." Nancy had gone to glance back over her shoulder, but Chris had already been urging them forward. "Come on, go, don't look back-"

Dad had squeezed Nancy's shoulder reassuringly. "Where's Sam-"

"Inside, one of the others will go and get her-"

"Dave?" Uncle Giles had appeared, hand squeezing Jackson's shoulder. "What's going on-"

"Just one of those idiots from earlier" Dad had said, whilst Elwen, apparently deciding they were a safe enough distance from the protester, had glanced back. Nancy had followed suit, to see one of the police officers with a hand on his arm.

"Bloody hell-" Uncle Giles had peered over their shoulders.

"Yeah, the police are dealing with it-"

Elwen had spun round, eyes widening. "That's so unfair, I wanted to see that!"

Now, Nancy gives Freya a doubtful look.

Freya shrugs, gives her a grin. "You'll see."

Nancy wishes she could be as confident.

* * *

"It might stop ringing" Rachel suggests glumly, as the phone rings for the eighth time.

"What if he just starts leaving voicemails?" Stewart asks, staring at the phone as if it might blow up. "No one likes his voicemails."

Rachel arches an eyebrow. Stewart glowers at her. "I don't like it when he shouts."

"None of us do. Suck it up." Rachel rolls her eyes as the phone, once again, stops ringing. "He doesn't leave voicemails. That way, he gets to store all the volume up. Like an angry camel."

Stewart lets out a squeak. Rachel rolls her eyes. "Oh, for God's sake. The last time I heard you make that sound, it was when Grace speared Mati in the Nativity play."

"That Herod impersonation looked real!"

"So did your son's tears."

Stewart glares. Rachel snorts.

"For God's sake." She examines the phone for all the world as if she herself answered it last time it rang. "We're meant to be preparing for fucking government. We're meant to be able to handle-Stewart, put the cushion down."

Stewart glares at her and slowly lowers the brown cushion he'd been nibbling worriedly back into his lap.

Rachel examines it with distaste. "On second thoughts, keep chewing on it."

The door opens and Justine walks in, holding another tray of what looks like gravel but Rachel would bet she is about to be told is cake. "Any luck?"

"It depends. If you call the fact we haven't had to hear Alastair's dulcet tones yet_ luck-"_

Justine's staring at Stewart. Rachel follows her gaze and rolls her eyes. "Stewart, you're paying for that cushion."

"Here." Justine lowers the plate onto the table. Rachel examines the gravel-pile, pretty certain she wiped something similar off Joe's football boots the other night. "It's just from one of the organic shops-"

"Thanks." Rachel pushes the plate towards Stewart. "Chew on that."

"How did he even work out you were here?" Justine pats her hair down nervously, as though her hands need to be calming something.

Rachel snorts as Stewart takes a mouthful of the gravel next to her and immediately freezes.

"It's Alastair. He's omniscient." She smiles fixedly at Justine, aware that Stewart's throat is working very oddly next to her. "But none of us would have told him anything. We're all well aware of his temper."

The moment Justine leaves the room, Rachel kicks Stewart hard in the shin. _"What the hell did you tell him?"_

Stewart shakes his head frantically, pointing at his full cheeks. Rachel grabs the cushion and chucks it into his lap. "God, chew on that, instead-"

Stewart drapes himself over it, hacking for breath as silently as one can when apparently fighting to prevent death by gravel inhalation. "Why....so....._sharp..."_

Rachel isn't cruel. She waits until Stewart's lucid again to slap the sofa hard and grab him by the ear.

"When the hell did you _phone him?"_

"Ow!" Stewart yanks himself free, shooting her an injured look. "Give me a minute-"

He takes a long gulp of water, points at his full cheeks, making exaggerated distressed noises. Rachel glares at him, positioning her face directly in front of his to wait for the moment he swallows.

Two minutes and twenty four seconds later, she claps her hands furiously, making Stewart jump, splutter, and glower at her.

"You could have fucking _killed_ me!" he barks at her, dabbing at his jumper furiously.

"Don't tempt me."

"Who said it was me?"

"You've got exactly the same weaselly look on your face you had when you were saying it wasn't you that told _The_ _Times_ about Anna and _The Sun."_

"Which has never been proved." Stewart glances at the door and lowers his voice. "Anyway, everyone wanted to tell them it was Anna. Even _Ed _wanted to tell them it was Anna."

"Everyone did. Because Anna's an idiot. And you're a weasel."

Stewart jerks his chin up. _"How_ is it weaselly if you've done the exact same thing?"

"Because it's you. And because you did the same thing with Torsten's emails about Balls. And with that quote about the kids. And that-"

_"You _wanted to put that out about the kids-"

Rachel darts a look at the door before she turns back to Stewart, hissing furiously. _"Everyone _wanted to get that out about the kids. Because that quote about the kids was the fucking creepiest thing on earth-_conference's secret weapon_, it gave you exactly the same creepy feeling as when you rub a dog's stomach and it has like thirty nipples-"

_"Ew."_

Rachel widens her eyes. "Plus, are _you_ going to tell her that eating that cake's like eating half a kids' playground?"

"Uhhh-"

"_Uhhhh. _Exactly, so shut up." Rachel jabs him in the shoulder. "Which is _exactly_ why you told Alastair about this, because _you_ are a gutless _weasel."_

Stewart blinks. "Have you considered that you might be overreacting just slightly?"

Rachel swells ominously, right as the phone begins to ring again. And this time, so does Stewart's. Stewart immediately seizes it and throws it across the room, where it clatters against the opposite wall, seizing the cushion and drawing his knees up behind it like a shield.

Rachel shakes her head, staring at him through her blonde fringe. _"You disgust me."_

* * *

"So" James says, clapping David on the shoulder. "I chose the right day to drop in."

"Yeah, it must be a novelty to have people agree with you."

James smacks his arm. "Let's hope Miliband knocks that out of you in the campaign."

"Well, he hasn't managed it so far."

James chuckles. "Evidently. Although you seemed to be fine this weekend."

"Hmm. Well."

David has a sudden rush of Miliband's hair, tickling his cheek, his shoulder jutting out under David's arm.

James glances at him. "Wait. Wait." He comes closer, his nose almost touching David's cheek, grin twitching into life. "You're blushing."

"No, I'm not." David drags his scarf tighter around his neck.

"Yes, you are. It's getting worse."

"No, it's not."

"You're getting redder."

"It's _cold!"_

"What, and that fixes your eyes on Ed Miliband's back, does it?"

David jumps. "I'm watching the _kids-"_

"Mmmm." James nods very solemnly, pursing his lips together while David tries very, very hard not to let his eyes wander anywhere near Miliband's back, which is, most inconveniently, right in his eyeline. "You might want to be careful, though. People might start thinking you actually _like _him."

David is silent.

James glances at him. Then away.

And then does a double-take.

"Oh my God, you _DO!"_

The others all spin round with an array of bewildered looks. Samantha slaps her hand over her chest. Miliband staggers and nearly falls over.

"It's all right" David gestures at them. "It's all right, there's nothing to-"

"Sorry" James calls out with a grin, and then, once they're walking again, lowers his voice to a furious whisper. _"Oh my God, you DO!"_

His whisper is approximately one decibel lower than his usual tone.

David seizes his arm. _"No._ I don't-I don't _like_ him, I-"

James arches an eyebrow.

David sighs. "I don't _dislike_ him."

James snorts. "Oh, yes. Because you often invite people you merely _don't dislike_ to stay in your home."

"I-I've had plenty of people visit me who I-_didn't dislike."_

"What? Had them stay overnight in your home?"

David opens his mouth and closes it silently.

James smiles very slowly.

David rolls his eyes. "That is _exactly _the look Miliband gives me across the dispatch box when he thinks he's just made a point."

James smiles. "So you've memorised his _facial expressions?"_

David rolls his eyes. "We've stood across a chamber from each other for _five years."_

James purses his lips. "A _star-crossed _chamber?"

David gives him a long look. "That's not even _relevant_ to that play. Do you not recall being scolded by our beak-"

"I never really got the Etonian terminology-"

"Your parents paid exactly the same fees as everyone else."

"And you're changing the subject."

David pouts. "You're being childish. And the subject is stupid."

James snorts.

"And there's nothing _odd_ about me liking him" David says, after a few moments of silence. "It doesn't _mean _anything."

"Well." James gives him a grin. "I never said there was."

"But you-"

"No. I just said you _liked_ him." James grins. "_You're_ the one who overreacted."

David freezes, mouth open. James grins. "What? My smile reminding you of him again?"

"You're flattering yourself."

There's another short silence, the ice crunching under their boots. Then,

"So. It would be a _compliment _to compare me to him-"

"Shut up."

James chuckles. "Let's face it, it would hardly be the first time you've-_clicked_ with people who disagree with you. Or who are opposites. I mean, you and Sam, for one example. Maybe you've just got an _opposites attract _thing."

David stops. "What?"

"You know, an opposites attract thing." James gives him an odd look. "I mean, you're friends with me. You're married to Sam." David's heart gives an odd leap. "You've always needed people who....oppose you. A little."

"Oh."

James glances at him. "Are you all right?"

David nods. "Yeah" he says, eyes fixed on Miliband and Sam's backs, heads close together as they walk. "Yeah. Just. Thinking."

James nods. There's another short silence. Then,

"Then again, it wouldn't be a shock to find out you invited anyone to stay. I still remember the time we looked for Amelia for an hour and found her tucked into your daughter's bed, wearing her pyjamas."

"In my defence, her and Nancy's haircuts were uncannily similar back then."

* * *

Alastair jabs the phone screen, hitting the SEND button with a triumphant stab.

"I know he's ignoring me" he says darkly, glancing up across the room at Fiona with the sort of fevered intensity usually associated with caged animals at the zoo. "He thinks I don't know, but I know."

Fiona, sitting across the room and going over a new proposal for William Ellis, merely raises her eyebrow.

Alastair waits. Then, slightly aggrieved by the lack of outraged response, he raises his voice a little. "I know what he's doing. Well, fine." He pulls up another message. "Fine, you don't want to talk right now-oh, we'll _talk _and _talk-_and _talk-"_

"And you know, if you could _not talk_ and _talk _and _talk-"_ Grace announces, lifting her head of curls from her textbook. "That would be _fantastic."_

"I mean-" Alastair shakes his head. "Do you know how fucking _irritating_ it is when someone is _right _there, talking to you and you _completely fucking ignore them?"_

_"Yes_" murmurs Fiona, brushing her hair behind her ears as she stares down at the file. "I can see how that would be _very irritating."_

"Exactly! It is a complete lack of basic fucking manners."

Fiona sighs.

"You know why he's not answering, don't you?" Alastair demands, staring at her.

"Because he's considering a restraining order?" mutters Grace.

"Because he's with Cameron." Alastair slaps the table. "There! Boom! It's out!"

Alastair sucks in a deep breath and glances from Grace to Fiona, waiting for a reaction.

Fiona turns a page. Grace crosses out a word.

"You know how irritating it is when someone keeps following-" Alastair's punching away at the phone screen. "What is a blatantly fucking _stupid_ course of action." Alastair shakes the phone as the screen freezes. "When they're getting-" He jabs the screen. _"No encouragement whatsoever_-from _sensible_ people-"

Grace glances at Fiona across the room. "Is this one of the things we'll have to remember when his psychiatrist asks if there were any _signs?"_

Fiona glances at Alastair, who's still shaking the phone. "That moment passed many moons ago, sweetheart."

"I don't think either of you appreciate what is at _stake _here!"

"Your phone?" mutters Grace over her laptop.

Alastair's nodding to himself. "This is how it starts" he almost laughs. "This is how it starts, I know-we've seen this little show _before-"_

"Yeah, you have" says Fiona, a little louder now, snapping a lid back onto her pen and sitting back in her chair."Like you've seen it with Alan or with Hague, when you dragged him out for dinner. Or with me, when Iraq was going on-"

"Oh, as if any of our fucking arguments are even _close_ to the importance of this disaster."

"Well." Fiona glances at Grace. "That feels good, huh?"

Alastair shakes his head as his phone vibrates once again. "This is typically fucking unappreciated." He kicks his chair out from under him, storming to the door. "And I need to leave, for everyone's safety, before I realise just _how _fucking unappreciated it is."

Grace snorts, reaching for her phone. "You can say that again-"

"I DON'T FEEL SAFE IN MY OWN HOME!"

* * *

"Right." James bends down to kiss Nancy on the cheek and hugs Elwen with one arm. "See you soon. That train ride's going to take forever-"

Florence wraps herself around his knees as he fiddles with her ponytail.

"Hey, I'll see you soon-" James bends down to high-five Daniel and Sam. "And Sam, take care of yourself-" He pulls Samantha into a fierce hug, kisses her cheek while he pats Cameron on the shoulder. "See you again soon, hopefully-might need to chat to you for the book-"

Cameron hugs him hard, gives him a clap on the back. "What, would you actually say it was _me_ who contributed or would that not fit with all your Labour-supporting, Edinburgh bunch-"

James laughs, presses their faces together for a moment, and Ed feels a well of something in his chest. He looks away, biting his lip.

"Hey, Ed-" James seizes his hand, pumping it up and down, with not quite the same amount of vigour he gave Cameron's. "Good luck with the election-" He winks. "Literally, not theoretically."

Ed manages a laugh, and then James claps him on the back, calling over his shoulder to the others. "Just sorting my ticket out-"

Ed doesn't realise for a moment that he's being steered, until he finds himself falling into step with him. He blinks, awkwardly turns to look at James, who doesn't pretend it's accidental.

"So." James is smiling, his head tilted to the side, but there's something softer in his eyes. "You like him."

Ed jumps. The words hang there between them. All the blood in Ed's body seems to rush into his cheeks.

"I-" He fumbles with the words, because of course he-_likes _Cameron, finds him agreeable, finds him, finds him-

James is just _watching_ him with that smile and Ed scrabbles frantically for words. "I mean, I mean-he'th, um-"

"He still does that thing he did at school, you know" James says, almost conversationally, as he pulls out his ticket. "When he gives you that look when you're debating. You know." And James is watching him more intently now, leaning forward slightly. "Like he wants to make you laugh while he beats you."

The words, for some reason, make an almost feverish heat rise to Ed's cheeks.

James grins. "He makes you like him" he says affably, sliding his ticket into his pocket. "But, you know, if he argues with you, it means he _really_ likes you."

Ed's face is so hot he can't even look at James. His heart is beating very, very fast, and it shouldn't be, it really shouldn't be, it-

"It'th his job" he blurts out, a little too loudly, needily-"It'th hith job."

James watches him for a long moment and then shakes his head slowly. Ed can't breathe.

"You know, when we were at university" James says suddenly, yanking his bag higher on his shoulder. "Dave wasn't part of the debating societies or the Conservative Association or any of that stuff. It just wasn't his thing."

Ed shouldn't be listening as hard as he is.

"I mean, if someone brought up politics, he'd argue his point" James says, almost lazily. "But it was only when he was arguing with one of us that he'd get into it."

Ed's heartbeat is rapid.

"I was his favourite" James adds, almost as an afterthought. "Because I always disagreed with him. And he loved that."

Ed tugs his coat tighter around him.

"He does this thing" James says, pulling his own coat tighter. "Where he looks at you when he's said something clever, and he knows you're going to laugh. And he laughs because you're laughing."

Ed's face is very warm, his fingers tugging at and wrapping around each other slowly.

James grins. "But he only does that with people he disagrees with."

Ed has no idea how he finds his voice, where he dredges it up from. "I thought you said it was people he likes."

James appraises him for a long moment, and Ed has the uncomfortable sensation of being examined from head to toe.

Then James smiles. "Maybe, sometimes, they're the same thing."

* * *

When Ed makes his way back to the others a few moments later, as the train moves off, he has to shake his head. He takes in several deep long breaths of cooling air.

"You all right?" Cameron says, waving at the train as it moves off, carrying James into the distance. "What's wrong?"

Ed turns with a gulp to take him in, Cameron's blue eyes narrowed in his rosy cheeks, his hair a tousled brown mess, his head tilted to the side.

_Maybe sometimes they're the same thing._

"Nothing" Ed manages, hoisting a smile from somewhere. "Nothing."

Cameron gives him an odd look. "You sure?"

For a moment, Ed hesitates, trembling, almost asking something, but not quite.

"Yep." Ed gives a hard nod and wonders at James's words for only a moment longer and at what else can be the same. If like can be the same as dislike. If a lie can be the same as the truth.

* * *

_Playlist_

_I Started Something I Couldn't Finish-The Smiths _ _-"I started something/I forced you to a zone/And you were clearly/Never meant to go/Hair brushed and parted/Typical me, typical me/Typical me/I started something/And now I'm not too sure/I grabbed you by the guilded beams"_

_Feeling OK-Best Coast _ _-"Wake up, you know I feel OK/Go to sleep, it's just another day/I know, someday I'll find it/Where I, I least expect it..But I'll keep trying to stay this way/I know it's love that's got me feeling OK"_

_Poor Little Rich Boy-Regina Spektor _ _-"Poor little rich boy/All the couples have gone/You wish that they hadn't/You don't want to be alone/But they want to kiss/And they've got homes of their own..And you don't love your girlfriend/You don't love your girlfriend/And you think that you should but she thinks that/She's fat but she isn't but you don't love her anyway"_

_Gorgeous-Taylor Swift _ _-"You should take it as a compliment that I/Got drunk and made fun of the way you talk/You should think about the consequence/Of your magnetic field being a little too strong..Ocean blue eyes looking in mine/I feel like I might sink and drown and die/You're so gorgeous/I can't say anything to your face/Cause look at your face/And I'm so furious at you for making me feel this way...You make me so happy it turns back to sad/There's nothing I hate more than what I can't have/You are so gorgeous it makes me so mad/You're gorgeous"_

_A World Alone-Lorde _ _-"We've both got a million bad habits to kick/Not sleeping is one/We're biting our nails, you're biting my lip/I'm biting my tongue...And you haven't stopped smoking all night/Maybe the Internet raised us/Or maybe people are jerks/When people are talking, people are talking/People are talking, people are talking..All the double-edged people and schemes/They make a mess then go home and get clean/You're my best friend and we're dancing in a world alone/We're all alone/We're all alone"-this is the song Nancy and Freya are listening to, and later the one that plays on the speakers while David and Ed talk._

_Don't Delete The Kisses-Wolf Alice _ _-"Instead I'm typing you a message that I know I'll never send/Rewriting old excuses, delete the kisses at the end/When I see you the whole reduces to just that room/And then I remember and I'm shy that gossip's eye will look too soon/And then I'm trapped, overthinking and yeah, probably self-doubt/You tell me to get over it and to take you out/But I can't, I'm too scared, and here's the night bus, I have to go/And the doors were closing and you were waving and I like you/But I'll never let it show/And you won't wait and maybe I won't mind/I work better on my own...What if it's not meant for me, love?/What if it's not meant for me, love?..I'm losing self-control and it's you, it really is, a thousand times/I look at your picture and I smile/How awful is that, I'm like a teenage girl/I might as well write all over my notebook that you "rock my world!"/But you do, you really do/You've turned me upside down"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The protesters harassing the Camerons and being given a restraining order:https://bit.ly/3bi3XJk  
https://bit.ly/3bkt7Y3  
Protesters following the Camerons on holiday in Cornwall:https://bit.ly/3acISzQ  
https://bit.ly/33CBjjy  
https://bit.ly/3dnexR6  
https://bit.ly/2J2OmS5  
The protesters outside the Camerons' home:https://bit.ly/2J5xtWH  
https://bit.ly/3djrA6j  
https://bit.ly/2ws2OjL  
https://bit.ly/3aaNExL  
The Camerons' confrontation with the protesters (Nancy is the one in the hat):https://bit.ly/2UaEz2y  
https://bit.ly/2UssGUz  
https://bit.ly/33Nmuel  
The protesters at the race:https://bit.ly/3ac4BIr  
https://bit.ly/39bPbTc  
The scenes outside the Tite Inn:https://bit.ly/2QzmWqQ  
https://bit.ly/39gem7e  
The plot by the protest group to abduct Tony's son:https://bbc.in/2QyK0q0  
Ed's team referring to his kids as a "secret weapon":http://dailym.ai/3dlfuJS  
Dave and Nancy love making pancakes:https://bit.ly/2WyfWP1  
David enjoying his opposites/people he disagrees with:https://bit.ly/3acpUcJ  
Rachel's kids' primary school:https://bit.ly/2wuSffH  
Torsten's emails:https://bit.ly/2vEERoU  
The protesters on Harriet Harman's roof:https://bit.ly/3diF8Pn  
Some more of David and Giles' friendship:https://bit.ly/2QCx2HI  
https://bit.ly/2U8OoxQ  
Giles talking about Dave, at the time of Sam being pregnant with Florence and Ian's death:https://bit.ly/2U7cetU  
https://bit.ly/33NnvmF  
Giles' children:https://bit.ly/2WAipZ6  
The Copenhagen climate conference was a big moment for Ed when he was Climate Secretary:https://bit.ly/33zMI3M  
He was away a lot as Climate Secretary around the time of Daniel's birth:https://bit.ly/2U9uIKt  
https://bit.ly/33GGoaz  
David's close friendship with James, who is a Labour supporter:https://bit.ly/3bll1y3  
https://bit.ly/2Uws4x8  
The book James was writing:https://bit.ly/2wj0c7W  
Dave did used to read out tweets insulting him to make his children laugh:https://bit.ly/2QAX7a2  
The Brook Run was a charity run David often took part in:https://bit.ly/2U8TNoD  
http://dailym.ai/2QCaR4g  
https://bbc.in/2Umts5y


	18. A Sharing Of Shakespeare, A Parallel Of Patriarchs And A Universality Of Utterances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which people are unworthy of koalas and Romeo and Juliet doesn't require intellectual self-confidence."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
There are a fair amount of reference quotes here-they refer to David and George's very first meeting, some more about the Brat Pack, Peter and Alastair's first meeting, David L and George's fallout over budgets, Elwen's and Florence's births, and Alastair's relationship with Ellie. The long section of notes at the end refer to Peter's second resignation, which, if anything, managed to be more dramatic and angst-filled than the first.  
TW: there is a mention of the Stafford hospital crisis in this chapter.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Back at Smith Square, (Andrew) Lansley held a leaving party for (George) Osborne. Among the guests was (David) Cameron, by now ensconced in the frenzied but better-remunerated world of corporate public relations. Divided by half a decade in age, the pair only knew each other loosely and many years would elapse before they were vaunted as both a coherent political partnership and the future of Conservatism. Lansley, however, was already sure that his two most gifted alumni were the right's answer to Blair and Brown. "**When you two are running the country"** he said to Cameron and Osborne in front of the other guests, **"please make me Governor of Bermuda."-**George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_By now, Cameron was making a name for himself, as was another young MP who lived in the same fashionable part of town: George Osborne. Under Michael Howard, both were given shadow ministerial roles and their profiles soared. Both were working the TV and radio studios, and it was paying off. The Westminster village began to talk of them as future leadership material. Boris Johnson's father Stanley, who hoped to become an MP in the 2005 election, remembers joking about the two young Turks at a gala dinner for party supporters in Newton Abbott. **"Who is the Blair and who is the Brown?"** he asked. The audience laughed knowingly. **"We all wonder if there is some kind of "Granita pact""** Johnson continued, alluding to the gentlemen's agreement between Blair and Brown. **"All I can tell you, ladies and gentlemen, is that the Cameroons are coming!"**_

_As Howard's golden boys, the pair had been elevated to VIP status on the Conservative social circuit. Cameron was guest of honour at the dinner....That he (Johnson) referred to the "Cameroons" rather than the** "Osbornites"** suggests that he, for one, considered Cameron to be the Blair to Osborne's Brown-though, at this stage, no one was quite sure if this was the right way round. Regardless, the "Blair and Brown" tag was fast gaining traction...Unlike Blair and Brown, however, Cameron and Osborne were close personal friends. In years to come, under the most intense pressure, their relationship would prove rock solid. _

_From Oxford he too joined CRD, where he was **"almost a mini-me of Cameron"**-their similarity in manner and build attracting the attention of colleagues who had stayed long enough to have worked with both. (Cameron was working for Howard by the time Osborne, four years his junior, joined Central Office.) But while the Cameron clan clung to rural respectability, Osborne's family was more urbane. His parents settled into the glamorous and cosmopolitan world of 1960s Chelsea, his father establishing a fashionable wallpaper business on King's Road. They wore their social liberalism like a badge of honour, passing these instincts on to their son, who as a politician would display notably few hang-ups on moral or cultural questions. (As Chancellor, he once left colleagues open-mouthed when, behind closed doors, he launched an impassioned defence of the current abortion time limit. **"I did not come into politics to stop a woman's right to choose"** he exclaimed.)_

_By the time he entered Parliament in 2001-the same year as Cameron-Osborne was a hard-edged politician with the air of one who had seen it all before. His path through the thickets of backroom Tory politics in the 1990s was strewn with disappointment and frustration: the Conservatives had been out of office for almost the entirety of his political life and he had witnessed back-to-back Laboud landslides up close. As speechwriter to a beleaguered William Hague in 2001, he was chained to an operation that alternated between slapstick and disaster. It left him with a hunger for power that has marked him ever since, and pushed him down the "modernisation" road several years before Cameron decided to follow in his footsteps. Between 2001 and 2004, Cameron and Osborne started to spend more and more time in each other's company, working together for both Iain Duncan Smith and Michael Howard. They also began socialising, taking advantage of the proximity of their homes in west London and a shared bicycle route back from the Commons. When the Camerons' first daughter Nancy came along in 2004, Osborne became her godfather.-Call Me Dave: An Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_ **Kingsmead school, Essex** _

_A school gym. A backdrop spelling out a series of "**commitments"** (nobody believes politicians' **"promises"** any more. An invited audience of party activists. The PM has come here to unveil the **"protection"** the Tories will give to the budgets of English schools if they are in power after the election. He didn't have much choice: a few weeks ago a photograph emerged of a secret briefing note which advised ministers not to say anything about school budgets beyond **"Of course, there will be difficult decisions about the education budget in the next Parliament.."** It was an invitation to their opponents to predict just how difficult (cue accusations about **"massive cuts.")** The formula Cameron announces is carefully worded. Very carefully. ** "The amount of money following your child into the school will not be cut"** he states, explaining that **"in Treasury speak, that's flat cash per pupil."** When it's my turn to ask a question, I point out that, as any economics student at the school would know, **"flat cash"** equals cuts in real terms, as spending will not be increasing in line with inflation. Somewhat to my surprise, he doesn't make any attempt to deny or deflect this. As a result, Tory cuts to school budgets becomes the lead story on the six and ten o'clock news._

_I show the latest brilliant Matt cartoon to Tory strategist Craig Oliver. A man with a clipboard talking to a snowman is saying **"David Cameron would like you to take part in the TV election debates."** My contact beams. **"He's got it!"** They'll invite anyone to take part if it screws up the whole thing.-"Monday 2nd February 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

** _A Westminster restaurant_ **

_A memorable lunch with one of the next possible leaders of the Labour Party, who does nothing to mask the fear of defeat (**"I can name six seats we can take from the Tories, but not the ten we need")** ,or the fact that many minds have already turned to the leadership campaign that will inevitably follow if they lose. In a few weeks time my guest will either be a senior cabinet minister hailing the triumph of Ed Miliband or a candidate to succeed him explaining why he was a failure. Funny old business, politics.-"Tuesday 3rd February 2015-Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Shortly after arriving in Oxford, Ed-known by his family and friends up to this point as "Edward"-became "Ted." His contemporaries differ as to how and when this transformation occurred. Some point the finger at a fellow PPE student named Simon Stow, now a professor of government in the United States. **"It was Simon's thing to start calling him "Ted", because Ed was a kind of old fogey even then in a kind of amusing way, and he seemed to quite enjoy that. So everyone called him Ted and he called himself Ted"**_ _ says Catherine O'Rawe, who arrived at Corpus Christi from Belfast to study English and Modern Languages, and quickly befriended both Ed and Stow. (O'Rawe now teaches Italian at Bristol University and says she hasn't spoken to the Labour leader **"for a couple of years.")**_ _ Says (Gautam) Mody: **"Simon was loud and brash and started calling him "Teddy.""**_ _ Not everyone, however, agrees with this version of events. (Marc) Stears says it was their philosophy tutor, Jennifer Hornsby, who mistakenly referred to Ed as **"Ted"**_ _ in her very first class and the rest of his peers then **"just assumed that was his name."**_ _ Ed, it seems, never corrected them.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_On the evening of 7 November 2010, Justine gave birth to their second child, Samuel Stewart Thornton Miliband-named after Ed's grandfather (Samuel) and Justine's father (Stewart)-at UCL Hospital in London. A new pair of Miliband brothers had been formed-their eldest, Daniel, was, by this stage, eighteen months old. Ed and Justine released a statement saying they were "**overjoyed"** by their son's birth, and the Labour leader announced he would be taking his two weeks' statutory paternity leave. The issue of Ed's family life was sensitive territory. He had already faced criticisms for failing to turn up with Justine for the registration of their first child's birth. This, combined with coverage over the ownership of his house being in Justine's name only led to claims about his lack of organisation and even allegations of commitment-phobia-and of course, they were not yet married. On the birth certificate claim, Ed has said: "**It was a mess up on our part. No-it was a mess up on my part."** And he said of his latest child's birth: **"I will be going down to the Register Office straight away this time."** Ed had admitted he was **"embarrassed"** that his name wasn't on Daniel's birth certificate.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_There was a further and perhaps bigger disappointment for Ed in the summer of 1992. Despite working hard in his third and final year at Oxford, focusing on his studies and not student politics, he failed to get a first. It came as a blow to him. David had graduated from Corpus Christi with a first-class degree; so too did his friends Marc Stears, Gautam Mody and Catherine O'Rawe. By general consent, Ed was a bright student-several friends of Ralph have told us that they believe Ed to be the brighter of the two Miliband brothers. His tutors at Oxford agree that he seemed to be heading for a first in his PPE degree. Martin Conway taught Ed Politics in his first year at Corpus Christi: **"Ted was one of the two strongest students in that year; the other was Marc Stears"** he says. **"Ted wasn't one of those first year students who you needed to teach how to write an essay."** But the big surprise, says Conway, **"was that he didn't get a distinction in his Prelims."** O'Rawe remembers Ed being disappointed in his first year **"because in his exams he did OK but not fabulously."** Annoyed and frustrated, he went to see his tutor. **"The last time I met Ted was when he came to see me after Prelims to see why he hadn't got a distinction, but just a pass"** says Conway. **"He was rather upset. Perhaps in an exam environment he played safe and maybe wrote anonymous essays."**_

_In tutorials, as opposed to exams, Ed excelled; his tutors in politics and economics remember him as serious, conscientious and focused on his course. **"He didn't come across as a student hack-he wasn't dishevelled or chaotic, missing deadlines"** says Conway. **"He was not like that. He was a straightforward, committed undergraduate."** David Leopold, who teaches politics at Mansfield College, Oxford and taught Ed's Marxism paper, remembers a **"clever, sharp student who could think, not only about arguments but about objectives, and so on."** He agrees that Ed was efficient, well-organised and hardworking: **"Often when people are engaged in student politics they're not always engaged with their work, whereas Ed was actually very good at getting work done. That is relatively unusual."...**Adam Swift, a tutor at Balliol College and author of the popular textbook Political Philosophy: A Beginner's Guide, who taught Ed the "Theory Of Politics" course in his second and third years at Corpus Christi, agrees with Leopold: **"I thought he would get a first."** Swift reveals that Ed had planned to do a postgraduate degree after Oxford-perhaps to follow in his father's distinguished footsteps and become an academic. (David, it is worth noting, had received his masters in political science from the Massachusetts Institute Of Technology in the United States in 1990.) **"I wrote Ed a reference to go to Cambridge to do an MPhil in social and political theory"** says Swift. **"I thought it was a realistic option for him to become an academic, based on what I'd seen of him at that point. Four of his eight Finals papers were in political theory-he was very good at political theory even though he wasn't doing philosophy." **His tutors remember him as a modest young man; in his tutorials, unlike the typical self-confident Oxford undergraduate, Ed held back from expressing instant views on the issues of the day.** "He was quite reluctant to offer his own opinions, compared to some students, but when he did they were always very well thought out"** recalls Swift. **"He was noticeably cautious-but then when he did end up arguing a position, it was very well-argued."** It is a useful character trait that the Oxford academic believes Ed has retained throughout his post-university political career. **"He was judicious and sensible. He may have been the son of a Marxist, but he wasn't a ranter."**_

_So what went wrong for Ed in his Finals? Some have suggested that he was distracted not so much by student politics as national politics. Friends remember the future Labour leader spending a large portion of his final year campaigning for Labour in the run-up to the 1992 general election-both in Oxford and back home in London. **"He failed to get a first because of me"** jokes (Neil) Kinnock. Others put it down to poor time management in the exam hall. Swift remembers Ed telling him that **"it was down to bad time organisation; having to do four answers in three hours back then. You had to think of something to say, and just say it. It was quite common to run out of time-and Ed thought that's what had done him in."** But perhaps it was Ed's approach to examinations that was to blame. "**He worked too hard"** says another friend. **"He packed his stuff full of facts and details and didn't let it breathe. Examiners love to see a bit of creativity, students taking risks, strong arguments. But what Ed was probably writing his exams was too much like a really detailed textbook or encyclopaedia entry."**_

_**"He was disappointed and like anyone else he aspired to a first" **says Mody, who remembers talking to him the day after the results were published. **"But he very much had this attitude: "What's happened has happened, so be it.""** By all accounts, Ed was frustrated but calm, disappointed but composed; there was no personal crisis, no self-doubt. **"It can't be the end of the world"** Ed is said to have remarked to another friend. **"I can do better at the next stage of my life."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_David had been prospering at the Institute for Public Policy Research, where he was a research fellow and had served as secretary of John Smith's Social Justice Commission and impressed senior figures in the Labour Party. He had become a close confidante and adviser of Blair, who would appoint him as his head of policy upon becoming leader in July (1994). Later that year, he would edit a book called Reinventing The Left, a collection of very New Labour essays-including one from Brown-that aimed **"to give modern relevance to old values."** In the words of The Times columnist Daniel Finkelstein, David was **"on the up. It was all "I think David Miliband is coming to our seminar" and "Have you seen, David Miliband is here?""**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Nicky Morgan was on Marr this morning, forced to showcase the latest half-baked Tory education policy-oversold No. 10 drivel, including the proposal that every child should know thier twelve times table before the end of primary school. I learned my twelve times table at age seven-in 1972! Have we gone backwards in the intervening forty years?....When Cameron gave his education speech at midday, it turned out to be a massive damp squib. We all thought that the Tories were going to protect the schools budget in real terms, but what they have actually promised is what they were planning to do at the beginning of this parliament-to protect per pupil funding in cash terms. That means that real funding would be squeezed-and Sam Freedman, Michael Gove's former policy adviser, has gone on Twitter to say that this implies cuts of 7-10 per cent in the real schools budget over the parliament.-"Sunday 1st February 2015-Monday 2nd February 2015", The Coalition Diaries: 2012-2015, David Laws_

_Over the next few days, I quietly mulled the policy on childcare that had been signed off. We still had one week before Budget Day, and I was very unhappy with what we had agreed to. Our own strategy on the early years and on childcare focused on two policy priorities. The first was to increase the early years education support made available to children from the poorest families. Educational disadvantage began in the earliest years and became more entrenched in school. To create a fairer society, we needed to intervene earlier. This was why we had introduced an early years pupil premium a year before, to target extra support for the education of the poorest three-and-four-year-olds. I had wanted this increased in this final Budget-but it wasn't. Our second priority was to improve childcare support in the very earliest years, before pre-school, by extending the free fifteen hours for the most disadvantaged two-year-olds to all two-year-olds. Instead, what the Conservatives had insisted upon was a very expensive policy of doubling the free hours to all three-and-four-year-olds-but only to those in families where both parents were in work. As a childcare policy, this made some sense. As an early years development policy, it made no sense whatsoever. From now on, if this policy was passed, children from poor, out-of-work families would have to leave their nursery or playgroup at midday, while children from a household of two investment bankers could stay on until teatime every day. It was a typical Conservative policy-with absolutely no regard to the interests of those from the lowest-income backgrounds. Effectively, it amounted to a negative early years premium-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_**But really,** he (Tony) said, **I would like to get the best I can and that has to be you. I know you've got reservations, but I just ask you to think about it over the holiday.** Even though I expected it, and had thought about it, I didn't quite know how to react. I'd gone in there with a list of names to suggest, and a raft of arguments against the idea. I said **I'm not sure I'm suited to it. I've got a big ego of my own and a ferocious temper. I can't stand fools and I don't suffer them. I'm hopeless at biting my tongue.** He said, **I've thought about that, but I still think you're right for it...**.I worried about whether the press would go for me personally, all the things they knew about but because I was one of them kind of went unsaid: the breakdown, the drink problem, the violence, the writings for **Forum.**...On the way back, I told Tony in graphic detail about my breakdown. I said **I thought it was important he knew, because I had to assume that ultimately I had cracked because of pressure, and the pressure was as nothing compared to what we would face if I did the job.** I said** I was sure I was a stronger person than ever, but he needed to know there was a risk.** He said he was happy to take it.-"Wednesday 27th July 1994-Sunday 31st July 1994-Thursday 11th August 1994", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_Again the man Tony soon settled on instead turned out to be a critically important member of his team. Tony had got to know Alastair Campbell shortly after arriving in the Commons, when Alastair was a dominant and supportive lobby presence as political editor of the Mirror. I had known him longer. I had first met him in the 1970s, during one of the evenings I spent with Fiona Millar's parents. Bob and Audrey were Marylebone Labour stalwarts. Bob was a gentle, gifted journalist who began at Tribune and was then hired by the Express. That night, Fiona arrived with a new boyfriend, whom she had met while they were on a Mirror training scheme in the West Country. We heard him before we were properly introduced: Alastair came in playing the bagpipes. He was engaging, funny and obviously smitten not only by Fiona, but by the warmth, commitment and intellectual buzz of the wider Labour family of which she was a part.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_The (Conservative) majority was just twenty-one seats, but given that the (1992) election had been held in the teeth of a serious economic recession it was an impressive victory. The only black spot was the defeat of Chris Patten, who lost his seat in Bath and agreed only with great reluctance to appear in celebration photographs. As the results came in, Cameron and his friends opened the champagne. After several bottles he led a posse of **"brats",** including (Steve) Hilton, across Smith Square to Transport House, the union headquarters used by Labour during the campaign, to chant and jeer at the defeated enemy. Later they headed off to Maurice Saatchi's house for more drunken revels long into the morning._

_The following day Cameron could not resist a dig at his internal detractors, telling Andrew Pierce of The Times: **"The brat pack hits back."** During the campaign (Andrew) Lansley had forbidden Cameron to talk to the press-but now he was determined to put the record straight. **"Whatever people say about us, we got the campaign right"** he went on. **"Not being battle-hardened veterans, we had to learn to take the flak on the chin. But after the first two weeks we just got our heads down and decided to listen to what we were being told by our workers on the ground rather than the opinion pollsters and especially newspaper reporters."** Cameron also said that Hilton, no longer an electoral virgin, had phoned him from his polling booth, excitedly telling him, **"I have done it. I have finally voted. They can't write that about me any more." P**resciently Pierce finished his despatch by saying that although the **"young guns"** had made enemies among the old guard, they **"could be calling the shots for a long time to come."-**Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_In terms of personality, Cameron and Hilton could hardly have been more different, but they made a good team. Together with (Ed) Llewellyn, (Ed) Vaizey, and (Rachel) Whetstone, they formed a tight clique. The press began referring to them as **"the Brat Pack."** They started hanging out together in the evenings and at weekends, sometimes at the Old Rectory (Cameron's childhood home) in Peasemore, or at the country home of the parents of another CRD staffer, William Wellesley, in the Weald. If the house party was in Peasemore, Cameron would set off from London on the Friday night to prepare for the arrival of his guests the following day. The weekend would be a mix of country walks, fine food and wine, and politics. Derek Laud, who was at some of these get-togethers, recalls Cameron being an excellent host. **"He was very boyish, always smoking a cigarette like people did when they were fourteen or fifteen, when they were learning to smoke; always making rings with it. Always in a woolly jumper and forever picking up the dogs. He is a very good cook and loves a decent claret-we all did. There was always a bit of competition as to who could produce the best vintage, because William Wellesley is a great wine snob, so there was always a great rivalry between the Weald and the South Downs, as to who could produce the best wines."** Occasionally, one of the guests would present a **"paper"** on a topical political issue, such as privatisation, and everybody would chew it over. The debate could be long and heated-especially after a few drinks. Remarkably, Laud, who was close to Cameron for more than a decade, does not recall him ever giving a view on any issue discussed. "**He has rarely expressed any strong views in his life"** he says. Instead, Laud says Cameron would focus on how the party should position itself. "**What he was very good at doing was talking about the mechanics of something, rather than the principle"** he recalls._

_Some found the Brat Pack's youth and chutzpah threatening-Hilton was not even old enough to have voted in a general election. (Michael) Portillo and (Michael) Heseltine were among those reportedly uneasy at the combination of their inexperience and increasing influence with the party leadership. Yet (Chris) Patten, who had taken over as Tory chairman, found the young bloods life-enhancing. **"They were a bit indulged, but I don't think (they were) ever bumptious"** he says.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_So many of the team that worked together at the CRD all those years ago ended up, twenty years later, in prominent positions in my government, including Ed Llewellyn, Kate Fall, Steve Hilton, Ed Vaizey and Jonathan Caine. All of us worked for (Margaret) Thatcher and then John Major. The late 1980s and early 1990s shaped us and our thinking. First we were labelled **"the brat pack",** because of our age. Later **"the Notting Hill set",** even though most of us didn't live there. Inasmuch as there was a clique-and I would argue that every successful politician needs a team-it was a CRD clique...Election night (1992), when predictions of Labour victory turned to the reality of a Conservative majority, was a moment of pure political joy. While I would experience the excitement of getting elected to Parliament in 2001, and the topsy-turvy night of 2010, the exhilaration of 1992 wouldn't really be matched until May 2015, twenty-three years later.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Ed became very close to Sue Nye. He would go on vacation with Nye and her husband, the then Goldman Sachs banker (and later BBC chairman) Gavyn Davies, and join them at their holiday home in the south of France, where he would methodically swim his lengths in the pool. He also became good friends with Spencer Livermore, who moved over to the Treasury from the Labour Party's Economic Secretariat. Aged twenty-three, Livermore saw Ed almost as a mentor and has maintained a close friendship with him over the years. As for Douglas Alexander, with whom Ed shared an office until the latter was elected to Parliament in a by-election in November 1997, he and Ed would holiday together in Scotland, Ireland, France and the United States. But Ed never considered Balls to be a friend, or treated him as such. They might have gone out for a drink together after work, as colleagues, or spent their weekends side by side in Brown's flat preparing speeches or policy statements for the Chancellor till the early hours of the morning; they might even have gone out for the odd dinner with their partners, Liz Lloyd and Yvette Cooper. But they weren't friends._

_For a start, Ed was well aware of the fact that Balls jealously guarded his status as Brown's number two and therefore saw the younger man as a rival, as a threat.** "Ed Miliband's career from the moment he joined Gordon to the moment he emerged as more likely to win the leadership than Ed Balls has been a battle to remain relevant and stop Balls from squashing him"** says a former member of the Brown inner circle who worked with both men. Then there were the two advisers' very different personalities and styles. **"I think Ed Balls is a supremely confident person. I think Ed Miliband understands doubt and so they are different personalities"** says a former senior Treasury official who observed the two Eds closely in the late nineties and early noughties. **"Ed Balls has a different way of operating than Ed Miliband has."** Balls was confident, aggressive and confrontational; Ed was shyer, more modest and less prone to rows or fights.** "There wasn't a fear factor with Ed Miliband, as there was with Ed Balls"** says another ex-Treasury official. **"You'd often come out of a meeting with Ed Balls with the fear of God put into you."** Ed and Alexander could often be overheard in their shared office **"slagging off"** Balls, using colourful language. Their dislike for the elder Ed was an open secret inside the building. (These days, Ed will only say, diplomatically, that he and Balls had a **"remarkably good working relationship"** at the Treasury.) But the resentment that Ed (and Alexander) had for the other, more senior, Ed related to issues of personality and process-hierarchy, meetings, access to Brown, perceived snubs and the rest-rather than issues of substance. Inside the Brown team there were rarely disagreements on substantive policy issues. **"We were united in our opposition to a common enemy-Number 10-and that found us to be quite unified. Once we'd lost that enemy, and Blair departed the scene, the team became a lot less cohesive."** Ed was, indisputably, the more junior figure; he was **"little"** Ed. **"Until he became Labour leader, he was always little Ed-little Ed to David, little Ed to the other Ed"** says a family friend of Ed.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Below the surface, idealist Miliband and more pragmatic and business-friendly Balls work to conceal their disagreements. Close colleagues in the court of Gordon Brown since the 1990s, now they are neither ideological soulmates nor even friends, and Osborne and Harrison are determined to squeeze every drop of political capital from their increasingly awkward relationship.-Cameron At Ten: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_In the meantime, he (Peter Osborne) needed an income. He spent a while buying and selling old books (a passion, along with opera) but his prospects only really lifted when he met a hippy and former art student, who was dating, and would soon marry, his older sister Jennifer. His name was Antony Little, and he was already conversant with design and retail, having produced an iconic black and gold logo for Biba, a fashion outlet that opened in Kensington in 1964. Peter and Antony became friends and, when the latter married Jennifer in 1966, brothers-in-law too. In retrospect, it seems inevitable that their complementary gifts would also nudge them into working together. Peter was of an enterprising bent while Little, who was six months older, sparkled creatively. They leased a shop together but aborted their planned venture, which envisaged Peter selling antiquarian books while Little used the basement as a design studio. Instead, they decided to collaborate directly. The great loosening-up of tastes and mores in the 1960s was transforming the way people dressed, loved, socialised-and decorated their homes. There was demand, especially among the well-to-do, for bolder wallpaper designs. It passed unnoticed by stodgy mass-market producers but not by one restless entrepreneur and his artistic friend. They regarded the wallpaper on offer in mainstream outlets as **"porridge"** and sought to displace it with tastefully vivid, expensively manufactured alternatives of their own. On 27 November 1967, Osborne and Little Ltd, an interior fabrics concern, was incorporated. The pair set up shop in the Old Brompton Road, a commercial thoroughfare that runs west from South Kensington tube station. Peter made the short journey there every morning from the home he shared with Felicity, who helped to drum up business, in Bridstow Place in Westbourne Grove. Rapid success allowed the firm to upgrade to a glamorous perch on the King's Road in Chelsea, which is still the home of its flagship store. Osborne and Little became one of a handful of brand names regarded as indispensable to a certain kind of upmarket lifestyle, as Little recollected in 1995.** "If people wanted frocks they went to Mary Quant. If they needed a casserole dish they went to Terence Conran. If they wanted wallpaper, they came to us."**-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_So it was a prosperous, well-connected and cosmopolitan home that Gideon Oliver Osborne was born into on Sunday 23 May 1971, at St Mary's Hospital in Paddington...The new arrival was Peter and Felicity's first child. By then, the family had moved from Bridstow Place to Kildare Gardens, an attractive crescent of balconied properties a few streets away. They lived at No. 15. Osborne's earliest memory is of riding around the communal green on a red tricycle with Imelda Trafford, a girl of the same age who lived next door. Before London emerged as the home-from-home for the global rich, few of its neighbourhoods were forbiddingly expensive. Areas now colonised by the very wealthy were, in the 1970s, defiantly bohemian. The narrow sliver of west London where Osborne grew up was among them. Even now, Westbourne Grove is bordered to the north by some of the city's most troubled housing estates, while nearby Bayswater, where the Osbornes moved in 1976, has more three-star hotels than any neighbourhood could want. Back then, these areas were even rougher around the edges, and Felicity would grumble about prostitutes walking the streets near her home. Whatever the nuances of his privilege, Osborne enjoyed a gilded start to life. He was sent to the private Chelsea Open Air Nursery, where he passed the day riding scooters and building bunkers out of wood and tarpaulin. Home improvement was a theme of Osborne family life in these years. When he was five, they moved to 36 Portchester Terrace in Bayswater, a large but derelict house that his father set about renovating. It took a year, and copious supplies from Osborne and Little, to remake a fraying property with only two usable rooms into a plush family home. Osborne was given the top room, a front-facing loft conversion. The burgeoning success of his father's business had made the renovation affordable._

_The Osbornes grew wealthier over the course of their eldest son's youth but there was turbulence along the way. He was always aware of when business was good, and when it was not. By the turn of the '80s, Osborne and Little went public and his father was able to take money out of the company for the family. Their budget tightened as the recession struck soon after, but the mid '80s boom allowed them to buy a country home, the Vinnicks, near Newbury and just a few miles from Peasemore, the Berkshire village idyll where David Cameron, whom Osborne would not meet for another decade, had grown up. The next recession, in the early 1990s, by which time Osborne was at university, saw the family trade their main residence for a smaller house in St Petersburg Place, a few streets along in Bayswater. For most of Osborne's youth, though, 36 Porchester Terrace was home. The place eventually bustled with three more boys: Benedict George was born on 25 July 1973, Adam Peter on 25 March 1976 and Theo Grantley on 28 March 1985. Despite its spaciousness-there was a bedroom for each son and a separate playroom they all shared-the house bore the scars of the rampaging quad. Again, supplies from Osborne and Little were called upon. Felicity was a** "a lovely mother"**, remember one of Osborne's childhood friends. Peter was also popular with visiting children, **"a funny mix of bohemian and old-school aristrocrat"**, who would sometimes do the school run. Much is made of Osborne's material privilege but his advantages in life went beyond money: loving parents, close siblings, a hovering crowd of grandparents and extended family, and an absence of divorce, bereavement and serious illness. If Osborne sometimes seems like a man unmarked by life, it is because he is....When guests were entertained at Porchester Terrace, the boys mingled easily with them. It was a stimulating environment-a less political and more cultural version of the atmosphere the Miliband brothers were growing up in across town in Primrose Hill.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Even though the den looks so shabby with its stained sofa, torn armchairs and drooping curtains, David is reluctant to spend a penny on it while we push ahead with austerity. We agree to let things be. So we are slightly put out when George redecorates his rooms with Osborne & Little-courtesy of his parents, not the taxpayer. We feel like the poor relations; David grumbles as he passes the newly laid carpet. When George's lovely new wallpaper seems repelled by the old walls we are not overly sympathetic.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Although Osborne harboured a juvenile streak-even challenging another Magdalen (College) alumnus to a wasabi-eating contest at a Japanese restaurant that summer, emerging victorious but doubled-over in agony-he was actually drawn to **"intellectually self-made women"**, says a peer. His female friends, such as the historian Amanda Foreman, were **"more Bloomsbury than Knightsbridge."**-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_As the children have got older, we've been increasingly glad we took the stance (with their privacy) we did. As they continually remind us, they should be defined by what they do, think and say, not by who their parents are...George Osborne has faced the same dilemma. We've never spoken about our respective approaches, but it's clear he and his wife have so far taken a similar stance. Given we regularly used to appear on the same interview programmes, and both had kids who liked coming to the studio with us, George and I got to meet each other's children. One Sunday morning, I had to do an interview with John Pienaar on Radio 5 Live after we'd both appeared on The Andrew Marr Show together. George kindly offered to take my son up to the post-show breakfast, while I went and did my interview. Once I was finished on Pienaar, I was chatting to the other guests in the studio with the microphones off, and I casually said: **"I've got to go because I've left the Chancellor babysitting my son"**, which they all found funny. But one of them then casually tweeted what they thought was a nice and harmless tale. I was mortified because I felt I'd crossed the line in respect of my own son, and inadvertently put George in a difficult position if his press people got calls asking them about his new role as my babysitter. I quickly got my press officer on the case with the journalists asking them not to report it. I called Yvette to say I had made a mistake but was trying to fix it. And then I rang the Treasury to apologise to George. He said it was no problem, but the fact that both he and I wanted to stop this story running shows how counter-intuitive it is for senior politicians to keep their children out of the media. Looking after my son was a very kind, avuncular, and-to use the pollsters' jargon-humanising thing for George to do, and yet I had to apologise to him for it becoming public.-Speaking Out: Lessons In Life And Politics, Ed Balls_

_David has grown into the role. He is more focused, more assured, more professional, and he looks more polished. And all this despite the fact that he is now a father of three, with the arrival of his second son on Valentine's Day 2006. _

_**"You cannot call your child Elwen"** says his bossy press secretary, Gabby Bertin. The boy is duly named Arthur, a good English name. But Arthur is quickly discarded at home, and for evermore, in favour of Elwen.-The Gatekeeper, Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_A word on being indecisive. The previous year, February 2006 had brought Elwen into our lives. Like Nancy, he was born under C-section at St Mary's, Paddington. Normally, parents can discuss baby names at their leisure. But we didn't have that luxury. Gabby burst in soon after the birth telling us we had to come up with a name **now**, otherwise I'd look indecisive. I liked Arthur. Boring, said Sam. She sent me out to buy a book of names, and decided on Elwen-not the Welsh Elwyn, but the J.R.R. Tolkien version, meaning **"friend of the elves."** So Elwen he became (but Arthur Elwen on his birth certificate.)-For The Record, David Cameron_

_In August (2010) David and a heavily pregnant Samantha head off for their annual family holiday in Cornwall, their first since arriving at No.10. Although Samantha's due date is some way off, her babies have a habit of coming early. Florence is no exception. Off they rush to the Royal Cornwall in Truro and Florence Rose Endellion-Endellion after the Cornish village-makes her entrance to the world._

_The No. 10 press and ops teams rush down for the requisite photo call. But by this time Samantha has learned to push back on the enthusiastic comms team. She is not being frog-marched outside for a photo call straight after a Caesarean, as was done after Elwen's birth. **Click-**a nice picture of David holding Florence is released to the press. The family photo op will wait for their return to No.10, where baby Florence is ensconced upstairs in the flat in a cardboard box with her name on it. -The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_These weeks have been a roller coaster for the Cameron family. His own feet indeed had hardly touched the ground since the New Year, and the intense start to his premiership means that he had been looking forward more than usual to a proper summer holiday. He and Samantha left for Cornwall in mid-August in high spirits..Once in north Cornwall they plan to get the mandatory press photographs over with at the beginning. Samantha does not enjoy the ritual, especially as she is clearly so pregnant, putting on a brave face in a bright yellow dress. The idea is to have a few days resting on holiday before coming back to London for the birth. But events move quickly and Florence is born at the Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro on Tuesday 24 August (2010). It is **"a bit of a shock"**, Cameron says, but not entirely unexpected because** "Samantha's babies have tended to come a bit early."** The birth is another big adjustment for both of them, bringing home once and for all that they are no longer private citizens but surrounded, even on these most intimate occasions, by staff and security, with the media and its invasiveness never more than a door or a window away. He realises that he cannot even go to the shop for nappies or the small things that Samantha needs. Some in the media are caught trying to talk to the nurses looking after them. Samantha's anaesthetist is a refugee from Gaza: even at the moment of delivery, Cameron is asked, half-jokingly, about lifting the blockade on Gaza._

_As with all their previous children, the baby is delivered by caesarean section. Florence is their fourth child, a sister to Nancy and Arthur, aged six and four. **"She is an unbelievably beautiful girl and I'm a very proud dad"** he says. **"Florence is a great source of happiness for him"** says a friend. Number 10 announces he is taking paternity leave. He throws himself into looking after Nancy and Arthur, and visiting Samantha and Florence in hospital. He is due to address the UN General Assembly on 24 September, so asks Clegg to go in his place, the first Liberal Democrat leader from the UK ever to address the body. On 3 September he and Samantha pose for an official photograph outside Downing Street on a brief return to London. A member of the public called Mary has knitted a shawl which she has sent to Samantha. She is contacted by Number 10 to say Florence will be wearing her creation. The photo of David and Samantha showing off Florence becomes the image on their first Christmas card from Number 10 in December. The Cameron family depart for Chequers for a few days of rest and seclusion behind its high walls, protected by police.-Cameron At 10: The Inside Story: 2010-2015, Anthony Seldon and Peter Snowdon_

_Florence first entered Downing Street as a bump on 11 May 2010. The pregnancy was complicated, because Samantha had a low-lying placenta and a real risk of bleeding and a very premature birth. We wondered about the wisdom of going to Cornwall that August for our annual holiday. But the baby wasn't due until September, and neither of us fancied being cooped up in London. When Sam began suffering birth tremors we went to the Treliske Hospital in Truro. The doctor was happy to go ahead there and then with the caesarean that Samantha was in any event planning to have. (After Ivan's emergency caesarean, all our children were born this way.)_

_Our daughter arrived an hour later, weighing six pounds one ounce-and for the fourth and final time I had that amazing feeling of being the first person to hold the new baby, looking back at the team of midwives, doctors, nurses and anaesthetists who'd helped to bring this tiny, precious girl into our lives._

_There followed some of the happiest days of my life. I went back to the holiday home to tell the other children the news, and for the next couple of days drove between Trebetherick, where we were staying, and the hospital in Truro. When Samantha and the baby were ready to leave, we were completely unprepared for the arrival of a baby. No cot. No pram. No bottle. No baby clothes. Nancy, who had inherited her mother's genius for design, had found a cardboard box, decorated it in tinsel and crepe paper and put a pillow inside as a mattress. This was where our new daughter spent her first days-indeed weeks, as it was so successful that we continued to use it when we returned home to Downing Street.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_I went to see Lindsay (Nicholson, widow of John Merritt) and Ellie at Great Ormond Street and the moment I saw Lindsay, I just burst into tears. You just cannot fathom cruelty like this. Ellie had the same leukaemia as John. When the doctors were talking, and trying to be reassuring, I picked up on some of the words they used to say to him. So did Ellie. She was a real mix of strength and vulnerability, the same as he had been. I don't know how Lindsay can cope with this, but she is doing fine. I said all the things I could think of saying, but you feel totally useless. I managed to sort out proper access to a phone for her, and then left for home. I walked all the way, crying most of the way, and getting angry.-"Monday 17th November 1997", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_I went home to work on a piece for The Observer on John and Ellie, appealing for bone marrow donations. I ended up weeping over the desk. I remember John saying how he wanted us to help Lindsay look after Ellie and Hope (the child Lindsay was expecting when John died), and he hoped Ellie would always remember him for the days he was fit, not when he was ill and wasting away. Rory asked me the other day who my best friend was and in truth I didn't have one, not like John, and I wished he were here.-"Thursday 29th January 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_I went to see Ellie. Lindsay wasn't there and we had a really long chat about John. She said she missed his funny drawings. She used to say something and he would turn it into a drawing. She said she missed his cuddles. He always wanted to cuddle her and rub noses. He could always make her laugh, even when she was feeling a bit fed up. She remembered the day he died, and couldn't understand how she would never be able to see him again. She remembered being worried about Lindsay having the baby without John being there and how she would have to remember everything really hard so that she could tell Hope what he was like. I said I tried to do that too. We were both in tears by now and she asked me to read her a story. Then she asked me to tell her what John was like and I told her the stories of the Boy George night on the town we had, the royal carriage story, how he turned over the private ward when he was in hospital, the silly pranks in the office, how John could jump on to the desk from a standing start. I told her how he once doorstepped a group of terrorists and she suddenly had a look of panic on her face. **"Wasn't he scared?"** I said probably, but he was very brave. She looked so much like him when she laughed. She laughed the loudest when I told her about the pig-out in the South of France and she wanted to know everything he ate. She wanted to hear everything we did on holiday together. She was perkier than last week, and really sweet. It was the longest conversation we'd ever had, just the two of us, as usually there were other people there. She said I like talking to you about Daddy, because it makes it like he's here again.-"Sunday 1st February 1998" The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

* * *

_"Catherine and he were constant companions, still, at his seasons of respite from labour; but, he had ceased to express his fondness for her in words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girlish caresses, as if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks of affection on him."-Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte_

_i don't know why my tendency for pushing everyone away the second after i let them in doesn't apply to her. She's immune to me-Gena/Finn, Hannah Moskowitz and Kat Helgeson_

_The same tricks that once fooled me/They won't get you anywhere/I'm not the same kid from your memory/Now I can fend for myself_

_-"Ignorance", Paramore_

_Two households, both alike in dignity_

_In fair Verona, where we lay our scene_

_From ancient grudge, break to new mutiny_

_Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean_

_From forth the fatal loins of these two foes_

_A pair of star-crossed lovers...._

_ -Romeo And Juliet, William Shakespeare_

* * *

After The Fun Run that day, Samantha had been standing outside with Vic, squinting every so often in the winter sunlight. The kids had been inside the Tite, scrambling for places on the long cushioned couches, Dave and Giles with the unenviable job of keeping them in line. Sam and Vic had taken the opportunity to slip out for some fresh air-Florence's face had been creasing in a slow, sure scowl before they'd headed into the pub earlier, her tiara slipping sideways as Dave hoisted her higher, arm wrapped protectively around her pink coat.

One of the police officers had hovered near them, green jacket almost too bright in the sun. Usually, Sam might not have wanted to bother having a police officer follow them out, but after the scene in the driveway that morning, she'd been forced to concede that it wasn't a day for taking risks.

Vic had taken a gulp of her lager, shivering a little at the iciness of it. "God. Can't believe Dave wants one of these after he's been in that Brook-"

"I think it's the alcohol, more than the-" Sam had taken a sip of her own. "Anyway, how come Giles wasn't doing it this year?"

Vic had rolled her eyes. "Oh, thigh injury. And when we mentioned doing a marathon, it was a back injury. And with the sponsored swim, it was a groin injury. Don't even want to think about where he got that."

Sam had snorted. "Dave's like a labrador. If he goes past a body of cold water without jumping in, he gets fidgety."

"Wish Giles had that problem. Must be some sort of genetic-family-thing, because Lisa was telling me at Christmas that Simon's exactly the same-"

"Yeah, and they're all the same age-"

"Exactly." Vic had rolled her eyes, taking another gulp. "He gets enough grief about it from Freya. She was doing a sponsored run right after her birthday last year, and he wouldn't get up. Eventually, she chucked a bottle of Evian Spring over his head."

"God, if Dave got up later than 8, I'm pretty sure he'd go into mourning for the day. Last time we were at my mother's, she said he was the only one up before the staff." Sam had taken another sip. "We found him helping them get breakfast ready in the kitchens."

Vic had snorted. "Sounds like Dave. Do you remember that time we were all in Cornwall and Giles collapsed on the sand after the surfing and Dave stepped over him?"

"Yeah-"

"Jackson and Elwen sat on his stomach like a beach ball, I told him afterwards when he was whining, lose it if you don't want them to use it-"

"Mmmhmm-

"Still, his New Year's Resolution is taking up swimming. We're making great strides." Vic shrugs. "He's nearly made it down to the pool once."

"Oh, is he-"

"Mrs Cameron?"

Samantha had turned round, jostling her lager slightly as she turned to face the woman who'd said her name. "Mmm?" she'd managed, hastily swallowing her mouthful of lager, pulling her grey coat tighter around her, and then she'd noticed the cameraphone.

"My name's Carol Wheeler-" and Sam had already been moving, sleeve covering the camera, as she looked with a jolt of recognition into the face of the same woman who'd been shouting at the end of their driveway that morning.

She'd barely even thought about it when she'd been scrambling out of the car, her phone in her hand. She'd known she was allowed to film them-they'd been advised to if anyone came near the house-but it had been Florence's little face, crumpled and confused, that had had her scrambling out of the car.

Sam has never been the type to get into fights-that has always been Emily, who went through a particularly rocky period where she'd come home with a torn dress or a black eye at least once a week right after Dad left. She might throw a drink over someone, some creep who'd press up too closely against her at the pool table, in the days before Tricky hovered at her side like a cigarette-wielding, rapping guardian angel-but she left the shouting to the others. She'd never really even thought about hitting out, perhaps because she'd never had to.

It had been when she first saw the plus sign rising slowly into sight on the pregnancy test when she'd put her hand to her flat stomach and stared at it, blinking once or twice, expecting a small message to appear on the screen any moment to say it was a joke, it was a mistake, there couldn't be anything in there, let alone a tiny _person _already relying on her for life-that she'd cupped her hands over her stomach and lowered herself onto the closed lid of the toilet, waiting for something.

She'd stood up suddenly and stared at herself in the mirror, lifting her shirt slightly, and staring at her own reflection, waiting for something. A kick, though she'd known it was far too early. A flicker of movement. A sign that there was something in there.

There was a baby in there. The realisation had made her grip the sink tightly and look at herself again in the mirror, her eyes wide. This was their baby in there. Inside her. Needing her. Her hand had curled over her stomach in a rush of warmth, a desire to cushion the baby that was still almost too tiny to be jostled.

As she'd stood up, she'd bumped the sink just slightly and had imagined for a moment that she could feel the baby startle inside her. Though she knew it was impossible, knew that their baby was barely the size of a pinhead, she swore she could feel it and for a moment, her hands had tightened on the sink in a wave of sudden fury that had made her picture, in an instant, ripping the sink out of the wall, yanking it out with a groan of metal, for daring to jostle her baby, even for a moment.

Dave would joke about it when she told him about it later, saying that they must have an angry baby in there, that he'd have to watch his back for the entire pregnancy in case she bludgeoned him in his sleep. But Sam had known, even then, that it wasn't going to leave, the rush of fury she'd felt, almost breathtaking in how pure it was, wasn't going to be lifted out the moment this baby was lifted out of her, any more than their baby would disappear. It was in her, intertwined with her DNA, wrapped around her pulse, contracting with each beat of her heart.

Several months later, when she'd been leaning over the hospital bars, the metal digging into her arms, one finger carefully tucked into Ivan's tiny hand.

"He might not be aware of you" one of the nurses had said gently. "The brain scans haven't given us a clear indication of how much Ivan will be able to take in."

Samantha hadn't bothered to look away from Ivan, from his big, dark blue eyes, which blinked at nothing, or at something none of them could see. "Doesn't matter" was all she'd said, and she'd leaned closer to Ivan, her finger gently stroking his cheek, ignoring the ache of the bars pressing into her arms. She would have leant on them all night to keep her hand on Ivan's cheek.

"I'm here" she'd said, knowing Ivan could hear her even if he'd never know the words. "Good boy."

Dave had been grabbing a nap at the side of the bed-they'd been taking it in turns to sleep. His cheeks had been flushed, his eyes still swollen from crying. Sam had known hers' must look much the same. But they were dry now.

Ivan had made a mewling sound. Samantha had felt his fingers tense. For a moment, his eyes had lingered on hers, and his fingers tightened a little.

Samantha felt a wave of love tighten in her chest, and had wanted to climb into the cot with him and wrap herself around him, tuck him into her chest, keep him safe.

"That's right" she'd said instead, squeezing his finger very gently, but his had twitched in response. "Mummy's here."

Ivan had relaxed, his breathing growing heavy, as his eyes closed. Samantha had stroked his hand. "Mummy" she'd said gently, even as his eyes closed again. "Ivan." She'd breathed his name softly, amazed at how it had settled into him, like wrapping him in her arms. "Ivan. Ivan. Ivan."

It had been that feeling that had sent her storming towards the protesters at the gate, clicking her phone into Camera. The wave of feeling that she once thought was rage that had risen inside her, choking her, when she'd seen Florence's face was the same feeling that meant she could drag herself up for the twelfth time in a night to rock Ivan as a baby, the same feeling that, less than a month after The Fun Run, would tighten her arms around Nancy, that had nearly sent her storming round to Ed Miliband's house in the dead of night, the same feeling that lets her know she could lift a car off any one of her children if she needed to, that she could step in front of one without thinking for one of them. It's purer, stronger than rage, and far more dangerous.

_"Mrs Cameron, my daughter doesn't see her mummy!"_ The voice had split the air as Sam marched towards them, barely noticing the armed police already moving towards her. She doesn't need them. She could throw the woman over the fence with one hand right now if she needed to. Her spine is taut, her knuckles white around the phone.

"My daughter begged _four years in a row_ to see me at Christmas-"

Sam had known not to speak to them-even if she hadn't been told a hundred times by the police, her instincts would have told her that any word she said they'd cling to, drawing life out of it like water from a reed.

_""Please, Daddy! Please, Daddy!""_ The man had been shaking his phone. For a moment, Sam had thought he might throw it at her. The thought flashed through her mind that she'd like him to.

"Do you want to listen to the videos? This government's _ignored it-_Charles Walker, the coward! Ignored it! Lord Justice Ryder, ignored it!"

Samantha had stood there, directly in front of them, her phone out like a weapon. She'd felt a rush standing there, only feet from them, with nothing in between them. She knows full well that if anyone made a move towards the kids, they wouldn't need the guards or the police. Her hands would be around their throats before they could blink.

"Mrs Cameron, can I speak to you regarding my daughter-" The woman was edging round towards her, her voice calmer now, almost beseeching, saying the child's name beseechingly. "I haven't seen her-"

Samantha had only caught a glimpse of the woman over the top of her phone. She'd been short and stocky with a long dark ponytail-and a face-as Nancy would later acerbically describe it-like a potato. But she was clutching a pink poster and a photo of a small pretty toddler with bobbed blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile, and under different circumstances, Samantha might have felt sorry for her.

She'd turned and headed back towards the car, one of the men's voice roaring into the air behind her. "Mrs Cameron, as a mother, do you think it's right that all of our children have been _kidnapped_ by your husband's _government?"_

Samantha had kept walking, the man's words bouncing off her. She could feel that calmness settling into her chest that always follows that rush-the calm, certain feeling of needing to get to her children. She quickened her pace, the taunts at the gate already receding like so much noise as she headed towards the car, where Dave and the kids were waiting for her.

"For money, for profit-" she could hear one of them shouting, but the words drifted away, meaningless, as she climbed into the car, into the rush of warmth and the cacophony of her children's voices, Dave's hand on her shoulder, her arms already wrapping around Florence, hugging her fiercely against her beating heart.

The protesters had already faded into the realm of a half-forgotten bad dream. This was what was real.

Now, Carol Wheeler is holding up her camera phone and Samantha's already moving her arm, the way she learnt to do whenever they stepped out of the door to get the kids to school, a sea of press already arranged outside waiting for them.

"Look, s-I'm really sorry-" She pushed the camera away from her face, trying to do it as gently as possible. She'd tried to smile at the woman, to soften her voice slightly. "It's my Christmas holidays-I'm with my kids, _please-"_

"I would love to-" the woman had begun, and the police officer had given Vic's arm a quick squeeze. Vic had nodded, turned and headed for The Tite without a word, her hand squeezing Sam's arm as she passed.

"I really feel for you-" Now that she can get a good look at her, Sam does feel for her, rather. Something about the woman, despite the havoc of the morning-perhaps it's the way she's clutching the photo of the little girl so fiercely, as though she thinks it might be ripped away from her any moment-but there's something pitiful about her.

"I would love to-"

"But I just-" Samantha had pushed the phone away, more firmly this time. "I really don't want to talk to you now, is that OK?" She'd tried pushing the woman's arm gently. "I'm with my family, it's-"

"Could-could you not assault me, please-" The woman had been glaring at her, her lip pouting out like a child's.

Samantha, staring at her, had felt a wave of exasperation. She'd remembered Dave's words about the woman earlier, when they were all traipsing into the pub.

"Carol bloody Wheeler" he'd said, jerking his head towards the door. "We looked into her case as well, I remember. Well, passed it on, but you know what I mean-"

"And-"

"And nothing." Dave had shrugged, taking a quick glance over at the kids at the table. "Several judges looked at that case and they all came to the same conclusion. She can't be around her daughter. She's violated a couple of restraining orders. She'll probably get another for this-I mean, she must be half out of her mind with grief, but that doesn't always mean you should be the one looking after your kids, just because you want to be."

Now, Samantha had sighed. "I know, it's just, I don't-" She'd taken a deep breath, steadied her voice, the way she does when Florence is having a tantrum. "I really feel for you" she'd said carefully, taking a discreet step back from the phone. "But it's my Christmas holidays-it's not my job-"

"Yeah." The woman was staring at her as though she hadn't heard a word Samantha had said, which she probably hadn't. "I asked social services for help-"

Oh God.

"To stop the father from letting my child down-"

Samantha had taken a long gulp of lager, bracing herself for what could be a while.

"He got people to make false allegations to social services-" The woman's voice had been getting higher, her grip on the photo tighter. A part of Samantha had wanted to put an arm around her, to ask her when she'd last eaten or slept. But she'd remembered Carol Wheeler in her driveway, that morning, filming her daughter.

"I ended up-because-"

"I really feel for you-" and a part of her does, because being a parent who is harming the thing that's most precious to you in the world without even knowing it is all the worse because this woman will never _know _that's what she is-"But, it's the courts that have to deal with it-"

One of the police officers had been stepping between them, even as the woman tried to peer round him.

"Yeah, and-"

"I can't do anything to help you-" Samantha doesn't know how many times she's had to say those words to people over the years, but she can probably count on one hand the number of times they've been believed.

"And the courts _aren't _dealing with it-"

"There's nothing_ I _can do about that-"

"I am _barred_ from court until November 2018-" The woman was staring at her over the phone, a tear dribbling down her cheek now. "My daughter will be _ten and a half_ years old-" More tears came dribbling out, and the woman's voice had broken slightly, as she clutched the photo tighter to her chest. "She doesn't know who I _am."_

Samantha had to take another gulp of lager. _You need to walk away_, Dave had told her once._ If you keep talking to them, it gives them false hope. It makes it harder for them to let go._

And they never seem to want to let go, these people, who always seem to believe in something vast and spectacular, a huge interlinked conspiracy, a collusion of governments and establishments and systems working against them, because it's easier to cling onto that than the world in front of them that's all their own, where there are no bad guys, or not the ones they want to see.

"And-how would _you_ feel-" The woman's voice had cracked again, more tears sliding out.

"I really feel for you-" Samantha's lost count of how many times she's heard herself say that-"But there was, there's nothing-" She'd taken a deeper breath, looking at the woman over the police officer's arm. "My husband has done everything he can-"

"He _hasn't-"_ The woman's voice had cracked in outrage, some of the bravado reasserting itself now that she'd found a safer topic.

"-to help you-he _has-"_

"He has not done everything-he made promises in regards of equal shared parenting-"

Sam had taken a deep breath, resisting the temptation to remind the woman that equal, shared parenting would usually take place between two parents who weren't a danger to their children.

"What you have to understand" she'd said, speaking in the slow careful way she does with Florence and keeping her eyes on the woman's face, even as the police officer moved a little further between them. "Is that in this country, the legal system is separated from the _political_ system-"

"But-you-"

"You, you-you get-"

"He _legislates _it-"

_"Through_ the courts-"

"The government _legislate_ the courts." The woman was shaking slightly, and the police officer had moved further between them.

"Well-" Samantha had known the signs, that the police officer was about to bring an end to the conversation before it got out of control. She'd sighed, dredging up the energy for one last attempt.

"So-"

"He _has _looked into your case-he's brought it up with the people involved-" Samantha had stared at the woman, wondering suddenly if any of this would seep through to her, ever. "He hasn't m-been able to change anything, and that's all he can do-"

"I mean, this morning he said we've made our point-" The officer had leaned right between them now. "And obviously, we haven't made our point because our children weren't coming out from your back garden-"

Oh God.

"There's four of us protesting outside your house, there's _twelve children_ affected-" The woman's voice was getting higher again, her cheeks getting more and more flushed. The officer's foot had nudged Sam's very slightly, but enough for her to get the message.

"We don't mind about us-"

The officer was moving between them now, as the woman's voice grew higher. "It's the twelve children that are affected-"

The police officer had been jerking his head frantically at Sam now, and, glancing over her shoulder, she could see one of the protection officers heading towards them. She'd known it'd be unlikely that she'd ever see Carol Wheeler again, and, for a moment, she did think she could do it, could say they'd look again, could give her something to hold onto, like that photograph.

But it'd end up ripped, just like that photograph has. And like the photograph, it won't stop hurting.

"The problem is" she'd said, already knowing it was hopeless, wondering if anything could break through the woman's denial, whether anything _should. _"We live in a country that has a justice system that deals with this-"

"Yeah-"

But the police officer was shaking his head and Sam was moving towards the pub almost on autopilot, the way she turns towards her children naturally, her own Point North.

"A-anyway, I'm going to go back inside the pub and hang out with my children, because it's-" She'd already been heading towards the pub. "Because it's-I can't do anything about it-"

The police officer had given Sam a frantic gesture as the woman had shouted once more, and Sam had nearly winced.

"If there was anything I could do-" she'd been able to say once more over her shoulder as she headed towards the Tite door, towards the guard waiting to shepherd her inside.

"But I can't" she'd said one last time, the word hanging between them. "I really can't." And she'd headed back into the warmth of the pub, the clash of children's voices like a welcome grab of fierce arms, the woman's last words only now arranging themselves into the shout they were, exploding into the air, seeming to echo, cracking again and again, damp with tears: "Yeah, and _I_ would like to hang out with _my _child!"

"Sam?"

Sam blinks, glancing round at David, who's peering over the back of the seat at Florence, whose head is resting against Elwen's shoulder as she sleeps, the iPad casting their faces in a blue glow.

"Yeah, sorry-" She takes in another look at their children, drinking them in, before she turns back to David.

"You OK?"

Sam nods, blinking herself out of her reverie. "Yeah. Just thinking."

Dave glances at her, then away. "About the kids?"

She nods without needing to. "What were you talking about with Lynton?"

When the kids were younger, the times when Dave was driving were some of the most peaceful. When they were small, Ivan sleeping in his specially-adapted chair, Nancy and Elwen either side of him, nestled in their little baby seats, it would be between party functions, driving Ivan back from a hospital appointment, heading up to Oxfordshire, away from London and work and everything else that filled their lives during the week.

Now Dave isn't allowed to drive-another thing the security measures have taken care of without them even asking-these conversations still happen, but in the middle row of seats, the kids nestled in the back. The security and driver in the front should leave it feeling different, less private, but something about the need to lower their voices, the huddling together in the dark, always reminds Sam of when they were first dating, huddled together under the duvet in her grandmother's house at Sutton Hall, David having crept down the corridor into her room, the two of them muffling their laughter in the duvet and each other's mouths.

Dave sighs, closes his eyes, and pulls her in to rest her head on his shoulder.

"I know you said you'd do interviews" he says slowly. "And that we would do one or two things with the kids."

"I don't-"

"I know." Dave nods before she can find the end of the sentence. "I know. But-we did say we'd only do anything with the kids-that they're completely comfortable with."

"Not with their faces. Not with anything that can identify them. At all."

David takes a deep breath and Samantha tenses, waiting.

Then he nods once. "OK" he says slowly. "OK."

His arm tightens around her slightly as he falls silent. But Samantha watches him for a long moment, his face cast in the orange glow of the streetlamps and she can hear something else hovering between them, something neither of them is saying.

* * *

"I'm flattered" George decides. "I'll go with flattered."

Then he tilts the photo from a different angle. "No. _No._ Not flattered at _all."_

Rupert glances at him as George squints quizzically and tilts the photo again. "Actually, _maybe_ flattered-"

"Oh, for _fuck's sake!"_ Rupert chucks a paper at him. "If it means so much to you, I'll get bloody whatever his name is in and let you personally judge whether you're satisfied with his fucking performance."

George considers. _"Could _you?"

Rupert looks as though he's considering aiming the pot plant next to his desk through the window, when the door flies open, almost smashing its' handle into the wall.

George and Rupert both jump at the sight of Craig, leaning against the door frame out of breath.

"Jesus, _what?"_ George claps a hand over his chest.

"If there's been another bloody attack, it is far too early for a Monday morning."

Craig shakes his head, claps a hand over his own chest. "Jesus. Sorry, I literally just ran all the way up-"

"Yeah, seems that keep fit resolution's really been paying off-"

Craig shakes his head, gasping for breath, but finds another way to vent his sentiment, with the extension of one digit.

"Shut up. That Snickers is not part of the 5:2 diet." He straightens up and, with a considerable effort, draws in a long breath as he stares at George. "Do you know who Dave had in his house yesterday?"

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me?" George demands ten minutes later, the door of David's office bouncing off the wall.

David jumps violently, his pen skidding across the page, leaving a slash of black ink across the white, Gabby grabbing the edge of the desk. "Jesus-"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" David's brow clears. "Oh, the Coalition images. Try not to think of yourself as creepy. I think it's meant to be more foreboding."

"Thank you. You've made my mind up for me." George promptly yanks out the crumpled Coalition poster and tosses it across the room into the bin, not even stopping to punch the air and congratulate himself on it going in on first try. "And what the fuck are you talking about, _foreboding?_ They'd want to make Mandelson fucking foreboding, if anyone."

David snorts. "Mandelson's your pussycat."

Gabby grimaces. _"Images."_

David wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, I wasn't too fond of it either."

"Who's he played by, by the way, I didn't see it-"

"Mycroft from Sherlock-you know, the one who always sounds off about us on Twitter, you know, to get-get a big fat tick in his BBC-writer lovely luvvie box-"

_"Mark Gatiss!"_ George explodes. "His name's Mark _fucking _Gatiss!"

David arches an eyebrow. "Sure? Sounds a bit unusual."

George swells indignantly.

"Anyway, he's a lefty, you don't need his good opinion, crisis averted." David turns back to the paper."

"Isn't Benedict Cumberbatch a bit of a lefty?" Gabby asks, tucking her dark hair back. "But didn't he go to Harrow-"

"Yeah, I think he's trying to escape the curse of his last name-"

"OK." George throws his hands up. "I cannot have this conversation again."

* * *

"So you're doing this education speech at midday-"

"Yeah-" David leans back in his seat, dragging a hand through his hair. "Right before Labour unleash another tale of woe about how we've kept yet another council-estate kid out of uni, while they completely blot out the statistics-"

A piece of paper presses into his knee under the table, clutched between George's fingers. David lifts it casually to lie amongst his own notes.

"Thanks for that update, George."

George's writing stares up at him in a neat blue-inked scribble. _Have you lost your fucking mind?_

David smiles at the note and surreptitiously nudges his foot a little too hard into George's shin.

"By the way-" Nick glances up at them across the table. "David really isn't happy about the approach we're taking to early year childcare-"

_We're._

David sighs, glances down at his paperwork. "I thought David was going to send over his thoughts in an email-"

He shoves the note back to George. _Mainly about my roast dinner._

George slowly crumples the paper in his fist.

"Anyway, what happened to-"

"I think David might be waiting to see how much he agrees with what's in your speech this afternoon" Danny chips in, with a glance at Nick and James.

George shoves the note back to David. Jo, in the chair next to him taking copious notes, gives them a curious look.

_Stop fucking around. Why the hell didn't you tell me?_

"In which case why don't we deal with it, then, once we see whether or not you're pleased with what we're planning?" David says, deliberately sweetly, and has the satisfaction of seeing Nick's smile freeze for just a moment as David prods the elephant that's just been dragged into the room.

"David already has some concerns-" begins Danny and David offers him a smile. "But they might be addressed in the speech, mightn't they?"

George's cheek lifts very slightly next to him, in a gesture only David would notice.

"Unless you've already-" David lets the words hover in the air for a moment. "Decided there won't be."

There's a silence, which lasts only a few seconds, but seems interminable. David leans back in his chair deliberately, lets himself savour the sight of Danny searching for something to say. David waits silently, daring him.

George, he can tell from the tension of his shoulders, is loving every second of it.

"Well" Nick says, after another flicker of a glance at Danny. "That's a-that's a possibility."

It's the furthest he can go and in the moment when his and David's eyes meet, they both know it.

David allows his mouth to twitch ever so slightly in the tiniest of smiles.

Then he lowers his eyes back to the papers. "All right" he says, peaceably. "We'll take it from there, then."

Chris, sitting across the room, gives him a barely perceptible nod, a warning arch of the eyebrow.

This might be one of the last times he'll sit in this room with Nick Clegg as his Deputy Prime Minister, negotiating cuts to a schools budget. It most likely won't be.

_Don't take it too far. Not yet._

He scribbles on the note again, shoves it back to George. _Still want me to stop fucking around?_

This time, George's cheek raises higher, eyes deepening in a broader smile.

* * *

"We know he did it deliberately" says Danny, helpfully, from the chair in front of Nick's desk.

"Of course he did it deliberately" Nick says, counting to ten as he watches David pace up and down behind Danny's chair. "He's feeling us out, so's Osborne."

"Because he knows we're feeling _them _out" points out Danny. "They're only doing what they know _we're _doing. Probably looking for where they can make gains in the Budget negotiations."

Nick lets his head drop forward. "God. And it's fucking Catch-22. If we distance ourselves from them too much, forming another coalition will be fucking impossible."

"And that's the only way we're getting back in government" says Danny, bluntly.

David's eyes flicker to Nick's, only for the tiniest of seconds, but Nick knows Danny notices.

"I don't care" David barks out, suddenly. "I don't care. I am _not _backing a policy that cuts the early years childcare-"

"OK-" Nick holds out a hand. "OK. David, calm down-"

"We need to differentiate ourselves from them" David says, more calmly, but coming to a halt now and staring straight at Nick. "Because right now, our ratings are absolutely in the toilet and everyone thinks Cameron's got his hand up your back, animating you with his fingers."

Nick and Danny both stare at him.

David blinks. "Yeah, that sounded a lot better in my head."

"And out of mine." Nick rests his forehead on one hand. "And _yes_, we need to differentiate, which is why we're doing our own Budget."

David doesn't look away from him. "But if Cameron and Osborne want to play at psyching you out, you know they've got the upper hand here."

He hesitates. "And-everything depends on the number of seats."

Nick hesitates.

56 seats. Predicted 30. If that.

"Look" he says. "Let's take it one day at a time."

* * *

"Right." The moment the door's closed behind them, George spins round to face David. "Stop fucking about with the notes, for now-"

"Oh, I thought you were enjoying the notes."

George bites his lip, suppressing a smile. "It's not funny." He shakes his head. "No, it's _really _not funny. It's not. What if the press had spotted you?"

"The press usually leave us alone up there-"

"You can't be certain" Chris says, looking uncharacteristically grave. "Especially as it gets near to the election. They'll be all over both of you." He leans forward, clearing his throat. "Listen. No one's saying you can't be-"

The door flies open to reveal Craig standing in the doorway, gasping for breath.

"Jogging still not paying off?" says George flippantly. Craig ignores him.

"Come on" he says, looking straight at David with no preamble. "You knew full well how I'd react. That's why you didn't tell me-"

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want to-plus, I knew you had the girls this weekend, I didn't want to-"

"Come on." Craig shakes his head. "You know that's not the point."

Gabby takes her place in a chair quietly, dark eyes darting between them as she takes in the situation.

"What are you objecting to?" David challenges, leaning back against the desk. "The fact we invited him or the fact we didn't tell you?"

Craig meets his eyes. "Honestly? Both."

There's a short silence.

"I see" says David slowly, leaning right back against the desk. "I see. So what is this, now-a veto on all of us having any, any contact with anyone outside of our-"

"It's not about that" George says. "You _know_ it's not about that-"

"It's a good thing, too, because you and Balls would be right on the sharp end of it, for starters" David retorts.

George is silent but a faint tinge of colour appears in his pale cheeks. Gabby arches a knowing eyebrow.

"Look" Craig says, with a glance at George and a roll of his eyes. "No one's got hold of this. No one photographed you. I'll check with Graeme, but I'm pretty certain. But what I _have _had-" He holds his phone aloft. "Is a tonne of messages from Tom fucking Baldwin about all this, breathing fucking fire-"

George snorts. _"White _fire?"

_"Snorting_ fire?" David mutters.

"Giving those nostrils a bit of a nosebleed-"

Chris bites his lip, keeping his face studiously blank.

"Look" Craig says. "Miliband's advisers aren't thrilled about this, either. And neither's-"

Once again, the door flies open. David winces with a glance at the wall. George catches his eye. "We really should get a doorstop."

Lynton stands in the doorway, glasses hanging, crookedly, from one ear. His suit is half-hanging off, his tie askew. Under one arm is stuffed a frightened-looking toy kangaroo.

Craig winces. "Please tell us no one saw you."

Lynton doesn't even acknowledge this. Instead, he just lifts the kangaroo and points it directly at David like a weapon. "Cameron. Consider yourself unworthy of the koala."

* * *

"I'm disappointed" Lynton says, pacing up and down. "I'm disappointed, that's all I can say."

Under his arm, the kangaroo's head bobs disapprovingly.

George, perched on the couch next to David, nudges him. "Should we-"

David, taking a long look at the kangaroo, shakes his head. "He probably just likes it."

"I mean-" Lynton stops and spins round, holding the kangaroo aloft. "You disrespected it, that's all I can say. You disrespected Lynton the Koala."

David blinks. "You know that's not Lynton the-"

Lynton swells. "Do you _REALLY _want to _TEST _me right now?"

David falls silent.

George nudges him. "Look-"

"You told me to be nicer to him."

"To be _nicer _to him" Lynton hisses furiously. "At bloody Bercow's request! To endear the fucking Speaker a little more to your side, because everyone with eyes knows you hate the fucking poison dwarf!"

David opens his mouth, assuming a look of outrage, then closes it again. "Yeah, I'll give you that."

George nods. "Everyone knows."

"I think Michael wrote a limerick about it."

_"So-"_ Lynton explodes. "You needed to be _nicer _to him. Not invite him to a fucking _sleepover-"_

David feels the heat creep slowly into his cheeks. George glances at him, then looks again, longer this time.

Lynton rolls his eyes, not noticing, thanks to the intervention of some deity. David draws in a long breath.

"Look-" he says, after a moment. "Our kids are friends. That-it was just a thought. No-one knows."

Lynton makes a strange, hacking sound. For a moment, David's concerned they may have finally killed him, before he realises Lynton's merely laughing.

"No-one knows?" Lynton demands, when he can speak again. "No-one _knows?"_

David and George exchange a glance.

Lynton grabs Craig's arm without looking at him, scrabbling for his phone, Craig's hand landing on his arm. "Lynton, it really doesn't-"

"No, it really does."

"Lynton, this really isn't necessary-"

"Yes, it really is." Lynton shoves the phone into David's hand, David blinking at the screen. "Take a look at that."

David looks.

_Mr Oliver, can we get your comments on the story we've received from a source that the Prime Minister and the Leader Of The Opposition were dining together in a restaurant in Paris, following the march on January-_

David looks up slowly.

Lynton nods. "Keep going."

_Mr Oliver, can you confirm whether there is any truth in the rumour that the Prime Minister invited the Leader Of The Labour Party to Chequers at any time in the past three months..._

_Mr Oliver, does the Prime Minister have any comment on the account that he invited the Labour leader to his constituency home..._

"Yes" Lynton says, voice heavy with sarcasm. "No one knows."

David looks up at Craig, who's avoiding his gaze. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it's my job." Craig says it quickly, firmly, snapping the words out almost before David's finished speaking. "It's my job and it's my problem and it's just tabloid rubbish. We can deal with it."

His eyes meet David's for the briefest of seconds and David can see him standing in that office a few weeks beforehand after he'd pushed open the door to find Miliband with his head on David's shoulder-_He's your opponent._

_Why did you want him here?_

"Are you fucking _joking?"_ Lynton spins round. "We shouldn't be_ having _to deal with this, because this _shouldn't be_ _fucking happening."_

David folds his arms. "What, so-I should, no, no longer have any kind of interaction with anyone who isn't 100% guaranteed to bleed blue if you cut them open-"

Lynton hesitates.

David blinks. "You're not serious."

"No" Craig says before Lynton can speak, (Lynton giving him a resentful look). "Of course not. But-you have to admit-you do need to be more careful."

_"More careful?"_ Lynton explodes, snatching the phone out of David's hand. _"More careful?_ Try not eating out with him in fucking _Paris._ Try not having fucking _sleepovers _with him-"

"You just need to be more careful" Craig says, more quietly.

"You've never minded it before."

"_I _have" mutters Lynton.

Craig ignores him. "That was when you weren't in the run-up to a general election-" He sighs, lowers himself onto David's desk. "It's just-in the next few weeks, you two are going to be scrutinised at every event you attend together. Don't give them any more than you need to."

"Why did you have to pick _now _to bloody realise-"

David's head snaps up. "Realise what?"

His cheeks are burning.

Lynton stares at him. "What?"

"Realise what?"

Lynton blinks. "Nothing." He looks away. "Forget it. I was thinking out loud."

"We haven't _realised."_

"Forget it."

"We haven't realised-we haven't realised _anything."_ David has no idea why his heart is suddenly pounding.

There's a short silence.

"Look-" Lynton rests his head on his hand. "That's only part of the reason I'm in here."

David, in the moment that follows, can't help but notice that George's eyes are still lingering on his face.

"Did you talk to Sam?"

Oh.

David sighs. "Yeah."

There's another silence.

Then Lynton makes an explosive sound. _"And?"_

David holds out a hand, George slapping a hand over his chest and muttering about the frequent diminishing of his life expectancy these days. "OK. I spoke to her and she's still-"

He looks Lynton in the eye. "We're not having the kids' faces on TV."

Lynton hits the desk. "Well, then, it's kiss a sweet goodbye to the fucking personal vote, isn't it? Because, trust me, Miliband's going to be smearing his precious little sprogs' faces all over every TV screen in the fucking country, and they're going to lap up every last saccharine ugly second of it like they're dying of fucking thirst."

"Fine." David doesn't realise he's standing up for a moment. "Fine. Let him. Let Miliband do that. Our kids won't be."

Lynton throws his hands up in the air. "For God's _sake._ One bloody clip. That's all we're fucking asking. One bloody clip of the kids eating their dinner with you, one quick glimpse of their dimpled little faces, and you've got every woman in the country eating out of the palm of your hand."

David blinks. "Not if they heard you say that."

"Look." Craig's quieter now. "I can see where Dave's coming from on this. Honestly, I wouldn't want my kids all over the country, either-"

"Well, you're not the fucking Prime Minister, are you-"

"All right." David turns to the couch, then, abruptly, back to Lynton. "No. There's your answer. We've already said we'll let the kids be filmed. If they're OK with it. Twice. And that's your lot. With their faces hidden. That's the final offer."

"Well, it's not accepted."

"Well, it'll have to _be_ accepted." David doesn't realise he's stepped closer to Lynton, doesn't realise his voice has risen to a dangerously high volume until he notices that the rest of the room has fallen silent. "What are you going to do, force a camera into my childrens' faces while they're eating their fucking porridge?"

There's a long silence.

Lynton meets his gaze, takes a long, deep breath, with the expression of someone exercising every last vestige of control. "Look. I know that this is difficult-"

"It's not difficult because it's not fucking happening."

When Lynton opens his mouth again, David shakes his head. "No. No way."

Lynton watches him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he opens his mouth.

"OK. There might be another way."

* * *

"That didn't go-well" Craig says cautiously to George, a few minutes later.

George stares back at him. "To be honest, that went far better than I thought it would. Because if I'd known, I'd have told you not to fucking _ask_ him that."

Craig has the grace to look abashed. "If it means anything, I didn't know he was going to ask it today. Honestly-"

"No, I know." George can feel the anger evaporating as quickly as it appeared. "It just-"

He swallows, glances about. "You have to understand-Sam doesn't talk about that. Ever."

Craig winces. George, taking in the look on his face, feeling something stretch taut in his chest, takes a slightly sharper breath than usual.

"Look. What about the main-the thing that got Lynton-" George glances at the couch. "Nearly beheading that poor kangaroo for one thing."

The kangaroo seems to peer at them mournfully from the couch.

Craig gives it a long look. "Yeah, doesn't look too happy, does it? Suits the situation-"

"Dave and Miliband are happy" George points out.

Craig winces. "Jesus, don't say that."

George falls silent, thinking.

Craig turns abruptly, beginning to wander about the room. "Look, you know him inside out" he says suddenly, almost as if the words have been jolted out of him. "You-"

Craig looks up. "I mean-you and Balls-but that's not the same, is it?"

George can remember the first time he met David Cameron. It had been in the mid-'90s and it was at a party, when their party had sensed they were dying, could sense the future rolling towards Blair and Brown and Campbell like a juggernaut, and a lot of them-the younger ones, anyway-had decided that they might as well enjoy the ride.

George had been debating whether or not to try and knock back his last gulp of champagne, when he'd become aware of Andrew calling his name and a silver spoon against crystal ringing through the air.

"Come on up-" Andrew was holding his arm out, eyes bright, and George had felt a shove in the shoulder from Danny, disproving the half-formed theory that the whole thing was an alcohol-fuelled dream, since he'd asked Andrew _not_ to do this at his leaving party.

Slowly, he'd got to his feet and made his way up to the centre of the room, feet striking the wooden floor a little too loudly. It was only as he reached Andrew's side, noticing that he seemed far more exuberant than usual, that George had realised he wasn't alone. Another man stood next to him, taller than George, with lighter, chestnut hair, the sort of rosy cheeks that make one look almost annoyingly healthy, and a grin that he didn't seem to work for, blue eyes that sparkled effortlessly-George had almost known his name, probably would have with less alcohol, but not quite. George had been mildly conscious of the contrast between the other man and his own, much darker, almost blue-black hair, which had curled back then, and the paleness of his own cheeks, which often seemed to struggle to summon colour even after hours under a foreign sun, despite the rush of heat he'd felt when Andrew seized his arm and dragged him in to stand closer to the other man.

"Now-" Andrew had been holding a glass of champagne in the air which had tilted dangerously above their heads. "I know that we look as though we are heading into dark-dark and bleak times-"

A chorus of boos had arisen. "Shut it, Campbell" someone had bellowed, prompting a gale of laughter to ripple through the crowd.

"And I know we may be aware-of the hovering dark storm cloud of Tony Blair-"

Even more boos, cries of _"Shame!"_

George's mouth had twitched slightly, irritation betraying itself. Whatever they thought of Blair, he was doing something right-and they weren't. And if he was doing something right, it wouldn't do any good to pretend that he wasn't. The public weren't stupid.

Glancing quickly at the man on the other side of Andrew, now also being hugged rather more vigorously than was entirely comfortable, George had caught sight of a similar twitch at his own mouth.

"Now-but there is always-" Andrew had held his finger aloft until the room fell silent again. "But there is always light at the end of the tunnel, my friends. And yes, though we may have to tolerate Blair beaming in front of the black door-"

More "boos", retching sounds. George resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

"Let me tell you-we will have our day again. We shall clap our hands on Mr Blair's shoulder one day and we shall-" The glass wavered again. "Escort him slowly out of Downing Street by his protesting ear-" Andrew had clearly been reading too many of Boris's bylines in the Telegraph.

A wave of cheers, a couple of glasses thrust into the air, drinks sloshing too wildly.

"And you know why?" Without waiting for an answer, Andrew's arms had tightened around their shoulders, pulling them both into his sides so suddenly that their heads had nearly crashed together. "Because of these two, right here."

George had blinked and, glancing at the other man, had had the strange experience of seeing his own expression on another person's face.

"Not just them, others like them" Andrew had declared, releasing them both with jovial thumps on the back. "But these two-they're young, they're sharp enough to cut yourself on, they're handsome-"

A chorus of wolf-whistles.

"-and what's more, they fucking _smashed _the '92 campaign-"

A wave of cheers this time.

_"They're_ the reason John is in Number 10 right now-" Andrew had declared, hugging George almost hard enough to hurt. "Fuck Blair and Brown. We've got our _own _Blair and Brown-and one of them isn't waiting to slip the knife between the other's ribs in the next few years-"

A gale of laughter, punctuated by Danny's "Don't eat at Granita!" prompting another round of cackles.

"Because-like the two charlatans at the head of the Red Planet-they complement each other. They give each other what they need. Mark my words-" and they'd both found themselves being pulled in again, George's head nearly colliding with the other man's. "These two-are heading right up. They're going right-get their names_ now_ because you might not get a chance later, when we're all scrabbling to work for them-and when you are running the country-" Andrew held up a warning finger. "Please make me Governor of Bermuda-"

Another burst of laughter.

"These two are going to be in Downing Street one day" and Andrew's hands had clapped them hard on the back, nearly sending George into his glass. "David Cameron and George Osborne-"

An outbreak of applause had spread around them, punctuating the first time George had ever heard their names linked together.

Now, he glances at Craig. "No" he says and he knows it suddenly, even more surely than before. "It's-Miliband gives him-"

Those words shimmer before George's eyes once again.

_What he needs._

Craig's staring at him. George trails off, and pulls out his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm _doing-"_ George is already scrolling through his contacts. "What I need-to find out what _they _need-"

Craig blinks. "Feel like translating?"

George grins, shakes his head. "Nope-"

Craig sighs. "Well, be fucking careful" he warns, as George's fingers fly over the screen. "We've got enough on our plate right now. Speaking of which, I guess Sam won't be on board with-" Craig shuffles his feet. "What Lynton-"

George doesn't even have to look up from his phone. "No, she'll do it."

Craig blinks. "Wait, what? I thought you said-"

George looks up at him over the phone and when he speaks this time his voice is quieter. "Because I see her with them." His voice lowers even more. "I saw them with _him."_

There's a long moment of silence, during which George turns back to the phone.

After a moment, Craig speaks in a tone of slightly forced cheer. "I've never really hoped Labour spin doctors are on top of a situation before."

George allows himself a small, rueful smile, at more things than one.

"Well" he says, surveying the message one more time, running his eyes carefully over each letter before pressing SEND, "let's hope they're doing a better job of staying calm than we are."

* * *

Peter opens the door only for a mobile phone to hit him in the face.

"Wonderful" he says, taking the phone between the tips of his fingers. "You come bearing gifts."

Alastair half-pushes past him, muttering a constant stream of nonsense sounds under his breath. Peter, inspecting the phone, briefly wonders if he should consider returning it as a weapon.

"Seventeen" Alastair barks at him, heading towards the kitchen without waiting for an invitation. Peter takes a moment to roll his eyes upwards, before following him.

"Seventeen" he says, occupying himself with the teapot, since it seems he has a guest.

"Seventeen-"

"Is that how young I look?"

"Seventeen-"

"Is this a new game?" Peter asks silkily, as he closes the cupboard door. "Can I play?"

_"Seventeen _calls" Alastair explodes, throwing off his jacket and collapsing into a chair. "That's how many times I rang him yesterday. And it's fucking nothing compared to the amount of times fucking _Tom_ called him, and he wouldn't. Fucking. _Answer."_

Peter, busying himself with the teapot, shrugs. "He's just not that into you."

Alastair's head flies up. "This is not a fucking joke" he barks. "We couldn't get hold of him for three fucking _hours_ yesterday, while _he _palled around with fucking _Cameron."_

Peter pauses for just a second, finger hovering on the teapot handle.

Alastair's still in full flow. "And when I fucking got hold of _Tom_ to get where he was, oh, he's wandered up to Chipping fucking _Norton_, of all places, which just gives some Dacre-licking parasite the chance to snap a picture of him hanging out with fucking _Clarkson_ or that twat from Blur, and get the bloody Mail bottom-feeders on about how he's probably hacking bloody _phones _now-"

"Didn't Rebekah have dinner with you a few days before Hutton?"

_"That is neither here nor fucking there."_

Peter allows himself a slight flicker of a smile as he pushes a steaming mug across the table. "Didn't you once tell me that histrionics don't add oil to the government machine?"

"Well, we're not in fucking government, so that can piss off."

"Always the gentleman." Peter takes a seat next to him, biding his time, taking in the bags under Alastair's eyes in long, covert glimpses. His fingers twitch, already wanting to zoom to Fiona's name in his contacts.

Alastair takes a gulp of tea, wincing slightly. "You're not _worried?"_ he almost bellows, incredulously.

"Please-" Peter raises a hand. "I attended an opera last night. My ears are still unsullied."

"Oh, for the love of _Christ-"_

"And I didn't say I wasn't worried." Peter dabs at the corners of his mouth carefully with a napkin. "I'm merely less troubled by this development of events than you are."

Alastair blinks. "Did you _miss_ the part where the Leader of the fucking Opposition held a fucking _slumber party_ with the-"

"I find that description rather unlikely-" Peter begins to stir sugar into his tea slowly, precisely. "It's not as though they were in the same _room."_

Alastair, who had been about to reach for the biscuit tin, freezes, and then throws his hands into the air. "Oh, _fantastic."_

"Alastair, Alastair-" Peter raises his hands. "Before I take to my high horse and offer you a helpline number-"

Alastair points a finger at him. "Do not fucking talk about helplines, you who I had to issue with the Samaritans number after 2001-"

Peter slams the mug down. "I had nothing to do with the request for Hinduja's passport, and you know it full well, as you did at the time, you utter _jackal."_

Alastair, through the ominous cloud that seems to be gathering over his head, manages a twitch of a grin. "Your high horse just fucking bolted."

Peter takes a long, calming breath, steeples his fingers.

"Look" he says, when he can speak again after a long moment of stilling his lip at the memory of the injustice of it all. "I didn't mean to imply-"

"Well, that's all the _press _will choose to fucking imply, isn't it?" Alastair almost thumps the table with his fist. "That there was-there's-"

"Have the press got hold of it?"

Alastair shoots him a withering look. "Of fucking course they haven't. A couple of tabloids, but we've shut them down."

"Then it's not really the press you're worried about, is it?" Peter asks mildly.

Anyone else would have been treated to a tirade. As it's Peter, Alastair just glares.

Peter sighs. "We can sit here all day. There's plenty of tea."

"It's _distracting_ him" Alastair half-shouts, abruptly pulling back his chair, beginning to pace back and forth. Peter feels himself tense, eyes following the pacing, counting rapidly in his head to see if he can calculate how fast Alastair is moving.

"This shouldn't be his fucking _priority_" Alastair snaps, eyes too wild as he spins to look at Peter. "The fucking election should be, and then he goes out of action for nearly a whole fucking day-for Christ's sake, I need to send him a fucking memo-"

He comes to an abrupt halt as he turns to find Peter standing directly behind him. "What?"

Peter sighs, takes him in with a quick sweep of the eyes. "When did you last sleep?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake-"

"When?"

Alastair opens his mouth, but Peter's eyes meet his, the same way Alastair had once looked at him as they sat in Tony's office, drafting that statement, the words _Geoffrey Robinson_ wavering in the blur of Peter's tears.

"When, Alastair?" he says, voice lower.

Alastair lets out a long breath. "Last night" he barks. "Couple of hours."

Peter arches an eyebrow. "And if I ask Fiona?"

Alastair snaps his mouth shut and fumes.

At that moment, Peter's phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. He feels his eyes widen imperceptibly at the name that appears, but any other time, Alastair would have noticed.

He slides his phone back into his pocket calmly and then scrutinises Alastair, taking in the shadows under his eyes, the muscle working slightly in his jaw, the constant tapping of his fingers. But more than anything, it's the frantic darting of his eyes, almost too rapidly to track, that strange, manic gaze that can't settle on anything for more than a few seconds.

_Peter hadn't known if there was an appropriate gift to bring to someone in a place like this, but flowers seem to suit any occasion._

_He's been here three or four times by now, but he can't seem to really get used to it-the checks of everything you bring in, the odd, muted silence of the corridors. Alastair's eyes, darting in the way that previously meant he was motoring, shaping a strategy, unscrambling a line._

_"Peter-"_

_Peter turns to see the tall man heading towards him, blond hair flopping casually in what's almost but not quite a toff's haircut, three-day stubble edging his jaw, the evidence of someone not leaving much._

_"John."_

Peter takes Alastair in. Then, abruptly, he puts a hand on his shoulder, steering him back towards a chair. "You're going to eat. And then I'm going to take you home."

Before Alastair can explode out of the chair again, Peter's hand tightens on his shoulder.

"Have you been to see them?" he says, in a much softer voice.

Alastair stares back at him for a long moment, his expression mutinous.

Peter nods. "All right" he says to himself as much as Alastair. "All right."

It takes a moment to let go of Alastair's shoulder, a moment during which he squeezes a second tighter, holds on a breath more than he needs to, fingers slowly releasing Alastair, watching the twitch of that muscle in his jaw, almost in time with the slow, constant trembling of Alastair's body, as though nothing can warm him up.

* * *

Marc lingers when they get back from Milton Keynes.

Ed keeps his eyes studiously on his desk. His fingers twitch, longing to wrap around the Rubix Cube that lurks just out of reach.

But Marc just stands quietly until Ed has to look up at him. "Are you all right?" he asks, reflecting with what's almost irritation that Marc is one of those people who's always careful not to do quite enough to make you angry with him. "How did the scan go?"

"Oh, good, good" Marc had said, as though that had been the purpose of him staying all along. "Yeah, doing great-the baby's a good size, she's healthy-" Ed had known he'd find out the gender. It seems to be a thing left-wing circles have fallen into, as though waiting for it to be born is a ridiculously antiquated conservative notion.

"Thought about names yet?" he says, which is the sort of thing you ask, he knows.

"We're thinking of something a little quirkier. Welsh-sounding, even, they do nice names. Carys, Freya, that sort of thing-"

Ed nods, hoping desperately that he's wearing the right expression. He's always tried to feel interested in baby names and such, but he just can't seem to manage it, to unravel _why _people find them so fascinating.

When they'd named the boys, it had been easy. They'd found out the gender as soon as possible and then got the names signed off. Ed had known people would expect an ancestral one, that it would be a sign of family connections, so Samuel had been easy to choose. And then, of course, Stewart, since Daniel had already been given Ralph.

It had been more difficult with Daniel, and it had been Justine who pointed out that it was a Jewish name.

"It would sound good. Echoes your family history."

And it had been those last two words that had probed at him, because there was an election soon, and if-that word niggling again-_if_ Gordon didn't get back in-if they were out-

Well, that was the sort of thing they asked you about, wasn't it?

And so it had been Daniel. Daniel and Samuel. Sam, though-they'd thought it sounded better, more casual.

Bob had grabbed his arm the day after Sam had been born, before he could head out of UCH, to the cameras that had been gathering outside waiting to snap away since early that morning. "Don't say the name yet."

Ed had blinked. "Why-"

"We could get a few more days out of this." Bob had given his arm a squeeze. "Babies always get the women eating out of your hand. If you wait to announce the name, you generate a bit of interest, keep the story going a couple of days-some newspaper will put a bet on-then, after you reveal it, you do a little photoshoot. We should be able to keep the coverage going a bit longer, get ratings up. I mean, the press practically wet themselves when Cameron's daughter was born. And one of his was when he was Leader Of The Opposition, it sent him right up in the polls-"

Ed had shifted awkwardly, thinking of the pictures that had appeared a couple of months earlier, emblazoned under every headline, played live on the huge TV screens dotted around. Cameron stepping out of the black door, arm protectively around Samantha's back. Samantha's freshly-washed hair bouncing a little more wildly than usual, betraying the rush of a new baby, but with this huge smile that almost glowed out of her, her eyes constantly on the sleeping baby's face. Almost as if the cameras didn't matter. Almost as if they were an irrelevance. As if she just looked at the baby like that.

Cameron had beamed at them, his whole face seeming to throw out happiness into their lenses like a physical shove, like he had it to spare, answering a few questions. But his hand had hovered on Samantha's back the whole time, the other hand touching the baby, helping Samantha support her, as though wanting to remind himself how lucky he was. What he had.

Every couple of seconds, he'd darted down, heedless of cameramens' shouted requests, and pressed quick kisses to the baby's cheeks or head, as if he still couldn't quite believe she was his yet.

Ed had watched that clip over and over. The thing he'd noticed most of all, replayed a couple of times, was the moment Cameron had pressed his nose to the tip of baby Florence's.

It was the sheer _beam _that had deepened the dimples in his cheeks afterwards, the crinkle of his blue eyes, happiness shining out of his face. It had jolted something oddly in Ed's chest.

Upstairs, in the private hospital room, Ed had remembered that clip-there'd been some photographs too, released a couple of days earlier, where Cameron had been holding Florence, wrapped in a blanket, one hand cradling her head, their noses pressing together and even though Ed had known there must have been a photographer in the room with them, the camera clicking away, Cameron had held that same beaming happiness in his face but quieter now, as if he was holding it closer as he gazed at his baby, as if it was just him and her.

Ed had picked Sam up awkwardly, hefted him into his arms, making sure to support his head, the way Justine had read in all the books was so important, had nodded earnestly with overlarge eyes at him about, about the _flotella_ and how important it was for brain development.

Sam had stirred only vaguely. He'd been a quieter baby than Daniel. Daniel had simply observed them gravely at first, his lips puckering and forehead creasing, giving him a permanent expression of mild displeasure, and then had begun to, quite simply, scream when either of his parents picked him up. Not a normal baby's cry, but a long, enduring siren of outrage, as if only a few months experience of the world had allowed him to judge them and find them wanting. It was easier to let Zia, by that point fresh-faced and covertly hired and newly moved in downstairs, to take him. She was already better at calming him, anyway, the way she should be.

Sam had been quiet, but had still wriggled, letting out only the tiniest mewl. Ed had wondered if he'd open his eyes, hoping he wouldn't, not wanting to feel under the pressure of the baby's gaze.

When he hadn't, Ed had shifted him a little, trying to make the warm weight in his arms feel more natural. Everyone else seemed to be able to do it.

He'd tried searching the baby's face for features that might be recognisable as his or Justine's, the way he'd seen other parents exclaim over as though it was a miracle rather than simply the orderly process of genetics. But he'd only been able to notice Sam's hair, thick and dark, like his, and curling very slightly.

Awkwardly, he'd lowered his mouth and, pursing his lips, pressed a peck to Sam's nose, getting a rush of baby-sweet skin and warmth. He'd lifted his head a little, waiting for something, for that same rush of love and happiness that had beamed out of Cameron.

He'd waited, and waited, and then as he'd stood up a little, he'd jostled Sam slightly, causing him to let out an indignant little mewl, and Ed had hastened to place him back in the cot, telling himself the baby needed to sleep.

"He needs rest" Justine had said, sparing the baby a glance. She was already studying another one of those books, propped up against her knees in bed. "He needs to be rested for his feeds. They can be taxing for young babies, especially if they're going onto formula."

Ed had nodded. For a moment, he'd thought about putting his hand out, squeezing Justine's shoulder. But it wasn't quite what Cameron had done. And Justine was already looking back at the book.

So Ed had stepped away from the bed and from Sam in the cot and when Bob had said "Don't tell them, not yet", he'd nodded and said, "Fine", because what difference did it make?

Now, Marc gives him a grin. "How was the weekend, then?" he asks, lightly, and Ed's grip on his pen tightens.

* * *

"Move over." Rachel bends down, pressing her eye to the keyhole.

"Move." She shoves Stewart hard in the side.

_"Ow!"_ Stewart rubs his side with an aggrieved look. Rachel snorts. "Oh, don't be such a baby or I'll get Grace to jab you with that wooden sword again."

"That thing left me with a _bruise."_

"What are we doing?"

Rachel claps her hand over her heart as Ayesha pops up behind them, her chin almost nudging itself over Rachel's shoulder. "What are we, who are we looking at?"

"You _know?"_

"I think everyone knows." Ayesha's peering about. "I heard it from Gladys."

_"Gladys?"_

"Yeah, she's got quite a mind on her, we have nice chats-" Ayesha bobs up and down, as though she might somehow be able to cram her head next to the keyhole too. "Anyway, she heard it from Tim."

"Oh, it would be that the monk's vow of fucking silence had to end _now."_ Stewart has promptly stepped over to take Rachel's place at the keyhole.

"Oh, would you fucking _move?"_

"Who's in there?"

"Marc-" Rachel stamps on Stewart's foot hard. "We thought he'd be least likely to send Ed into another one of his sulks-"

Ayesha takes her turn kicking Stewart. "Thanks again for that."

"I _said _I was _sorry"_ Stewart hisses, hopping further back down the corridor, clutching his foot. "I still reckon it was Anna who tipped him off."

"God." Rachel looks round. "Does she know?"

Ayesha shrugs.

"Where is she?" Stewart barks.

"Probably finding her witch's coven..." Rachel mutters, pressing her eye back to the keyhole.

"She's not that bad..."

"Really? Have you forgotten the Sun cover?"

Ayesha shrugs. "OK, maybe she is that bad, but..."

Rachel shakes her head. "But not as bad as Stewart."

Stewart snorts from behind them. "Oh, thanks."

"Pleasure."

"God, yeah, I remember..." Ayesha mutters. "Black June..."

"I mean-you'd think he'd have approached it with a little more dignity-" says Rachel, who's currently crouching on the floor and pressing her ear to the gap under the door.

"I _said _I was _sorry._"

"Not you, him."

"Though you manage it too" Rachel mutters from the carpet.

_"He _was-" Ayesha turns back to the door. "I mean, I love Ed, but-" She lowers her voice confidentially. "Can you even _imagine_ anything more undignified than-"

She freezes. Crouched at the bottom of the door with her ear pressed against the wood, so does Rachel.

From the other side of the door, there's the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Run." Ayesha pushes past them both, yanking one of her heels off and choosing to hop frenziedly along in the other. "Go, go, go-"

Rachel and Stewart exchange a glance, each loathe to find themselves in agreement with the look on the other's face, and then turn and bolt after her, the three of them tumbling over each other round the corner, Ayesha still hopping determinedly in one heel.

* * *

"So-" Marc says, once they're sitting in Portcullis House, on either side of a table. Marc's pressed a sandwich back into Ed's hands almost unthinkingly at the counter and it had made Ed think, almost unwittingly, of Cameron.

"How was it?"

Ed stares down at the sandwich in his hands and takes a bite without tasting it. He chews for a long moment, trying to push away the image of Cameron's grin at him, head tilted as he looked at him at the bar, of that grin.

"Fine" he says, when he can't stare at the table any longer, and then he looks up. "It was-yeah, it was fine. He introduced me to some of his friends."

Marc arches an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were that far along in the relationship."

Ed stops, mouth full. His eyes flicker up to Marc's, and he goes to speak before he remembers he still has a mouthful of food. He forces himself to swallow.

"W-what do you mean? W-what do you mean-I-what-I-I-"

He trails off, feeling a blush warm his cheeks as Marc raises an eyebrow with a small grin.

He'd been bracing himself for a row when he'd walked through the front door with the boys in tow. But instead, when he'd walked into the living room, he'd been greeted by the sight of Justine sitting on one couch, Rachel and Stewart on the other.

"Oh-" Ed had stopped, the boys trailing behind him, quieter and quieter since they left the cottage, until by the time they'd driven out of Oxfordshire, they'd been barely speaking at all.

He'd waited for an explosion from one of them, but Rachel had just said "Hi" cautiously with a smile.

Ed had glanced at Justine, who had given him a smile too quickly, patted the sofa next to her. Ed had had the strangest thought that Samantha wouldn't have had to do that for Cameron.

He'd lowered himself onto the couch slowly, and glanced at Rachel and Stewart. "Sorry. I was-"

"Ed, it's-" Rachel had turned her gaze to the boys. "Hi, boys-"

"Hi, chaps-" and Justine had stood up, a second later than she should have. "Did you have a good weekend, then?"

She'd bent down and half-ruffled Sam's hair, before letting her hand drop back to her side, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

"They _did."_ Ed had leapt in when neither of the boys had spoken, aside from Sam burbling, almost inaudible, "'lo, Mummy."

"Yes, they _did-_we've been _walking_, haven't we?"

"Great-" Justine had smiled a little too widely, sparing Daniel a glance, but when he didn't look back at her, she'd glanced back at Sam.

"And we went to-Elwen's football game-"

Ed hadn't been able to stop himself glancing at Rachel and Stewart as he'd said Elwen's name. Stewart had tensed slightly. But Rachel had just kept looking at him, her body held consciously still.

"Oh-" Justine's smile hadn't faltered. It rarely does. "Oh, well, that must have been good-" Her hands move to Sam's coat and for a moment, Ed had thought she was going to try to help him out of it, but her hands had stilled and after a moment, she'd let go of him, slowly standing up again.

"We just popped round-" Rachel was saying, too carefully. "To see how things had gone with the photos, and there-we didn't realise you weren't here, you see-"

"Oh-" Ed had found his hand going to his pocket, fumbling for his phone to pull it out automatically. "Oh, God-I'm sorry-I didn't-I didn't switch it on-"

He'd pictured the phone, vibrating over and over with messages and voices and questions to answer, and it had been easier not to switch it on. Not for the drive home.

"That's OK" Rachel had said too quickly, and Ed had caught the slightest flicker of a glance between her and Justine, a glance that said these words had almost been practiced before. "Just-in the future, make sure it's not off-"

"It can't be" Stewart said, speaking for the first time. "It can't be."

There'd been a tread in the hallway for the first time, and Ed had looked up. Zia had been standing in the doorway.

"Oh-" Ed had almost forgotten the boys were still there. "Oh-erm-" He looks around and Justine almost claps her hands together. "Right, why don't you go and tell Zia about the rugby-"

"Football" Ed says as she catches herself, but she still _has _to catch herself.

"About the football. Why don't you tell Zia all about the football match while Mummy and Daddy-Mummy and Daddy talk with Daddy's friends, chaps-"

The boys had already turned away from her, even before the sentence had dwindled away, towards Zia, and Ed hadn't really realised that until later.

Now, he swallows, leans his head on his hand. He's suddenly strongly aware of all the other pairs of eyes in the Portcullis House canteen. He looks up and, even though he can't see anyone looking at him, it feels as though they've all only just stopped.

"Look-" he says, hoping to pre-empt anything to do with why he hadn't turned his phone on. "I'm th-sorry about the phone, I juth-st didn't think-"

Marc looks at him, head tilted to one side. He'd looked at him like that a thousand times, Ed remembers, when Ed had been OULC Head, drawing up plans for the rent strike, when he hadn't slept enough, pacing back and forth, hands raking through his hair, until Marc's hand had closed around his shoulder. _Ted, eat._

"It's not about the phone" says Marc easily, taking a bite out of his own sandwich, and for some reason, that makes Ed's heart start thudding faster than ever. "Well. It's not _just _about that-"

He'd chewed quietly for a few moments, swallowed, and then looked straight at Ed. "You were enjoying yourself."

Ed feels his cheeks burn again, but nods.

Marc watches him over his glasses. "So you didn't want to pick up the phone?"

"I th-said, I'm sor-"

"No, no, no, I didn't mean it like that" Marc says quickly, lifting his sandwich to his mouth, then lowering it again without taking a bite. "No, it's just that-"

He looks straight at Ed again, the same way he used to across the table in the Bodleian Library. "You like hanging out with Cameron."

Ed's face is even warmer. "Well. I wouldn't call it _hanging out-"_

"But you liked it" says Marc and Ed feels a strange stirring of heat, remembering the warmth of Cameron's words, breathed into the crook of Ed's neck. _Go back to sleep._

Ed takes a long, deep breath, suddenly far, far too hot.

"It wath a nithe weekend" he says, a little louder than he needs to. "The weekend was nice."

Marc looks straight at him, and Ed feels that jolt in his chest.

_"So, did you?" Marc had been grinning at him over the list of topics they'd been poring over. It was early to be thinking about their dissertations, they'd only been back a few weeks, autumn-gold sunshine spilling through the stained-glass windows above them, illuminating Marc's hair, casting it with a gold tint, but with a faint chill in the air, leading Ed to pull his jumper a little more tightly around himself. But he'd wanted to get ahead on this. He needed to get a First-a First would open up more options, especially if he wanted to go into academia, the way Dad seemed to think he was going to._

_It had taken a few moments for Ed to look up. "Sorry, what?"_

_Marc had laughed, his foot kicking at Ed's gently under the table. "I said, did you? Over summer?"_

_Ed had stared at him blankly. "What?"_

_Marc had stared at him, a smile half-breaking out across his face. "No, I-I asked-did. You know-" A smile crooks at the corner of his mouth. "Meet anyone. Over the summer."_

_Ed had blinked. "Well. Um." He'd pushed at his glasses, tugged at the collar of his jumper. "Um. Dad's friends came round, but I'd met all of them before, so I don't know if that-David's been working with some interethting people at the IPPR-"_

_Marc had laughed, somehow managing to keep the sound gentle. "No, no, Ted, I meant-" A confused, slightly fond shake of the head. "You really-"_

_Another shake of the head and before Ed could do anything more than frown slightly, Marc had said "I meant-you know-any girls?"_

_Ed had jumped just slightly._

_"Oh!" He'd hastily pushed his glasses back up his nose, where they'd been slipping down. "Oh! Um! Well. No, no-I mean-no, I-um-hmm." Ed had tugged at the collar of his jumper, feeling the rush of heat spread blotchily up his neck. "No. No, I-erm-gosh. No. I-I didn't." Ed had angled his head firmly downwards, fixing his eyes on one of Keynes' theories that he already knew inside out, determinedly re-reading the words over and over._

_He'd kept his head down stubbornly for a few more moments, until he'd heard Marc say, tone carefully non-committal, "Oh. OK."_

_Ed had managed to give a quick nod back in return, without lifting his eyes from the page._

_It wasn't that he didn't think about girls. There were plenty of girls-Catherine, for one, who were great to talk to, and who would let Ed rattle on about the next steps towards a socialist government for hours, as long as he'd sometimes listen when she told him he really, really couldn't go out in that jumper again._

_But-Ed had felt his cheeks colour more-he didn't seem to....._

_Think. About-_

_He'd known everyone else was interested, but-_

_Well. He just-_

_He'd just assumed it would come later. Girls, and....and....all that stuff._

_He'd thought it would come later. He'd thought he would-_

_He'd-_

_He'd been-he'd...._

_"So. Did you-any boys?"_

_Ed's head had jerked upwards again. "What?"_

_He'd managed to sound more irritated than surprised. He hadn't been sure whether he was glad about that or not._

_Marc had looked even more flustered than Ed had felt a few moments earlier. "I-I just thought-"_

_Ed had stared at him, suddenly gripping his pen tightly between his fingers, waiting, not really knowing what he was waiting for._

_"You know-and it's not like there's anything wrong with it-" Marc had added, a little too defensively. "You know-of course there wouldn't-I just-I just wanted to-you know-" Marc had cleared his throat, pushed his own glasses further up, fixed his eyes on his own work for a moment too. "I just-wanted. To let you know. It was OK." He'd looked up again, suddenly peering at Ed over his glasses. "You know, if you had."_

_"I know." Ed had found himself staring back, the pen digging almost painfully into his fingers. "I know."_

_Marc had looked at him for another second and then Ed had said "And no. No, I haven't."_

_Marc had looked at him for another long moment and then nodded once. "OK."_

_Ed had managed a slightly tighter nod, glancing back at the book. "OK-"_

_Marc had nodded and looked back at his book. "OK."_

_Ed had cleared his throat and glanced back at his own. "OK" he'd said, and then, pushing his glasses further up his nose, had started scribbling notes he wasn't sure he needed to scribble, carving the nib of the pen deeper into the paper, rather keen to forget the whole conversation._

Now, Marc looks at him, and says "Just-be careful, OK?"

Ed lowers his sandwich again. "What about?"

Marc looks away again, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I know about the phone" he says, looking back at Ed. "Just-be careful-"

"About?"

Marc meets his eyes. "About. Who you're enjoying yourself with."

Ed's cheeks burn deeply. "I-"

Marc just looks at him. "Just be careful-" he says slowly. "About getting over-involved."

"I-"

"Because-" Marc says slowly, taking a long sip of his coffee. "It'll just hurt him more when you have to stop."

Ed stills for the slightest moment. His fingers hardly curl.

Then he manages to look back at Marc. "Right" he manages. "Of course."

He lifts the sandwich to his mouth and takes another bite, chewing it without tasting it, eyes dropping back to the table, trying to ignore the growing heat in his face as he remembers the moment last night when, slipping into the spare room so he wouldn't wake Justine, and had leant back against the door with his eyes closed, replaying the brush of Cameron's thumb against his bottom lip, tired enough to let himself, and then slowly turning and letting himself fall backwards onto the bed, eyes closing as he'd played the touch over and over, feeling what he knew would be a grin that was far, far too goofy, spreading over his face until his cheeks ached.

* * *

George walks into the living room and beams as Frances looks up over her laptop. "Yes?"

George beams harder and then drops to his knees. "Do you remember the day I married you?"

Frances sighs and turns back to her laptop. "George, are you about to tell me you have an incurable disease?"

"See, your sense of humour's the same."

"I remember it every time I have to witness scenes like this, yes."

George blinks at her appealingly. "Now do you remember when I offered to write some of my own vows, from the heart, crafted lovingly with-"

"I remember _stopping_ you from writing your own vows."

George pouts. "And even now-"

"George, your first line was about wasabi."

George pouts harder. "Spicy, like the variety of life."

Frances sighs, tapping away more ostentatiously at her laptop.

George waits a moment, and then goes on. "But isn't it amazing?"

"What is?"

"That we still know each other so well after all this time."

"That we do."

"That our love has only grown and developed with the years."

"It can do that."

"That even today, looking at you-"

"What do you want?"

George blinks and begins to assume a very injured expression.

Then he gets to his feet. His knees were starting to hurt, anyway.

"Please, please, pretty please, could you do something for me?"

Frances sighs. "No, I will not rap the chorus of NWA's "Fuck Da Police" for you again."

George tilts his head to one side. "You have to have forgiven me. It would have been a crime not to attempt to capture the moment for posterity-"

"George, that phone has already nearly seen a bowl of champagne-fuelled punch."

"All right." George twists his long fingers together. "Though to be fair, Boris's head had already nearly been in there. Anyway."

"What?"

George takes a deep breath.

A few minutes later, Frances is leaning back in her chair, scrutinizing him. "You're up to something."

George hastily arranges his features into an expression of utmost innocence. "Nope."

Frances merely arches an eyebrow.

George sighs. "Look. We're just a bit....worried."

Now, it's Frances' turn to sigh. "George, come _on._ I'm sure-look, I'm sure it's-it's _nothing,_ you're all getting worked up over nothing, Lynton's probably-"

"I know, I know, I know, but-" George meets her eyes. "It's Dave. I just want to be sure."

Frances sweeps her hair back behind one ear, lifts one hand, lets it drop. "You can't expect me to start _interrogating _her."

"No, of course not. Just-you haven't seen each other in a while. And you can just-slip it in. Casually." George fixes her with the sort of look he associates with puppies playing with Andrex toilet paper. "Please. Pretty please."

Frances eyes him for a long moment. "I won't be able to cook dinner if I'm getting ready to go out."

George narrows his eyes. "That's-"

Frances raises an eyebrow.

George takes a deep breath, and then forces himself to smile sweetly. "Of course. It will be mine and the kids' pleasure to starve at home while you enjoy the warmth and nourishment of a tapas bar."

Frances turns back to the laptop.

"OK, OK, fish stew it is. Just-keep her out for a couple of hours. We just need to figure out if everything's-you know. Please."

Frances looks up, regarding him for another moment, before she lets out a long sigh and reaches for her phone. "I'll give her a text. I could probably manage a couple of hours tomorrow."

George whoops. Frances rolls her eyes, as he leans in to plant a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Frances smiles up at him sunnily, her big blue eyes blinking innocently. "Of course, the day after I might have to catch up on writing, which means you may just have to-"

"OK, you're going to a bar, not selling your hair to feed your dying mother, I think we can take it down a notch."

Frances frowns, then turns back to the laptop. "Dying...mother..."

George turns to head for the door, then, a new thought occurring to him, stops, and turns back. Frances pauses mid-text and looks up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You _really _wouldn't consider doing the Fuck Da Pol-"

"You just lost an hour."

"I'm gone."

* * *

"I wasn't very confident when I got to Cambridge" Justine says, to the sea of young girls' faces looking up at her. "I thought everybody was going to be cleverer than me. More fashionable than me, thinner than me-" She manages to make herself laugh slightly. "You name it, I thought it."

A couple of the girls keep looking at her-the quieter girls, who've probably wandered in here hoping to find out if anyone like them can actually do anything in the world. The rest have probably been herded in here to see if they can be inspired to let the school proudly type Law a few more times on the list of university degrees of their alumni in a few years.

"Over time" she says, walking back to stand in the centre where all the girls can see her. "I realised I was just as good as them, but they were confident and I wasn't. My advice would be to fake it 'til you make it on that one. If you pretend to be confident, you'll feel more confident. People don't always look too closely."

Justine had used to watch them, those girls-at West Bridgford and, later, at Nottingham Girls'. They'd bewildered her, these girls who could laugh so openly, kicking their chairs back to wobble dangerously, not seeming to wonder for a moment what letter would be scrawled at the top of whatever homework they were about to be handed back, whether what had come up would come up on the O-Level, whether this was how difficult the O-Level would be or whether the teachers were trying to give them a wake-up call, just in case.

She'd started speaking for schools a couple of years earlier. She'd first heard about it at 39 Essex, and it had immediately leapt out at her as the obvious next thing to do.

"It will make a difference" she'd said to Ed, the evening after she got the news that she'd been confirmed as one of the new speakers. "It helps poorer kids with social mobility, too."

"I know-" he'd said earnestly-Ed tended to say everything rather earnestly-eyes widening the way they always did when he was about to launch into a lecture on the inequality that _scourges our society._ "It's juthst so_ important_ for children from disadvantaged backgrounds to have role models that feel accesthible to them-"

Justine had nodded meaningfully, because so long as they were talking about political methods or legal methods, that was good, that was knowledgeable, she wouldn't have to pick her way forward, scrambling for what came next. She wouldn't have to worry about a great yawning abyss stretching out the conversation, scrabbling to find enough words to fill it.

She isn't sure how she's saying it is exactly how it was, but that's what they want the girls to hear, or what the girls_ should_ hear.

She'd liked acting, but she'd never really felt it. It was more the rehearsing that she liked. The idea that you could make sure you never said anything wrong, just by practicing the words over and over again. That you could make people think something, just by moving the camera to a certain angle, by choosing the right outfit, by practicing a movement over and over again until it almost felt natural.

But acting wasn't stable and it wasn't contributing, that was the main thing, Justine could tell when she sat at the dinner table that night. They didn't usually eat together, all four of them, Mum, Dad, her, and Alex-one or both of their parents were usually away at a lecture or a conference, and they'd grown past the stage of nannies or au pairs. When they did eat together, their topics were often about what had been going on with the strikes or Neil Kinnock or about their parents' lectures. But their parents always asked about schoolwork-what O-Levels would form the best basis for A-Levels, which A-Levels would stand out to universities, which universities would lead to the best jobs, which jobs would lead to the best lives.

"I've been thinking about Law" she'd said carefully, her fork clinking against her plate a little too loudly. "When I go to university-" Neither of them ever mentioned the possibility of them _not _going to university-Justine isn't sure she ever even thought about it. "I've been thinking about doing a Law degree."

She'd rehearsed the words over and over again in her head, sounding them out determinedly, until they rang with just the right amount of emphasis.

Her mother had paused infinitesimally across the table, like the jumping of a TV channel, the slightest hover of her fork before it continued on its' way to her mouth. Her father had lowered his fork, frowning at her for a long second, before nodding approvingly.

"That's a worthy career" he'd said, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. "Reliable, but it's a good service, allows you to give something back."

Justine had nodded, a flicker of pride fighting to scramble up through her ribs into her chest. "I know."

Her father had nodded slowly and her mother had added "Of course, you'll have to make sure you keep your grades up, but the attainment's much higher at Nottingham Girls'-"

"It was a good investment" her father had added, with another nod, as though this just confirmed what he'd already been telling himself. (An _investment_, that was the word they'd used when they'd first talked about touring the private school. An _investment_ her father had said seriously, meeting her eyes. For her future, and Justine had faltered a little, because even though they'd always talked about how important local state schools were, now they were talking about her.)

"And as it seems to be paying off, it looks like maybe we should sign up for that Nottingham Boys' tour-" It was the first time he'd glanced at Alex during the conversation.

"It's a good choice-and the A-Levels you're doing, they match up as well-" her mother had said, and then they'd talked about law and A-Levels and whether Oxbridge was worth considering, since she'd done so well in her O-Levels.

Justine had glanced at Alex a couple of times, as he ate silently. She'd felt a stirring of something that ached in her chest, something that was almost pity.

But her father had been watching her, with something that wasn't quite a smile, and for a second, when he got up to clear his plate, he let his hand fall lightly onto her shoulder, just for a moment.

Now, one of the girls leaning back in her chair lets it fall forward, landing on all four legs with a crash that makes several other girls nearly jump out of their skin. The girl raises her hand, almost lazily.

Justine has half a mind not to call her, but none of the other girls have their hand up. She's coming to the end of her Q&A session now, and it won't look inclusive if she leaves one out, particularly a girl who's mixed race.

Justine points to her. "Yes?" She summons a smile as the girl tilts her head to one side, pushing her long glossy black side-ponytail over one shoulder.

"You're married to the guy who wants to be Prime Minister, right?"

A ripple of interest runs through the other girls. Justine feels her spine stiffen slightly.

She forces herself to take a deep breath. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name-"

"That's because I didn't throw it."

The girl gives a slow smile before Justine can respond to this, her dark eyes sparkling. "Sunita." Her blazer sleeve has slipped down a little, revealing a pattern of henna winding its' way over her left hand.

"Right. Sunita-well-"

One of Sunita's friends whacks her on the shoulder. "It's _Ed Miliband,_ you _dodo."_

"Yeah, the-"

"Bacon sandwich-" the first girl says, clipping Sunita on the head gently.

_"Yeah,_ the guy eating the bacon sandwich-"

Justine feels her shoulders tighten.

"Shut _up!"_ Sunita shoves her friend back, her own face crumpling into half-laughter, clearing her throat as a teacher opens her mouth warningly. "Yeah, but, you are married to him, aren't you?"

Justine takes a deep breath, keeps her voice determinedly low and level. "My husband is the Leader of the Labour Party, yes, he is."

"So-" Sunita sucks her teeth as if she's chewing gum, though as far as Justine can see, she isn't. "He's obviously minted."

A ripple of laughter this time. Justine's hand stiffens at her side and for a moment, she imagines it slapping the girl across the face, the sharp crack of the sound through the hall, especially as her friend leans into her so easily, casually, their heads pressed together as though they almost don't notice.

"Er, I think that's-" One of the teachers has stepped forward, but Justine's already speaking, the words already there, because this is one of the things she's been asked over and over again over the last four years, and it's nothing to do with her work, it-it-

_It's mine. It's mine. It's mine._

"We're fortunate, yes." She chooses the words with care, keeping them quiet and precise, in short bites of information, the way she does for a TV camera. "But that's only because we've both worked hard in our separate-" She stresses the word ever so slightly. "Careers."

"But isn't your house worth, like, 2 million, 3 million pounds or something?"

A wave of heads turning this time, then a few _"Ooohs"._

"All right, Sunita-"

"I'm just saying, Miss-" Sunita adjusts herself in her chair, still staring straight at Justine. "You've just gone on for ages and ages about how you're _just like us_ and we can be _like you-"_ She makes air quotation marks with her fingers. "Because you went to a comprehensive school and all that, but, you know. Look at-I mean, you live in a two million quid house and you're this big, fancy lawyer and your husband's always on the telly, and it's not like there's anything wrong with any of that, but you know, that doesn't mean you're _like us_, does it? In fact, means the total opposite."

Sunita sits back in her seat, playing with her ponytail again.

Justine looks at her for a long moment. She becomes aware that she's breathing slightly more quickly than usual.

_It's mine. It's mine. It's mine it's-_

Law is _hers._

She's _her _there.

And Ed's-

She forces herself to smile at the girl, even thought it feels like she's wedged the grin between her cheeks. "Are you planning on a career in law, Sunita?"

Some of the girls laugh, feeling the tension evaporate a little, glancing round at Sunita.

Sunita laughs slightly, too, sits up, leans further forward in her seat. "If I'm going to get a £2million house out of it."

Another pipe of laughter. Justine smiles, forces herself to laugh too.

"Well, I can't promise that-" She looks at Sunita, makes herself keep smiling, because maybe that's all this girl needs. Maybe she can show her the career she should be in, help her carve out her future. Help her see there's no need to call out like this, asking questions that she knows people don't need to answer.

"But law's a fascinating career, and yes, it can be lucrative, but the important thing is what it allows you to give back." Justine warms to her theme, even seizing on Sunita's other comment. "And yes, so, I'm a political spouse, as it's called. Now, I'll be honest, that's not a role I applied for-" She's used that line before, in those speeches Ed's team wanted her to do, and it'll be good to repeat it, get the message across.

"Now, there are no rules about being a political spouse, you kind of make it up as you go along-" and she notices that all the girls are listening now that she's mentioned Ed, and something about that niggles, as does Sunita's slight smile, like she knows it too.

"And I'm sure Samantha Cameron and Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, who are married to the other party leaders, David Cameron and Nick Clegg, would say the same thing, especially as they both also have very successful careers-" She's never quite sure what Samantha does, but she knows it's something important-she'd been shouted down once by Bob, who'd been furious that something she'd said had been interpreted as dismissing fashion. _The public love SamCam. If we start trashing her, it looks like bullying._

"And they have young children. One thing I wanted to do during the last four and a half years while my husband's been leader of the Labour party is carry on with my job-" She walks back and forth, feeling herself straighten up a little, confidence lengthening her back as the girls' eyes follow her. "And I've done that while supporting Ed working in politics where I can, just as he supports me."

She thinks of that conversation again, how easy it had been to remain on legal and political issues, and pushes it away quickly.

"He knows my career is very important to me." She swallows, picturing Ed just before Christmas, hands on Daniel's shoulders, while Daniel stubbornly turned his face away, whining about some Christmas concert. _You know Mummy's got to help people. People who need it more than us._. "And he's incredibly supportive of that. So that's a key message to you-" she says brightly, suddenly seeing another way to wind this into the talk. "If you want a career, just make sure you ask for support. And make sure you get support from your boyfriends and fathers."

She feels her father's hand on her shoulder again.

"It makes all the difference."

"What's SamCam like?" bellows out one of the other girls from the back row, and the rest of the room burst out laughing. Even Justine manages a smile.

But she has to be careful here. _We can't look like their best friends_, she hears Bob saying again.

"Whenever I've met Samantha-" she says, picking her words carefully. "She's been lovely to me. We always have catch-ups when we meet at events and that sort of thing. She's a very impressive woman, as is Miriam." She carefully leaves out herself. "And that's another thing I wanted to say to you, it's great that Samantha and Miriam and myself-" First names personalise things. "As political spouses, it's great that we all have careers and children and that none of us have given any of that up, but it's striking that we are all women. By the time your generation comes to power, I really hope we see more political husbands rather than political wives."

That gets a mild laugh, too, which is good.

"And there's nothing wrong with wanting a family-" Families are good, after all. Normal. Healthy. "But that doesn't mean you have to give up a career, as I'm sure they'd say too. Being a barrister is fantastic for being family-friendly, because I'm self-employed."

She sees Daniel's silent glower from the armchair on Christmas Eve again, and feels a flare of irritation.

"So that means if I want to see my kids in a school play-" She picks the words very carefully. "I don't have to ask anyone. I carry on working in the evening."

And they're both true, those things, those last two things. She doesn't have to ask anyone. And she does work in the evenings. That's all that they need to know.

"So, Sunita-" She looks back at the girl, who's still watching her, head on one side. "I hope that answered your question. And I'm sure if you want to pursue a career in law, any chambers in London would be reeling at your interrogations."

This gets a louder laugh. Sunita laughs too, playing with her ponytail, but something about the way she's regarding Justine disconcerts her.

Sunita smiles, locks eyes with Justine, waits until the laughter's just dying away before she speaks. "Yeah" she says, smiling, like it's a game, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "But you still didn't answer my question."

Justine's lips part silently.

"Plus-" Sunita tilts her head back. "No offence, but what if I don't want to be a lawyer?" She smiles straight at Justine this time. "What if I don't want to be like you?"

There's another silence. Justine waits, but the words don't come. Instead, she stares at the girl just for a moment, the words dwindling into that yawning gap she can't quite touch.

* * *

"Now, we'll have a cuppa" says Andrew, showing her ahead of him to the coffee machine. "And then we'll get a couple of photos of you on the steps with some of our girls."

Justine nods, already feeling her shoulders sink a little in relief. She can do photos. She knows exactly what will happen there, the smile, the turns.

When she'd thought about law, when she was seventeen, that's what she'd thought of too. That rehearsing the words over and over, lifting them out of one argument and twisting them into another, looping them round to tie the end to the beginning. Building a new picture out of them. Building the picture you wanted.

"Don't worry" says Andrew , with a chuckle. "We'll select them a bit more carefully for this one."

Justine manages a small smile in return. "No, it's-once you've faced a courtroom of old men who can't believe a woman's wearing one of their wigs, it's nothing." Redirect the argument. Turn it against someone else.

"Sunita can be a handful" says Andrew, turning back to the coffee machine. "But she's probably one of our brightest. Predicted a whole bunch of As and A*s, if she decides she wants them, and her mocks already look good."

Justine manages a nod as she takes a sip of the coffee, trying not to wince at the burn on her tongue. Her phone, mercifully, vibrates, and she fumbles with it with an apologetic look at Andrew.

Frances' name stares back up at her. Justine feels her shoulders, which had been slowly stiffening, sink again, a smile creeping back to her mouth, one she doesn't have to work for for the first time that morning.

* * *

David had never thought he'd be thankful to see Samantha's name in a _Mirror _headline.

He hadn't told her about Lynton's proposal last night. He'd needed time to think it over, he'd thought. To phrase it just right.

And now-well, now there was this.

"Bloody hell" Sam says drily, hair still a sleep-mussed mess, her face with that strangely young, innocent look she always has when she's just woken up. "First time they call me something other than a Stepford Wife and it's bloody this."

They both look at the headline, screaming up at them in red from the table.

It draws the eyes like blood.

"It's an irritation" Craig concedes, taking a gulp of suitably strong coffee for before six in the morning. Bells rolls her eyes, looking as well put together as if she's been up for hours, pulling one of the papers towards her, hastily scanning the article. "But we can deal with it. They always do this when it's coming up to an election."

"Didn't they call you Anna Wintour last time?" Bells asks, her eyes brightening as she looks up at Sam.

"Oh, yeah!" Sam grins, dimples deepening, her own eyes seeming to sparkle as she remembers. "Yeah, I think we framed that one actually, didn't we-"

Craig sighs. "Look. You'll get a few headlines for a few days. Someone will bring it up at PMQs, perhaps. But we just need to keep rebutting it. Strongly. It's not like you've done anything, so it'll fade away pretty quickly."

David glances over at Sam worriedly.

"I'm sorry" he says, not just for the article. "I'm sorry, darling." He pulls her into his side and kisses her head, a surge of protectiveness welling in his chest.

"It's OK-" Sam shoves his shoulder gently, laying her head against him so Dave can play with her hair. He has a sudden flash of Miliband doing the same thing the other night and the thought sends a prickling of guilt up his spine, his stomach dropping unpleasantly. He tenses, for barely a second, but he knows Sam notices.

"It doesn't say anything about the kids, does it?" Sam asks suddenly, almost jumping upright, and David fastens his arm tightly around her again.

"No, no-"

"No." Craig holds up his hands. "Scout's Honour."

David actually feels Sam's shoulders slump in relief. "Oh, good."

Guilt clenches David's stomach even more tightly. He hugs her closer, pressing another kiss into her hair.

Craig glances up at him, barely perceptibly, and their eyes lock for less than a second, before both of their gazes dart away.

* * *

Nick Robinson takes a long sip of his wine, and looks up at the person sitting opposite him.

"So, the Labour Party is actually_ preparing_-for _defeat?"_

The person chooses their words very carefully.

"I wouldn't say actively preparing." They take another bite of their baguette. "But we're looking at it as a distinct possibility."

Nick nods, cutting into his own ciabatta. "If you had to put a percentage on it-?"

"Put it this way." The person points half their baguette at him, almost like a weapon. "I can name six seats we can take from the Tories, but not the ten we need."

Nick nods, mulling over the arithmetic. "So-_depending_ on what those seats are-and whether they fit into any kind of _pattern_-you would be looking at a situation where Ed Miliband is _unable_ to command a majority in Parliament....whichever way you look at it, yes?"

The other person merely nods, taking another hungry bite of the baguette.

"And of course if that _happened_-and, let's not forget either, David Cameron has the right to be the _first_ to try to form a government-Ed Miliband would almost _certainly _have to resign-well, pretty much straight away, wouldn't he?"

The other person snorts, still chewing. "Oh God, yeah. He barely held on through that coup in November. If he loses us the election, he's out on his fucking ear."

"And of course, in the inevitable leadership contest that would follow, you'd be a candidate."

The other person merely grins at that, just raising an eyebrow. Nick raises one back.

"You already think you know the answer" they grin, taking another mouthful of their sandwich. "I don't want to wreck it for you."

That's good enough.

"Is it true that Labour MPs aren't putting Ed Miliband on their election leaflets?"

The other person rolls their eyes. "If you're asking, you know."

Nick laughs-and then, abruptly, leans forward. "But-if the unexpected happens and, against _all_ the odds, Mr Miliband ends up the next Prime Minister at the head of a _Labour _government-of _whichever _type-you can probably expect a pretty_ prominent_ Cabinet post, can't you?"

"It's more likely than not."

Nick smiles a little wider. "So, in a few weeks, there's a good chance you could be either _working_ for Ed Miliband-or trashing his finished _political career_ on national TV?"

The other person waves this aside. "Oh, not a chance. Definitely. It'll definitely be one of those two."

If Nick had been in this job for less time, he might have blinked at least a little. But these days, he just lifts his own ciabatta to his mouth.

"Well" he says to the possible future Cabinet member or Labour leadership candidate (or leader or Prime Minister) sitting across from him, as he takes a bite out of his own sandwich, "that's politics."

* * *

"Tom, take it again."

Ed glances at the other Tom nervously, who winks. "Yeah, I'll go harder on you this time."

Ed shifts nervously, rebalancing himself, before taking a deep breath. "OK." It's a change from having to face Alastair, at least. Though neither of them quite compare to what it'll be like if he actually has to stand next to Cameron, physically.

The words _physically_ and _Cameron_ do something odd. Ed swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry.

"Y-yeah-" he manages, forcing himself to stand up. "Yeah, of course."

He glances at Marc again, almost automatically. Marc meets Ed's gaze over his glasses with a quick, reassuring wink. He gives no sign at all that he's thinking about anything to do with the conversation they just had in Portcullis House, yet Ed has the oddest sense that Marc is thinking about it just as much as he is.

He blinks, turning back to Tom. It was Marc's idea while the main Tom's at lunch, along with most of the others, to have a mini-debate rehearsal once they'd made their way back to Norman Shaw South. Rachel's organizing his trip to Plymouth on Thursday over the phone in the corner, muffled snatches of conversation jumping between the arguments.

"If thith reduction was so important to you-" Ed tries not to wince at his lisp.

"No-" Rachel says into the phone. "No, no, not-"

"Then why has the Government failed to meet its' deficit target-"

_"Your _government" says Anna quickly.

"Say "your government"" Ayesha says, more calmly from behind him. "It's more personal."

"No, he'll have some aides with him, and-God, I'll have to ask Bob-"

Rachel covers the phone with one hand. "Could you lot _keep it down-"_

"Right, go again-"

Ed takes a deep breath, fixes his gaze somewhere over Tom's left shoulder. "If you're th-so concerned about the deficit, then why has your own government failed to meet its' deficit targets-"

"No, we won't need overnight accommodation-"

"Look at him" Marc says, almost too quietly to hear.

"The truth is, the series of cuts you've put in place has failed to work and the fact that you are committed to pursuing an implementation of further cuts, proves that they're only being purthued out of_ ideology_ rather than out of netheth-" Ed curses his lisp. _"Nethessity."_ _Quote the economists, the-_ "In fact-" he launches in, before Tom can speak again, because he can just _picture _the bloody cocky, _smug_, look Cameron will brush that aside with one hand like it was _nothing_-Ed's fingers curl tight as he pictures the look that makes him just want to-

"OK, that was good-" Ayesha chips in. "But maybe use his name-"

"And look at him" Marc says, his voice softer now. "You need to look at him."

Ed swallows hard. Ayesha gives his arm a squeeze. "Come on. Just one look-"

"If you put me on hold-" Rachel leaps up, squeezing the phone in a worryingly tight grip. "If you put me on hold one more _fucking _time-"

_"Look into my eyes_-"

"Brilliant, why the fuck are you playing _We All Live On A Fucking Yellow Submarine-"_

"_Look into my eyes-_oh, _shit-" _The papers scatter off the chair over the carpet. "Fuck, I think I've just broken the podium-"

Ayesha collapses into giggles against Ed's shoulder, as Tom roots around on the floor. Even Ed manages a smile.

"I will-reclaim-the moral high-_ow!"_

"What?"

"I fucking-gave myself a paper cut-" Tom lifts up his hand. "Look, look, it's my pinkie-"

"I hope it's your arm" Rachel mutters, now frenetically stabbing her biro into her address book over and over again.

Ayesha giggles even more, brown eyes sparkling, holding onto Ed's arm. Ed pats her shoulder awkwardly, but he can cope with Ayesha touching him. He doesn't feel like he needs to push her away, anyway.

He doesn't mind Cameron touching him either, come to think of it.

And that gets Ed feeling a little hot under the collar again.

He shakes his head a little, trying to clear his thoughts. Ayesha gives his shoulder a squeeze, ruffles his hair.

"OK. Um-" Ed takes a deep breath, looks at Tom, who's only just managing to straighten up, leaning over the back of the chair as he sobers himself up. "OK. " He clasps his hands and assumes the expression of one attending the funeral of a close friend.

Ayesha immediately dissolves into laughter again. Anna rolls her eyes and Ed is suddenly inclined to agree with Rachel about her.

He swallows, looks up, because at least while he's thinking about all this, he isn't thinking about Cameron.

Apart from picturing Cameron ruffling his hair, for some bizarre reason.

Ed takes a deep breath, preparing himself.

"The thing is-" His eyes hover over Tom's shoulder.

"At me" Tom says, quietly enough not to interrupt. Ed forces his eyes to meet Tom's.

It's just Tom. It's just Tom.

"The thing is-"

"But, Ed, you've already said Labour will increase borrowing under your premiership-" Tom says, managing to imitate Cameron's exact tone of faux-surprise, which should make it easier but doesn't. "They're exactly all the things that got us into this mess in the first place, which you would know, because _you_ were the one sitting behind Gordon Brown in the Treasury while Britain slid out of the black-"

At this point, Tom seems to notice that Ed's not going to interrupt him.

"Erm-Ed?"

Ed blinks. The fact is, he isn't sure whether he was trying to picture or not picture David Cameron there.

Ayesha touches his elbow. "You OK?"

Ed nods once, then again, furiously. Of course he's OK. There's absolutely no reason why he shouldn't be OK.

_I was in bed with him less than 48 hours ago._

"Ed?"

"Seriously" barks Rachel from her corner, perched on the chair, one hand now pressing a cushion firmly to her ear. "I'm really, really trying to concentrate here. Can you lot please take this somewhere else?"

"OK, let's go from the bit with his name-" says Marc, and it's only Ayesha who says "Are you sure?"

Ed nods, tries to give her a smile. He steps forward to the chair, leans over, looking at Tom. (And that's all he is, Tom. Tom Hamilton. Not-not Cameron.)

(Not Cameron with that posh, rounded voice and those dark blue eyes and-)

"The man from the Treasury" Tom says, in between the same slightly incredulous laughter Cameron always does. "The man who sat in the Treasury while the economy _crashed around his ears_, the man who agreed with Gordon Brown that the best way out of the problem was to _sell our gold_, the man who thinks so little of the deficit that he couldn't even _remember_ it in his_ conference_ speech-" A chuckle, his eyes flickering to Ed's, as if Ed's barely important enough to notice. "And he's going to say _I _didn't hit _my_ financial targets?"

Ed swallows, suddenly intensely aware of the rapidity of his heartbeat. He looks back at Tom, forces himself not to look away. Can't look away. He isn't sure which.

Say something.

Those eyes aren't Cameron's.

Say something.

You-

Ed's fingers are trembling, he notices in a vague part of his brain as he opens them. His lips part, just breathing the words, almost too softly to be heard over the sudden pounding of his heart. "No, David, you didn't."

There's a long silence.

Ed can feel his cheeks burning. He can hear everything; the slight shuffle of papers, the slow tick of the clock, the sound of his own quickened heartbeats.

Tom opens his mouth, then closes it. Ed can feel Marc watching him over his glasses. A single drop of sweat making its' way between his shoulder blades, he doesn't have to look to know. Even Rachel's complaining has fallen silent.

"Ed." It's Ayesha's voice, cautious beside him, as though he might explode if she touches him, and Ed's seized with a sudden desperate swelling plea to tell her, no, please don't say anything, please, please don't speak, just-don't say it, please-

_We Are Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together_ screams out next to him.

Ed promptly wonders whether or not he's experiencing heart failure as Ayesha screams, Tom swears, letting the chair, which he's been tipping backwards, go flying as he slaps his hand over his chest, as Marc almost bellows "What the _bloody_ _hell _was that?"

Anna, apparently the last one to lose her hearing, blinks and then suddenly dives for her bag. "Oh. My phone."

"Shitting _hell"_ Tom bellows, and with that, the chair falls forward to land on all four legs with a crash that shakes the floor.

"OK" Ed manages, gently massaging his own chest and wondering whether or not he can count earmuffs among his parliamentary expenses.

"It's rather-"

Rachel draws in a long breath.

"If we could all juthst-stay _calm-"_

_"Jesus Christ, would you people SHUT UP?!"_

Ed, once again, is fairly sure heart failure pronounces him clinically dead for a few moments as they all spin round in various stages of potentially fatal shock-though it could just as easily be hearing loss-to see Rachel standing bolt upright, blonde hair a mess, pressing the phone into her cheek so hard Ed has serious concerns for her skull, the cushion lying abandoned at her feet.

But before their lives can effectively end-or at least, be cut short by several minutes-Rachel glances back at the phone. "What?"

Her blue eyes widen, then narrow, as her face contorts. "Oh-no-no for the love of fuck's sake, I didn't mean _you."_

* * *

"Don't bring up the bacon sandwich" Chris says, with an extended finger. "Looks bad if we bring up the bacon sandwich."

Dave nods, slumped back in his leather chair, tie loosened.

"Looks a bit like we're picking on him" Gabby points out, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"One of the few benefits of being useless" Craig says. "Everyone loves an underdog."

"Well, that's the British for you" George agrees. "They'd vote for a bloody pug dog if it had a missing eye and a limp."

"Doesn't that technically make _me_ the underdog?" David asks, tossing his Sharpie in the air.

"Try making that argument and the voters'll tear you apart" Chris chuckles.

"Keep on the deficit" Ameet adds, who's observing the goings-on in between scribbling quick notes on a printed-out speech. "Definitely mention him forgetting the deficit-but the NHS-we need to be able to rebut any line he has on the NHS-Mid-Stafford's got to be one of the main things we keep bringing up, over and over-"

Gabby's eyes flicker only slightly, as do David's.

"Wait, who was that woman who said Labour couldn't call-call itself the NHS party again, or something-"

"Yeah-" George looks up from his phone. "Yeah. Can one of you dig that out actually, because that would be a-that would be a-bloody brilliant quote-we could even get an interview with her-"

"Careful" Ameet warns.

"We don't want to go overkill" Craig explains.

"Let's just see if we can get hold of her first" David explains, placatingly. "In the meantime, we can definitely mention Mid-Stafford."

"OK." Craig claps his hands. "George, do your thing."

George steps behind the chair, yanks a Rubix Cube out of his pocket. Gabby rolls her eyes.

"What happened to not making fun of him?" Chris chides.

_"This-"_ George waves the Rubix Cube around. "Is method-acting."

"What, so if you-play with a Rubix Cube, you feel like Ed Miliband-"

"No one could love that Rubix Cube as much as Miliband" David says, more quietly than usual.

George twiddles the Rubix Cube a little more. "You thee, I have thith _abtholutely gigantic _manthion taxth plan to make all thothe nathty rich people pay more-"

Ameet groans while Craig snorts.

"This would be the mansion tax that Ed Miliband couldn't even defend to Myleene _Klass_ a few weeks ago-" David laughs, casting George the sort of dismissive look he always does well to Miliband.

"Now, I promise I have no disrespect for pop stars-" David turns, addressing the room at large. "Because my daughter and wife would certainly have something to say about it-"

Gabby gives him a thumbs-up; that'll get a laugh.

"But let's face it-" David extends his hands, palms wide, _trust me._ "If a pop star has to be asked to explain the flaws in an economic policy to a party leader-"

"Labour leader" Ameet immediately chips in.

"Say party leader and they'll start calling for you to appear on the Agenda with Lily fucking Allen or something."

"Or Charlotte Church" suggests Chris, with a wink, to a chorus of cheers.

"Now, now" says David, giving George a grin across the back of his black leather chair. "Come on, I'm sure she'll be at the Tory conference again this year to call me a misogynist."

"Yep, she'll be there, nailing herself up on that left-wing cross-"

"Nah, she'd hate Christianity" David points out, leaning on the back of the chair and nearly overbalancing as it starts to spin slowly. "Probably finds that oppressive, somehow, as well-"

"OK, get back to it, people." Chris claps his hands. "Focus-Dave, get back to the point-"

"OK." David leans forward on the chair, now spinning slightly as he focuses, the humour smoothing into seriousness on his face, in the way he has. Like casting off a skin.

"But let's face it, if it falls to a pop star to explain the flaws in an economic policy to a Labour leader-" He leans forward slightly. "Perhaps that Labour leader might just have to consider the idea that the policy needs re-thinking."

Craig whistles. Ameet nods. "Fall to-that was a good-OK, now let me just get up the list of those people who criticised the policy-we can emphasise either economists or celebrities first, we've got Stuart Rose this morning-"

"Both appeal to different bases" Craig points out. "We could get a line up on Cox, on what he said today-now, Miliband will probably come back with something about the rich bearing the greatest burden or the top 1% or some bullshit-" He sits back in his chair. "So we need to get up a line to that-"

"Definitely include the £2m house-" David points out. "Definitely include that-"

"OK, George, just give us something-"

George clears his throat, breathes through his nose to make his voice even more nasal."Well, you thee, Labour ith the party that putht the working clath _firtht_-we thee them all the _time_ when we're peering out of our mansions in Dartmouth Park-"

Ameet's sniggering, pen skidding across the paper.

"And tho, being a man of the people, with my frontbench of millionaireth and _almotht _millionaireth-" George holds out his hand, assuming the kind of wide-eyed, overly earnest look Miliband can't keep off his face. "Tho it'th a broad church, really-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, George-" Craig's chuckling into his hand.

"-and, you thee, we have to work for thethe people, thome of them are thuffering _appallingly,_ you thimply can't _imagine-_thome of them don't even have _nannieth_, and if that'th not an indictment of thith country, I don't know what _ith-"_

George's phone vibrates in his hand.

"Thee, look at this, even I only have a Blackberry-" He holds it out to the others, half doubled-over in laughter himself. "Now, if-if that ithn't evidence I am in thith-" He claps a hand over his heart. "With _all_ of you-"

He checks his phone, chest aching as he tries to catch his breath, the rest of the room leaning back in their chairs, pulling their own phones out. George glances at the name on his own and blinks, careful not to look too surprised.

When he glances up, David's watching him across the room. George watches him back.

David's eyes narrow slightly and George feels a jolt of something like recognition in his throat.

He gives David a gin and turns back to his phone. But he can't shake the slight nagging feeling that the look David's giving him is one he's seen before; on his own face. It's the same look that he gave David when Lynton burst into his office yesterday morning.

* * *

Peter sits quietly in the car, watches Alastair's retreating figure through the gates.

_"How's he been?" he'd asked John that day, watching John play with the tired bunch of flowers he held._

_John had sighed, leaning back in his chair. "He's OK. He's slept a lot today. They sedated him but the doctors also said it could be his mind's way of protecting itself. We've just got to wait."_

_"A-ha." Peter had steepled his fingers together. "Can we-I mean, can we speak to him?"_

_John had sighed, leaning back again. "I don't know if he hears. He's pretty sedated."_

_Peter had pictured the first time he'd met Alastair-at that party, when the sound of bagpipes had pulled everyone's heads round to the door. Alastair's eyes had been what Peter noticed-not the way he towered over everyone else or the way he sank pint after pint of beer like it was water or even the way he talked, words crashing into each other in what could become a loud bark, edged with a Yorkshire accent, but his eyes-bright, almost wild, as if his thoughts couldn't keep still. The way Neil said they'd been in Scotland the other morning._

_"We've been told to be careful with him" John adds, almost as an afterthought. "Not to bring up politics or work."_

_"That would be-ah-complicated."_

_It had felt rather odd, having to wriggle one's way into the caring role. Peter is used to being the one who is cared for, the one whom people tiptoe around, the one who's on a tight string. He almost sinks into it, like an old, comfortable chair. He's quite fond of it, as a matter of fact._

_Alastair, though, is a rather different kettle of fish._

_"He won't like that" Peter had said, lightly, but with just enough of a warning tone. Alastair wouldn't. He didn't even enjoy the caring role too much, though when Peter would sniffle after another chaotic debate or argument, Alastair would roll his eyes or squeeze his shoulder roughly, while muttering something about "pulling yourself together". It was somehow more comforting than Tony's eye-rolls or outstretched hands._

_John had shrugged. "Doesn't matter what he likes. It's what he needs. He got freaked out over a button by the side of his bed earlier." Off Peter's look, John explained. "It was blue and red. I told you he was babbling about-"_

_"Left-left and right wing, yes-"_

_"Nearly ripped it out before they got near him." John's brow had creased as he stared at his knees. "He wasn't making a lot of sense. Fiona was pretty upset."_

_Peter had looked up. "Fiona's here?"_

_"Yeah, she's been in with Brian. But they left earlier-she needed to get some sleep, Neil had arranged for them to get a room at the hotel at short notice. So I said I'd come in. I didn't realise you were up yet."_

_"Fiona rang us last night." Peter remembers the phone call, the brief snatches of words that have become snapshots in his mind, making him wince with the clarity. The police officers. Alastair's shirt on the floor. The walls of a police cell, covered in Alastair's wild writing, snippets of little genius lines that would, another day, have made it into the report covering Neil's speech, if Alastair didn't take over writing it for him._

_The thought of Alastair's utter confusion, under his usual abrasive bark, his scribbling pen, his eyes darting from one sentence to the next-that had hurt more than the thought of him being wrestled to the floor by police officers._

_"Neil said he'd seemed fine" he'd ventured, his own voice almost a whisper. "He was perfectly all right when he arrived."_

_John had sighed. "He hadn't been home. Fiona called us to ask where he was. Turned out he'd spent the whole of the previous night drinking, didn't get to bed, went and got on the plane to Scotland."_

_Peter had folded his fingers over his mouth, absorbing these words. "So-he's-it's to do with his..drinking."_

_"We don't know. I mean, they'll need to talk to him when he wakes-I mean, they're going on about psychotic episodes and auditory hallucinations and manic bursts and all this jargon, I don't know." John had shaken his head, his blond hair in unusual disarray. "I think it could be all of it, myself."_

_They'd sat in silence for a few moments, Peter staring straight ahead, trying to remember the last time he'd had a conversation with Alastair._

_"The thing is-" John had said suddenly, his voice tighter now. "The thing is, he calls it motoring. That's what he calls it." He'd looked at Peter. "You know what I mean. The way he gets. The way he was when he got to the hotel. The way he is when he starts speaking too fast, scribbling too much. You can't catch the words and he can't catch them, even as he says them."_

_Peter had nodded, and some words had come slowly out of his own mouth, words he wouldn't have let himself expect until then: "That's when he's at his best."_

_John hadn't said anything, just looked at him._

_Peter had lifted an eyebrow. "With his writing, with his arguments. You've seen him write them. You've seen him."_

_John had just watched him, and then nodded slowly. " At his best."_

_Peter had been about to say more but at the last moment had fallen silent, dwelling on the words._

_"See" John had said, glancing around at the waiting room, the drooping flowers, the two of them, "Seems to me his best lands him in a place like this."_

Now, Peter watches Alastair move away from him for a few more seconds, slowly withdrawing into the cemetery. Then he pulls out his phone.

* * *

The graves, for Alastair, are as quiet as they usually are. He walks around them at first, taking deep breaths, waiting for his thoughts to stop clattering into each other. They're rapid, darting through each other, but not as rapid as they've been in the past. He can still catch hold of them.

He stops, one hand on each of them, waiting for his thoughts to stop racing. Or to slow down. Just to slow down.

Eventually, they do. It takes a little longer than usual, but that's all right.

That's-not normal. But within the bounds of normal.

He sits down slowly, between the two graves, lets his head fall against John's. The coolness of the stone sinks into his skin, calms his thoughts slightly.

He takes a deep breath, keeps his head pressed against the stone.

He should have fucking felt this coming on. But the motoring had seemed OK at first, just a slight rush. Just energy, which he'd taken as a reaction to being part of an election campaign again.

"Do you need to see David?" Fiona had asked the night before, when she'd noticed him still scribbling notes for debate rehearsals. "Because you seem wired."

He'd shaken his head. "Just researching."

"Well, you seem tense." Fiona had closed her book, watched him quietly. "What's triggered it?"

"Nothing's triggered it." Alastair had kept typing, the words stretching taut in his head as though they might snap if he didn't get them out. "I'm fine."

Fiona had waited, then "Well, you're _not _fine, are you?"

"Look-" Alastair's hand had nearly hit the laptop. "I'm fine. I'm just fucking working. There's nothing fucking unusual about having to fucking work more."

Now, Alastair presses his fingers into his temples. Peter had heated him up some soup, in his usual fastidious way, murmuring something about how Alastair hadn't treated him nearly so well when he was engineering his resignation. Alastair hadn't been able to catch the words to retort, his thoughts darting from one sentence to another, leaving them half-finished.

Now, he breathes in and out slowly, trying to focus just on what's in front of him. David would tell him to only focus on what's happening in front of him. Or what's coming in the next few minutes.

He opens his eyes to find himself glancing at Ellie's grave next to him. He doesn't need to trace the lettering, the same way he doesn't need to read John's. He tends to rattle onto John the way he did when John was alive, but with Ellie, it tends to be enough just to sit quietly.

_"Read that one." Ellie pointed at the next fairytale in the book, her red hair thinner, wispier than Alastair would remember it. But she hadn't lost it yet-which was something-it looked like John's, a little, some of his blond lightening the red, turning it auburn._

_"Which one?" Alastair had pretended to miss the title. "That one?" He'd pointed at the metal bars of her bed. "That one?"_

_Ellie had burst out laughing, her giggles pealing through the air like bells. "No, that one!"_

_"What, this one?" Alastair had tugged his briefing notes closer._

_"No, that one!" Ellie had collapsed into giggles as he tickled her, her little cheeks pinkening with the faintest hint of colour, the first Alastair had seen since he arrived at the hospital that day._

_"Where?" Alastair had been play-wrestling her very gently, careful not to disrupt the drip that fed into what had been the baby chubbiness of her arm, where now Alastair could feel what would be her little bones if he curled his fingers around her wrist. "Which one? Where?"_

_Ellie had beamed up at him through her red curls, freckles standing out against her pale little face._

_"Tell me about Daddy" she'd demanded, wriggling back against her pillow when once she would have bounced upright. "Tell me another story about Dad."_

_Alastair had wriggled himself further back up the bed too. "Which one do you want?"_

_"The-the one about when you went to France-" Ellie had decided, leaning against his shoulder, nuzzling him with her forehead. Alastair had noticed a couple of auburn curls lying on her pillow, which he'd brushed aside with one hand before she could see them._

_"When we went to the South Of France?" Alastair had stretched out beside her, one hand stroking her hair softly, careful not to let her curls loosen in his fingers. "When we went-with Mum and Fiona-"_

_Ellie had nodded, dimples denting her cheeks. "When Daddy ate all the food-" Her cheeks had creased in another giggle._

_"OK." Alastair had settled her in his arms, stroking her hair._

_Ellie had tilted her face up to his. "Nose-kiss" she'd said, beaming up at him with a smile that was all John's._

_Alastair's lungs had ached as he dragged in the air, leaning forward to pull her further into his chest. "Nose-kiss" he'd agreed, nuzzling his nose against hers' as he cuddled her, the way John always used to, the way John would have asked him to._

When Fiona appears, bedraggled blonde hair betraying her rush, but walking calmly, Alastair isn't surprised.

She stops next to him, standing between the graves. "Room for me?"

Alastair doesn't answer, but moves over to make a space for her.

"You should have gloves on" Fiona says, catching sight of his bare hands. "You'll freeze out here."

Alastair glances down at his hands. He hadn't even noticed. He's numb with cold, he realises vaguely now.

Fiona doesn't say anything, just takes his hands slowly between her own and begins to rub them gently, coaxing warmth back into him.

"Do you know what triggered it?" she asks calmly, keeping her voice low.

Alastair feels a slight stirring of annoyance, but he just shakes his head.

Fiona keeps hold of his hand. "I made an appointment for you to see David tomorrow."

Alastair tilts his head back against the gravestone with a sigh that reaches for air. Fiona shakes her head. "What use are you going to be to an election campaign if you keep putting off dealing with this, exactly?"

Alastair squeezes his eyes shut. The thoughts are slowing slightly, so he can almost close his fingers around them. He feels less like he might come out of his skin.

Fiona keeps hold of his hand. "Did you take your anti-depressants?"

Alastair thinks, dragging his thoughts back to the morning, which seems months ago. He dredges up a shrug.

Fiona looks at him and then reaches up to take his face between both her hands.

"Don't shut down on me" she says, voice low and firm. "Don't shut down on me, Alastair."

She keeps hold of him, waits, until Alastair's eyes flicker to her own, momentarily.

Slowly, he shakes his head, clears his throat.

Fiona keeps hold of him, keeps looking at him, but he feels her relax very slightly.

Slowly, she lets her hands slide away from his face, but wriggles closer to him. She presses her face against his shoulder.

After a moment, Alastair shifts slightly. "It's fucking freezing" he mutters, only just realising.

Fiona manages a strange half-laugh, half-splutter. For the first time, Alastair looks at her properly.

"Sorry" he manages, the exhaustion clinging to the edge of his voice and his limbs, waiting to sink in, the way it always waits to follow after a bout like this.

Fiona squeezes his hand once. "Come on" is all she says. "Let's get home."

Alastair untangles himself, stands upright, wincing as the blood rushes back into his legs. Fiona slides her arm around his waist as he takes one step, then another, until he regains his balance a little.

They begin to walk back to the car, away from the graves. Fiona keeps her hands wrapped tight around one of his, warming it between her own.

* * *

"Can you _not_-" George glances up as the door hits the wall. "Be predictable for _five minutes?"_

George sighs, glancing back at his papers as Balls stomps into the office, letting the door slam shut behind him.

"As predictable as your Newsnight interview will be-" George checks his watch. "In about four hours."

Balls glowers at him. "This is not a fucking laughing matter. I had to walk from Whitehall to get here."

"You mean you actually had to walk to your car to be driven here?"

"There was walking." Balls draws himself up straight. "You haven't taken those fucking steps with a ten-year-old and a football in tow."

"You haven't taken them with a ten-year-old in a suffragette outfit."

Balls blinks. "I'll give you that."

George peers over his shoulder. "Where's Maddy?"

"Outside, in the corridor. Had to make her put her bloody football down."

"Oh. Where was Liberty? I thought she was out there with Nance-"

"Nance?"

"Nancy. Dave's coming over for some meeting with someone and he's bringing the girls home from school. Then he'll take them back, Sam's doing some charity event-"

George scribbles his signature on the next document from the red box, then, when Balls fails to speak, looks up.

Balls is staring at him with the expression of someone who's just been struck over the head with an exceptionally heavy object and not realised yet.

"OK, now you're scaring me." George leans back. "This is like the time you realised you had to agree with our Treasury forecasts."

"Thatwasonetimeandwesaidtheyweremorepositivethanexpected, notthatwefuckingagreedwiththem" Balls blurts out in nearly one breath. "And Cameron's _here?"_

"Yes."

"No, no-" Balls is shaking his head. "Cameron's _here?"_

"Is this a moment I'm going to have to remember when a doctor asks if there were any-"

George trails off at the look on Balls' face.

* * *

When David looks up, his heart flips uncomfortably in his chest. Like a teenager.

"Oh-Miliband." He manages to stand up, lean against his desk, trying to ignore the slight quickening of his heartbeat. "What can I-ah-I wasn't expecting you."

"No, I know." Miliband's speaking too quickly, his voice a little too firm. "I know, it's-I-th-something just occurred to me and I thought I'd run by you before I went home-" By the time he reaches the last few words, they're running into each other.

"Right." David curses himself.

But the thing is, this is the first time he's _seen _Miliband in the last couple of days and he doesn't know-

Well, judging from the lambasting Lynton gave David, Miliband's team have to have given him much the same, and whatever it is, he can't decide if he wants it to have left Ed with the same odd, vaguely sick sensation every time he thinks about it.

"Um-" It occurs to him that he should offer Miliband a seat, which should really be second bloody nature by now, but when Miliband turns his big dark eyes on him with a confused look, David feels oddly wrong-footed all over again.

"Sure" he says, finding his thoughts lingering on the word, testing the sound of it-did it sound too casual? Did it sound like he was trying too hard?

Jesus, what's happening to him?

"Um, sure, sure-" He shakes his head slightly, giving himself a mental slap. "Just-why don't you-"

Ed sits down far too quickly on the couch, causing his legs to nearly fumble out from under him. David feels a sinking sensation in his chest that's almost painfully pleasant.

He shakes his head, sits down next to Miliband, half a second too late. "So." He clears his throat. "What-um-what was it you wanted to see me about?"

For the second's silence before Ed answers, David has the chance to half-glance at the chair by his desk and wonder if perhaps he shouldn't have offered that instead.

Is that what he'd have done a few months ago? Before they-

David feels his cheeks warm uncomfortably.

He and Miliband had sat on this couch together before then. He knows they did. He remembers it.

But-

He glances up at Miliband again only to realise from the expectant look on the other man's face that it's clearly his turn to speak.

"Sorry, what?"

Miliband gives him an odd look. "I wath-are you all right?"

David nods. "What. Yes. Yes, just thinking. Sorry." He slaps his hands together a little. "Sorry, say it again-"

Miliband doesn't look entirely convinced, but he nods. "I wath jutht thinking-"

He's twisting his fingers together, wrapping them around each other. David watches them, almost hypnotised by the movement, before he blinks and forces himself to look back at Miliband's face.

"You know-" Now David can't look away from that corner of Ed's mouth which he's worrying at nervously.

"You know, that-that decision we talked about in Paris?"

David blinks, forcing his thoughts back into some semblance of order.

"Sorry. Sorry. Yeah. Yeah. What we-what we th-said-when-you know-"

Miliband glances at David, then away again. "That thing. About-if we were going to say th-something perthonal-"

The lisp is really breaking through.

David blinks. "Something pers-yes. Yes."

Ed glances at him, then away, then back. "Well. Um. It's PMQth tomorrow and-"

David blinks. "Yeah, and-oh. Oh. You've got something-"

Ed swallows. He shuffles round, folds and unfolds his legs. "Um. You-you th-saw the headlines. Today."

For a moment, David's gripped by an odd panic. Then he remembers. "Smythson."

"Yeah. Yeah."

Then it hits him.

"Wait. What-"

Ed won't look at him. He stares at his knees.

"What is it?"

Ed takes a deep breath, staring even harder at his trousers, and then blurts, the words tumbling out as though he's partly rehearsed them, "I jutht got an email about the questions backbenchers are going to ask and it'th, I think one of them might ask th-something about Smythson-"

David feels the words thud into the air.

Neither of them know they notice it, but he moves his leg an inch away. "I-right."

It's all he can think of to say. The sudden emptiness aching deeper and deeper in his chest has seen to that.

"I-I've emailed and told them not to" Ed bursts in, the words almost falling over one another. "That it'th not a good ide-I've told them not to mention her. Samanth-"

"But they'll still make their point, won't they?"

Miliband throws him a look that could almost be stricken. "I didn't know it wath going to happen" he says, and even though David can't help but believe him, he snorts.

"What are-" Miliband's voice is harder now. "It'th true. That wath the deal-I told you and-"

"Yeah, well, it still doesn't make me feel a whole lot better, Miliband."

"Look-" Ed might move towards him, but David gets up before he can touch him.

"I told you" Miliband says, a second later, and the confusion in his voice does something to David, makes him almost wince. "I told you I'd-I'd warn you, and-"

"And you have." David knows how cool his voice is, can almost picture the look on Ed's face. He tries not to flinch.

But it's just-

He takes a deep breath, turns round slowly to see Miliband standing too, eyes fixed on David.

"Fine" he hears himself say. "You told me."

Ed nods.

David shrugs. "So was that it?"

He knows it's almost cruel. He knows that.

But-just looking at Miliband is leaving him-

"I suppothe so." Miliband says the words slowly, carefully, but the lisp gives it away to David. "Yeth. I juth-st thought I would let you know."

He watches David for another moment. David feels something jolt hard in his chest. He swallows.

"Well." Miliband turns away towards the door. "I'll jutht leave you to-"

"For God's sake."

David's voice is almost a whisper, but Miliband stops dead. His back is ramrod stiff and straight.

David tries to clear his throat as Ed slowly turns back towards him. His eyes seem far bigger and darker than usual.

"Just-sit down-" David's voice is far softer than the words. "Please-"

Miliband's eyes meet his own and something about the _look-_

The way he just looks, like a breath being caught-

David's heart jumps in his chest, but he can't let himself look. Instead he just watches as Miliband slowly retakes his seat on the couch. Slowly, David sits down next to him.

They didn't used to sit this close, he thinks stupidly.

But of course they did. Of course they used to. It's just-

David didn't used to notice how close Ed's leg is to his own. How their shoulders almost brush every time they move, sending a tingle of heat through David. How long Miliband's eyelashes are, how David could count them every time he gives David one of those glances up through them.

The silence makes David's heartbeat feel heavier, louder.

"I'm not angry with you" he says suddenly, unable to take the silence anymore.

Ed looks up at him, the little jump going through David again. "No?"

David meets his eyes, his heartbeat audible now. "No." His own voice is almost a whisper.

They watch each other. David swallows.

_I-I don't-it's you, you being-it's us, it-_

Ed's knee keeps drumming up and down.

"Hey-" and David reaches out, fingers taking hold. "Hey-"

It's only when Ed's eyes meet his own that he realises where his hand is.

* * *

Nancy swings her legs back and forth, already bored with waiting. She pulls off her school jumper, tugs at the loose piece of crepe Liberty's left her, and chews it thoughtfully. She wipes her shoe against the edge of the carpet, noticing the melted snow in the grooves. She and Lola had tried sprinkling it over each other's hair when they'd headed out of school, the two of them spinning around, Lola's blonde hair flying out behind her, flakes still drifting over the churchyard.

She'd had to stay late after school for guitar practice and so Dad had been able to pick her up today, collecting Liberty too, who'd stayed on after school to finish the crepes they'd been baking, though Pancake Tuesday isn't until next week.

"Because it'll be half-term" Liberty had explained, halving the still-warm crepe between them as they waited outside Dad's Commons office. "It was French Day at school."

Usually, they'd have gone straight back to Downing Street, but Dad had needed to look at papers or something, and Uncle George had been meeting someone, so they'd stopped en route. Nancy and Liberty had been mildly fussed over by any number of MPs walking past, but it had been Mr Ed Balls who'd really sparked their interest.

He'd turned up a few minutes beforehand, and had given them a wave. "Hi, girls."

Liberty had waved back and Nancy had given him a smile, but eyed him warily. Dad and Mr Ed Miliband might be sort-of-friends, but she doesn't know if he really likes Mr Ed Balls.

It had been easier for Liberty to know how to respond-she's been babysat by Mr Ed Balls a whole bunch of times, so she'd gone up and given him a hug. After a brief internal battle, Nancy had too, and had allowed him to tug her ponytail, though she'd yanked it firmly back into place afterwards.

"Waiting for your dads?" He'd tapped Liberty's nose. "I've got to have a word with yours'."

"He's in there-" Liberty had jerked her head towards Uncle George's outer office.

"Mine's doing his red box" Nancy had added, popping another piece of crepe into her mouth as Liberty offered Mr Ed Balls the crepes.

Mr Ed Balls had sucked in his breath. "Oh, _yum."_ He'd taken a small piece, popping it in his mouth. "Did you make that?"

Liberty had nodded proudly.

"Good, you'll have to give me the recipe." He'd tapped Liberty's nose. "Now, where's Maddy got to?" He'd looked over his shoulder, brow furrowed. "Mads?"

A football had rolled round the corner, and following it walked a girl about Nancy's age. Her light brown hair was in a loose ponytail and she was in what looked like a football top, ponytail slipping loose as she chased the ball.

"Oi." Mr Ed Balls held up his finger warningly. "I told you not to bring that in here" he'd added, sounding annoyed as the other girl gathered the ball up, clutching it to her chest defensively. "Just five minutes, all right? Sit with Lib and Nancy, I've only got to see Uncle George-"

The girl had wandered up to the soft chairs where Nancy had reseated herself, hovering until her father had headed, with a wave at the girls, into Uncle George's office, and then sprung up again, bouncing her ball down the carpet with one foot. Elwen would be impressed, Nancy had thought, watching her, and then with a jolt, she'd remembered the party. Maddy-Nancy remembered her now.

"Do you want some of this?"

The girl had run over, dribbling the ball, and taken a piece of crepe herself. "Thanks" she'd said, and given Nancy an odd, jerky nod, which had made Nancy watch her a little longer.

It had been a few minutes later when Liberty had sprung up, clapping her hands together."Need to go and check with Thea."

"Why?" Nancy had looked up from where she was sketching out the hat she needs to finish for Elwen's costume.

"She said she'd go and check something out in the Commons library for me. 'Bout the suffragettes."

Now, Nancy's taking slow bites of the crepes, licking whipped cream off her fingers, and watching Maddy kick her football back and forth.

Nancy's known Maddy since she was tiny, she's pretty sure, but she hasn't actually really spoken to her before. She's usually seen her at all the parties and things for MPs' kids, and her dad's always been Santa Claus each year at the Christmas party, but, for some reason, they've never really talked to each other much, though Liberty's friendly with her.

So she watches Maddy kick the ball again and again, the slight furrow of concentration at her brow. Nancy notices that her ponytail bounces with each kick.

Maddy kicks the ball one last time and then flops back a little, tossing her ponytail out of her eyes. She bounces the ball with one hand, less vigorously now, wandering back and forth.

She glances at Nancy. Nancy stares back. For a few seconds, the two girls regard each other with quiet interest.

Maddy, as though suddenly coming to a decision, turns to face Nancy and bounces the ball towards her. "Want to play?"

Nancy bounces it back, getting up slowly. "Sure."

Maddy bounces it back towards her. Nancy returns it, and they spend a few minutes engaged in this in an almost companionable silence, while each of them sneaks quick, curious glances at the other under their lashes.

Maddy kicks the ball against the wall and Nancy catches it with her foot, kicks it back. She's played football with Elwen and Florence often enough, not to mention with Xandie and the others.

"Your name's Nancy, right?" Maddy says abruptly, catching the ball with the side of her football boot.

"Yeah." Nancy catches the ball as she bounces it gently. "You're Maddy."

"Yeah." Maddy bounces the ball. "Madelyn, but no one calls me that." She pulls a face.

"Yeah, no one calls my brother his name either." Nancy kicks the ball back. "He's called Arthur, but no one calls him that."

"What d'you call him?"

"Elwen. It's his middle name."

_"Elwen?"_

Nancy tosses her head, indignation spiking in her throat. "Yeah. My mum found it in a book." She meets Maddy's gaze challengingly, silently daring her to comment, chin jutting up in a way that, though she doesn't know it, is strikingly similar to the way her father looks at some people. "I quite like our names."

Maddy's chin juts out, too. "I didn't say _I _didn't." She kicks the ball back to Nancy without looking away from her.

Nancy eyes the other girl suspiciously, but kicks it back.

"Anyway, my sister's called Meriel" Maddy offers, by way of an olive branch, "but everyone calls her Ellie."

Nancy hesitates for a moment, but, recognizing it as the peace offering it is, asks "How old's she?"

"Nearly sixteen" Maddy says, an age that to her and Nancy, seems wonderfully far-off. "And my brother Joel's thirteen. What about yours'?"

"Elwen's nine next week. My sister Flo's four."

"What about you?" Maddy bounces the ball from one foot to the other.

"Eleven." Nancy lifts the ball and chucks it back to Maddy, hitting the wall.

Maddy dives for it. "Same. Nearly." _Nearly_, means in five months time, but Maddy qualifies that as _nearly._

Nancy nods at her football kit. "You play football?"

"Yeah." Maddy does a bit of fancy footwork with the ball, which makes Nancy's lips twitch. Maddy, noticing her smile, does it again, though she might not know that's why.

"I want to get on the team when I go to SNS" she says, sending the ball skittering back to Nancy.

"SNS?" Nancy kicks it back.

"Stoke Newington. Secondary."

"Oh."

"Ellie and Joel already go there" Maddy says, by way of explanation. "So I probably will, too. Where are you going?" she adds, this being the common topic of Year Six once they become aware that they'll only remain a year group for a little longer.

"Either Lady Margaret or Grey Coat Hospital." Nancy kicks the ball again. "Probably Grey Coat, though."

"Is anyone from your class going?" Maddy catches the ball.

"Not sure. My friend Lola might be, though. One of them's going to boarding school, I think."

Maddy arches an eyebrow. "Don't think anyone from mine is." She tucks the football under one arm.

"Which school do you go to?" Nancy falls into step next to her, as they head back to the chairs, Nancy dragging her ponytail loose. Maddy watches as Nancy shakes her hair out, combing it with her fingers.

"Grazebrook. What about you?"

"St Mary Abbots." Nancy wriggles round in her seat to face her, sitting cross-legged. Maddy does the same so the two little girls' knees are brushing each other through Nancy's school tights, in the way little girls do. "Want some more of Liberty's crepes?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Maddy tears another piece free. "Did she make them at school?"

"Yeah, they're always doing stuff like that."

"Lucky. Does she go to Grey Coat?"

"No, she goes to St Paul's Girls'. Grey Coat's all-girls, too, though. Bea's at Grey Coat, she's in Year Seven."

Maddy chews the piece of crepe slowly. "Is it busy, then? Your dad being Prime Minister?"

Nancy tenses a little, already bristling.

Maddy raises an eyebrow. "I kind of knew who you are."

"Not who I am" Nancy corrects her, pride flickering up her spine. "Who my dad is."

Maddy looks straight at her. Nancy notices that her eyes are an odd colour-sort of green but with strange flecks of grey and black that make them look like the odd stones Nancy finds at Polzeath in Cornwall sometimes. "That's true."

Nancy meets her gaze head-on. "What's your dad doing?"

"Talking to Uncle George." Maddy pops another piece of crepe into her mouth. "Think it's about work."

"You call him Uncle George, too?"

Maddy frowns. "Yeah. He's your dad's best mate, isn't he? That's what my dad says."

"He's our godfather. Mine and El's."

Maddy nods. "Your dad doesn't like mine, right?"

Nancy looks up sharply. "Only 'cos yours' doesn't like mine" she retorts, meeting Maddy's gaze. Maddy notices Nancy's eyes are the sort of blue you'd think only got written about in books and things-bright, bright blue, like the sea on holiday, her head tilted back proudly.

Maddy shrugs. "I don't know if he does or doesn't."

"But he likes Uncle George."

Maddy nods. "But your dad's friends with Dad's boss, isn't he?"

"Who?"

"Miliband, or whatever my dad calls him."

"Mr Ed Miliband?" Nancy thinks for a moment. "I guess so." She supposes Mr Ed Miliband staying over must mean he's at least partly a friend. "Why? Isn't he friends with your dad?"

Maddy snorts. "No."

Nancy frowns. "Why?"

Maddy shrugs. "Don't know, really. Never met him properly."

Nancy frowns, puzzling over this. As long as she can remember, Uncle George has been over at their house nearly as often as Dad is.

"I mean" Maddy adds, licking whipped cream off her finger. "Mum used to be friends with him, I think, but not Dad."

Nancy shrugs, then turns back to the pancakes.

"Anyway-" Maddy says, nudging her football boot against Nancy's school shoe. "It's not like _I_ hate your dad, is it?"

Nancy, chewing her mouthful of pancake slowly, looks up at Maddy. Maddy, wiping whipped cream away from her mouth, meets her gaze steadily.

"No" Nancy says slowly, Maddy noticing the brightness of her eyes again as she stares back stubbornly over the pancakes. "I never said that you did."

* * *

Ed stares down at Cameron's hand on his knee as though it might belong to someone else.

That's Cameron's hand.

On his knee.

Cameron's hand. On his knee.

Cameron's hand-

His eyes flicker up to Cameron's and Cameron's hand shoots back as if Ed's given him an electric shock.

Neither of them looks at the other.

"Sorry" says Cameron, after a moment. "I-I was just-"

"It'th fine" Ed says to his knees.

They sit for a moment in silence. Suddenly, Ed can hear Cameron's words again from that day exploring.

_Come on, you know you're gorgeous._

His cheeks are very, very warm.

"Look, thank you for telling me." Cameron's voice is a little more like a mumble than usual.

"S'not an issue." Ed can't look at him.

"Thanks."

They sit there, silent.

Ed should go, he knows. He's delivered the message he came to give Cameron. He should leave, now.

"What are you doing?" he says instead.

Cameron's mouth twitches. "Already eyeing up the office, Miliband?"

Ed feels almost weak with relief. "Only preparing" he manages, a little shakier than usual.

"Which you need."

"Because I'll win."

Cameron just smirks, grabbing a thick, leather-bound document off his desk. Ed unconsciously shifts a little closer, peering at the papers. "What are they?"

Cameron waggles his eyebrows. "Maybe they're our secret, evil, Tory plans for cutting taxes for the highest earners-"

Ed rolls his eyes, taking a long, patient breath.

Cameron chuckles. "It's constitutional law." He winks at Ed. "For forming coalitions."

"Ah."

"You know-" Cameron leans back against the couch. "I was talking to Andrew about this."

Ed's heart picks up.

"What?" he asks, a little too quickly.

"Coalitions."

Ed's shoulders slump with what he isn't sure is relief or disappointment.

"He said-" Cameron flicks through one of the documents with his thumb. He isn't looking at Ed, but somehow-

Somehow, Ed just knows Cameron can feel his gaze on him.

"He said-" Cameron says. "That there might be the smallest chance of the Tories and Labour forming a coalition."

Ed chokes.

Cameron, taking in Ed's outraged look with what appears to be the utmost enjoyment, cackles. "Maybe not."

Ed stares at him. "Are you _th-seriouth?"_

Cameron meets his gaze. The smirk still hovers at his mouth, but his blue eyes soften as they rove over Ed's face.

"Deadly" he says, softly.

Words swell in Ed's throat, but nothing comes out.

Cameron laughs. "Don't worry" he says, turning back to the folder. "I know you'd rather die."

Ed swallows. His face is so warm. His fingers fidget at his collar.

"Obviously" he whispers.

Cameron doesn't look at him but at the sound of Ed's whisper, his cheek lifts very slightly in a smile.

Ed scrambles for something to say, struggling to ignore the heat in his cheeks.

"What elthe does it th-say?" he murmurs. He moves closer to peer over Cameron's shoulder, his chin brushing his suit.

His breath catches in his throat. Next to him, so does Cameron's.

* * *

"So does everyone at your school know?"

Nancy looks up at Maddy, who's balancing a set of Chelsea Top Trumps cards on her knee-Elwen would approve. "About Dad? Yeah, I guess. He does Sunday School and stuff." She shuffles some of the cards Maddy's letting her look at. "Why, do they know at yours'?"

"Yeah, sort of." Maddy throws her ponytail back off her face. "But, I mean, he's not often there. And they don't know Mum as much." Maddy pulls her legs up, tugging at her football shirt. "And I guess at SNS, they're used to Ellie and Joel."

"Mmm."

Maddy glances at her. "I wasn't trying to freak you out. Sorry."

"You didn't. Just thinking." Nancy threads her fingers in and out of each other, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, not knowing that if her father could see her, he'd have blinked at how much she looked like Ed Miliband in that moment. "But it's different for them, isn't it?"

"How?"

"Well, it didn't go in all the papers, did it? Where they were going to school-"

Maddy glances up. "Oh. Right. That sucks."

Nancy hunches a shoulder in response.

Maddy sighs, watches Nancy when Nancy stops watching her. Nancy's pulling her bottom lip between her teeth again, which makes her face look even more delicate than usual. Nancy's face can seem softer than other people's, as though it's been traced out in pencil, nose and mouth and eyes finished with delicate little curves. There's an almost antiquated little-girlness to it, which, though neither girl knows it, will make her a striking adult in years to come, with features so delicate that people will look at them twice as they pass her, as though wondering how features like that can survive in the world. Until they get a glimpse of her blue eyes, which will send a shock through them as they meet her gaze, glittering and challenging, which will tell them exactly how.

But Maddy doesn't know any of that. She just lets her eyes rove over Nancy's face, which seems to look even more delicate in school uniform or dresses, like a little girl from another time. Maddy's eyes flicker to her interlocking fingers and then her face, watching the way her eyes suddenly brighten as she pulls a sheet of paper closer, and, seizing a pencil, traces a sharp line over what looks like a hat, before she carves the line deeper into the paper.

"What's that?"

"Oh-" It takes Nancy a moment to look up, chewing her lip as she seems to blink herself back into the real world. "Elwen's hat. For World Book Day." Off Maddy's look, Nancy shakes her head. "I'm making his costume for him."

Maddy blinks. "Seriously?"

Nancy nods. "Yeah." She feels a faint flicker of something like pride in her chest at the look on Maddy's face. "I like sewing. He's being Robin Hood."

Maddy leans over to get a better look at the picture, her ponytail brushing Nancy's cheek. "Wow, epic."

Nancy feels pride straighten her spine a little. "Thanks." It's a good drawing, she thinks, given she's done it sitting down, leaning on a chair.

"When did you learn to sew?"

"Just from Mum. She's learning to sew, too, she's a designer."

"Cool." Maddy's eyes linger on the picture. "How long does that take?"

"Not too long. Just sketch it out, and then Mum'll help me design it a bit more."

"What are you going as?"

"Not sure, yet. I went as Matilda, last year. Flo's just being a Flower Fairy. What about you?"

Maddy brightens. "I'm going to tell the teacher _Bend It Like Beckham's_ a book."

"Cool." Nancy wriggles forward a little, tears off another piece of crepe. "Can I ask you something?"

Maddy looks her straight in the eye, chewing. "Sure."

Nancy crosses her legs tighter. "Aren't you going to move in if your lot win the election?"

Maddy looks blank.

"You know, if your dad gets Uncle George's job?"

Maddy frowns. "I guess. Never really thought about it." She tugs her football shirt loose, nestles her chin on her hand. "Wouldn't you guys have to move out, anyway?"

"Yeah." Nancy brushes her hair out with her fingers. "I don't think Flo gets it. She's only ever lived here."

"How old's she?"

"Four."

"Like a baby."

Nancy nods.

Maddy debates whether or not to give Nancy's hand a squeeze, which she's pretty sure Ellie would do. But Maddy's not the hand-squeezing type, so she settles for handing her another Top Trumps card instead.

Nancy glances up at her. "Anyway, wouldn't you want us to move out?"

Maddy blinks. "Why?"

Nancy shrugs. "Well, you know. Because your mum and dad would have won."

Maddy doesn't deny it. Instead, she lifts both shoulders. "I mean, I want Mum and Dad's side to win, but only because it's Mum and Dad's team, you know-" If she's honest, Maddy's never really thought about it much.

"Why?" She glances at Nancy. "Do you want your dad to win?"

Nancy looks straight back at her. "Yeah. Of course."

Maddy doesn't look away. Instead, she gazes back steadily. "Well, that's OK."

Nancy feels slightly odd watching her. The only people she can usually talk to about this stuff apart from El are Libbie and Bea. Xandie and Rosie and the others try, but they don't get it the same way. Even Lola, who Nancy, if she thought about it, would have to say is her best friend at school, can't really get it the same way. They've never seen their dads on TV while they're trying to eat their dinner, and Flo's waving at the screen.

She glances up at Maddy, then away, then back. There's a blob of whipped cream at the corner of Maddy's mouth. Nancy hesitates, then reaches out to swipe it away with her thumb, the way she would with the other girls.

Maddy blinks, then looks away. Then back. Nancy smiles uncertainly. Maddy smiles back and Nancy watches the green of her eyes again before she glances back at her drawing, wondering whether she should add anything to the top of El's hat, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand, as she traces the pencil line again.

* * *

"Look." George sits down next to Balls, handing him the glass of wine. "We don't know anything yet."

Balls snorts. "We know that Cameron and Miliband are probably sitting next to each other, fucking chatting away and probably-probably-"

They glance at each other, then hastily away, each of them trying not to picture what they're "probably".

"Look-"

George waits a moment, still not saying it.

But-

"Look" says Balls, abruptly. "We get on, don't we."

George arches an eyebrow. "I'd hope so, since you're drinking my wine."

"No, I mean-" Balls turns to face him. "No one's talking about _us._ Like they're talking about _them."_

George can feel them nearly touching something, something that hasn't been touched before. Something they haven't said.

He looks away, then back. "What are we saying?"

Balls stares at him, then looks away, forehead creasing as though it pains him.

"Jesus, Osborne, you know what we're fucking say-"

George laughs, because the conversation can't be happening.

"That they're-that they-"

"Don't say-" Balls presses his lips together, then shakes his head. "No. No, seriously, fucking don't, we-"

"But they're-"

George nearly laughs again, then doesn't. Because this almost can't be happening.

It's a just-in-case conversation, he tells himself. It's a-

God, there shouldn't even be a _just-in-case._

"They're not-they're not-they're not-" He's searching for words, words that aren't _just-in-case _enough. "Like that."

"Like what?" Balls asks almost aggressively.

But George knows him and so he keeps looking at him until Balls throws his hands up.

"Well, they're _not, _are they?"

George just shrugs.

"Oh, come _on."_ Balls gives him a furiously disbelieving look. "You can't tell me _Cameron _comes across like he might be-as-as-"

George waits.

"You know he doesn't" Balls mutters, looking away.

George waits another moment, then, "I never said he had to be gay."

Balls flinches.

"And I thought you were meant to be open-minded."

Balls shoots him a furious look. "Not because of _that"_ he hisses. "It's just-Cameron-_Cameron _and-" He shakes his head. "There's no fucking way it could happen." He folds his arms too tightly.

George waits, then, "Are you sure?"

Balls meets his gaze. "Yeah" he says, defensively.

George raises an eyebrow.

Balls glares at him for another moment, then tears his gaze away. "Well, are _you?"_

George shrugs.

"I never said _gay"_ he says, quietly.

This time, Balls doesn't shake his head.

"I can't believe we're talking about this" is all he mutters, before he lapses into a loud silence again, the air between them a noisy crowd of all the things they can't be talking about, shoving and jostling to be said.

* * *

"Conthtitutional law?" Ed's only moved the slightest bit closer.

"True."

Ed glances at him. "Wouldn't have thought you'd be interethted in reading thith."

Cameron tosses him a quick grin. "Thinking I have hidden depths, Miliband?"

Ed snorts. "About ath hidden as a puddle."

Cameron chuckles, flips a couple of pages. Ed tries not to grin, takes the opportunity to let his eyes linger on the smoothness of Cameron's skin.

It's odd, Ed thinks. Objectively, Cameron shouldn't be good-looking, really.

Not bad-looking, obviously. But he shouldn't be-he shouldn't be anywhere _near-_

He can't help but sneak little glances at Cameron's profile. The way his hair's slightly messier at the end of the day. For a moment, Ed's tempted to swipe his fingers through it just to see Cameron's reaction. That very slight crease in his forehead. That slight chubbiness of his cheeks. That way he purses his lips when he's considering something. The cocky look he casts around when he knows he's going to say something that makes everyone laugh.

He shouldn't be good-looking. But-

Cameron looks up. Ed hastily looks away.

He can still sense Cameron's grin.

"Checking me out, Miliband?"

Something seems to fall between Ed's ribs and he looks away hastily, cheeks burning, and knowing from the deepening of Cameron's grin that he's just got exactly the reaction he'd wanted.

Something about the grin, the way David so casually turns back to the documents, makes something ache in Ed's chest.

"Don't" he says, so softly that even he's not entirely sure that he said it.

He's not looking at Cameron, but he can sense the smile fading. (And that should bother him more than it does.)

"Don't what?"

"Nothing." Ed fervently wishes he hadn't spoken. "Doesn't matter."

"Don't what?"

Ed sighs, tries to angle his face away.

Cameron's hand settles on his shoulder. "Miliband."

Ed should want to wriggle away. A part of him does want to wriggle away. A larger part doesn't.

"What?" he almost snaps out, but his voice cracks a little, embarrassingly, at the end.

He feels Cameron flinch. But the warm weight of his hand doesn't move.

A few moments later, Ed finds himself relaxing under it, and Cameron's fingers relax, too.

Slowly, Ed turns back to him.

"I'm only-" He shakes his head. "It'th th-stupid."

"No, it isn't, I-"

Cameron's lip catches uncharacteristically between his teeth. He hesitates, and although Ed doesn't know it, it's really that makes him say, "Juth-st feels like you're trying to-"

He trails off. "Forget it."

Cameron's forehead crumples in confusion. "I wasn't trying to upset you."

Ed shakes his head. "No. I don't think so. I-no. Th-sorry."

Cameron nudges him. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to be apologising?"

Ed looks up at him with something that feels like a grin. "You're supposed to be the Prime Minister. You don't do _that _properly."

Cameron nudges his shoulder. "You can't switch off, can you?"

The words make Ed's face warm very slowly and deeply, the heat spreading pleasantly out inside his chest too, and pulling a stupid smile to his mouth.

Cameron flips another page. "Anyway. I thought I was stretching your expectations today." He jiggles the document slightly.

"With them, you are."

Cameron nudges him again. "Saying I'm not _intellectually self-confident_ enough to read them?"

Ed tilts his head to one side. "Hmmm...."

Cameron whacks him with the folder.

Ed dissolves into laughter, half-falling against Cameron's shoulder. Cameron nudges him back, and then their eyes meet as the laughter stops. Cameron just watches him quietly. Ed tries to smile back, feeling oddly foolish.

"Look." Cameron glances a little too quickly back at the folder. Ed clears his throat, trying not to notice. Cameron's leg's still pressing against his.

"What?"

"Some of the finer aspects of constitutional law." Cameron pulls the documents closer. "You know the dispatch box is arranged to keep us a sword's length from each other?"

Ed snorts. "So you don't challenge me to a duel?"

"Mmm, exactly. To prevent a swordfight breaking out, I think. They thought it was too-" Cameron pauses for a breath. "They thought it might get....could get more physical-if....it was too....intimate."

Ed's face is burning. He's far, far too hot. He can feel a dampness under his arms. Cameron's shoulder is almost brushing his.

"Right." His voice is almost husky.

Cameron glances at him. "Mmm. That's why we have those purple tassels in the cloakrooms. To hang up our swords."

Cameron gestures, waving an invisible sword.

Ed snorts.

"What, did we do sword-fighting at Eton?" Cameron waves the imaginary sword again.

"Are you'th-saying you did?"

Cameron pretends to parry him. "Dramatic duel from opposing sides, Miliband. _Two households, both alike in dignity_"

"Ith that Shakespeare, Cameron?"

"Mm-hmmm. That another thing I'm not intellectually self-confident enough for?"

"I'll th-start thinking you like reading my interviews, Cameron."

_"From ancient grudge break to new mutiny-"_

Ed rolls his eyes. "Th-stop it."

_"Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean-"_

"Th-stop-_from forth, the fatal lointh of thethe two foes-_there, are you happy?"

"Maybe." Cameron leans forward. _"These violent delights have violent ends, _Miliband."

"It'th....Romeo and Juliet, isn't it?"

"Hmm." Cameron's fingers flicker against Ed's sleeve. _"And in their triumph die, like fire and powder-"_ His voice is softer, quieter, his eyes heavy on Ed's face. _"Which, as they kiss, consume."_

Ed's heartbeat is heavier in his chest. He can't catch his breath. Cameron's watching him. His tongue feels thick in his mouth.

"_From forth the fatal loins of thethe two foes...a pair of..." _Ed clears his throat. "_A pair of star-crothed l..."_

Cameron bites his lip. Their eyes are holding each other.

"Um. Yeah." Cameron's voice is a breath.

Ed stares at him. The quote is caught in his chest, like another breath.

Cameron's knee is still pressing against his. His eyes dart down to Ed's mouth. Ed feels it like a flicker in his chest.

Cameron's hand's on the back of the couch behind Ed's head. His arm could almost be around Ed. Ed's heart's beating so fast it's stealing his breath.

The door opens.

"Dave, I just wanted to check about this Emmerdale visit on Thursday-" Gabby makes her way in, dark hair heavy on her shoulders, her eyes on the papers in her hands.

Cameron leans back, blinking rapidly, eyes moving a little too rapidly from Ed to Gabby. "Ah. Right. Emmerdale." He claps his hands together. "Ever watched it, Miliband?"

Ed's still sitting on the couch as Cameron and Gabby both turn to him, Gabby with a friendly smile. Cameron's wearing a smile. But there's something else there too, trapped beneath the smile as Ed stares at him.

Ed coughs, clears his throat. "No" he manages, the words almost but not quite stumbling over each other, something swelling in his throat, making him ache, his voice almost a whisper. "No, I haven't."

* * *

George sighs. "Look" he manages, leaning back against the couch. "Look, look-let's meet up tomorrow-"

"Before or after you fuck up in PMQs?"

"After we have to pillory you for fucking up your Newsnight interview? Meet up after. In the Commons gym."

"Gym?"

"What, so gym isn't your area-"

"Yeah, the 5:2 diet's really saved your life-"

"Look, down there, by the gym. Or the sauna. Or the pool."

"I'm starting to sense a theme."

"It's not _us _we have to worry about, I think."

There's a long silence.

George clears his throat. "Oh. Yeah, I didn't mean-"

Balls grimaces. "This is the same feeling I got when I had to watch Beth and Margaret, sitting next to my fucking mother-"

"Highest of culture for you, wasn't it, Balls?"

"We're not all Osborne & Little."

"Look. We'll meet up tomorrow." George extends a hand. Balls rolls his eyes, but seizes it.

"Just don't bring up Beth and Margaret again, you sound 60."

"Average age of Tory voters."

George raises an eyebrow. "So you want to sound like our lot?"

Balls grimaces, dropping George's hand like it's burning. "Perish the thought."

"Don't flatter yourself" George snorts. "I'd like to see you try."

* * *

Nancy is peering suspiciously at the Top Trumps card Maddy's just handed her when the door opens.

Nancy glances round to see Dad walking out of his office. She sighs, casting the pancake a regretful look, and scrambles upright, only then catching sight of Mr Ed Miliband behind him.

"Hi" Nancy says, with a wave, only realising as she lets her hand drop that Mr Ed Miliband's eyes are darting about worriedly, cheeks flushed.

He blinks, his eyes falling on the two girls as if not quite able to remember who they are. Then "Oh. Oh! Hi." He gives them an awkward sort of half-wave, but his eyes are already moving back to Dad, like they're tugged on an invisible string.

Dad blinks too, but recovers himself far more quickly. "Hi, you two." He blinks again. "Where's Liberty?"

"Suffragettes" Nancy says, succinctly.

Dad barely blinks, oblivious to Maddy's baffled look. "Ah."

He glances at Maddy. "Waiting for your mum or dad, Maddy?"

Maddy nods, clapping her hands together. "Yup."

Dad glances about. "Well. Might be best to find Liberty, before things get awkward."

Uncle George's office door opens. Uncle George and Ed Balls step out.

There is a long silence.

"Ah" says Uncle George quietly.

Dad stares at Uncle George. Uncle George stares at Dad. Ed Balls stares at Mr Ed Miliband, then at Dad, and Mr Ed Miliband seems to decide to stare at no-one, suddenly finding his shoes fascinating.

"George."

George smiles. "Dave."

He looks at Mr Ed Miliband. "Ed."

"George" Mr Ed Miliband says to his shoes.

Mr Ed Balls nods at Dad. "David."

Dad's lips tighten slightly, as Mr Ed Balls turns to Mr Ed Miliband. "Ed."

"Ed."

George glances at Mr Ed Balls. "....Ed."

Mr Ed Balls nods. "....George."

They all stand there, not looking at each other.

There's a very long silence.

Nancy and Maddy exchange glances.

There's the sound of footsteps and all of them look up at the sound of Liberty's voice, which announces her presence round the corner before she can even be seen. "Thea took me and showed me the plaque again-the one where Emily Davison hid in the cupboard-which is cool, and all, but I'm pretty sure I can't _go _as Emily Davison for World Book Day, because she's not fictional, even though there've been books written _about_ her-"

She trails off as she rounds the corner and catches sight of six faces all in varying states of relief. "Oh. Hi."

* * *

"See you" Maddy says a few minutes later, as she gathers up her cards. "I guess I'll probably see you at the MPs' party thing."

"Yeah" Nancy says, wanting to say something else and not really sure why. "That'd be cool."

Maddy's mouth twitches slightly. "Yeah." She watches Nancy for another moment, her ponytail bobbing again with a small grin, and slides down off the chair to follow her father, ponytail still bouncing behind her.

"Nance?" Dad says after a moment, and Nancy blinks, realising she's still standing by the chair. She turns to see Liberty waving the box at her.

"Yeah, coming." She gathers up her paper sketches, eyes lingering on the bow and arrow she needs to get from somewhere for El, and one of Maddy's cards slides loose from between them. Nancy picks it up-it's Frank Lampard, but it doesn't mean much to her.

Nancy looks up, but she's already gone. She shrugs and slides it back-she can give it to Uncle George when they get home.

"Come on, then." Dad puts an arm around her shoulders, and Nancy huddles into his side, Liberty dancing ahead, taking one last glance over her shoulder, Maddy's Top Trumps card still clutched between her fingers.

* * *

_I got in and was working on a couple of briefings...when Alison put a call through. She said Terry Tavener (friend) is on the line, and I don't know why but the second she said it, I felt sure it was about Ellie. "**It's Ellie"** she said, and she was crying.** "She's dead."** It is so weird how people can sense these things. Alison had put through God knows how many calls but she knew as well, and came in and said are you all right, and I just collapsed in tears. At the hospital, I bumped into Terry in the corridor, and we just collapsed again. There were a few kids running around, but around the main desk nurses were crying. A nurse stopped me and said she had just haemorrhaged and it was awful. I walked on and there was Lindsay, looking all cried out, but she started again, and as I hugged her she talked over the last bit in the minutest detail, and said she felt guilty she wasn't there when she finally went. She had gone home last night because she was finally to get a bed at last, and got a call at 9 to say come in because Ellie was ill. She got in to learn she was dead. Now she was worrying about Hope (her younger daughter) who was on her way to Cornwall and she had no way of contacting her. She wanted us to see the body, and I steeled myself. Fiona cracked though and then so did I. I so wanted John to be there now, because I had always had this feeling when he died that she changed and something dreadful was going to happen. She looked a little pained even now, the poor little darling. Her eyes were closed, her mouth a little bit open, her skin so fair but a bit puffy. Lindsay just sat there, stroking her hand and her hair, occasionally talking to her as though she could hear, then remembering, and crying again. I don't know how on earth she could cope this time._

_The hospital's priest was there, and really nice, and Father Anthony came in. The psychologist who was there to help Lindsay cope was a friend of Jonathan's (Powell's). After a while we more or less managed to have a conversation, but by then I had that pain that follows crying, throat, eyes, chest, and also the feeling you were doing nothing useful. Lindsay decided she had to get to Hope and the only way to do it was to go there herself. We organised trains while I spoke to Geoff Lakeman (long-serving West Country reporter for the Mirror), asked him to meet her and look after her and try to find the place where Hope was staying. He was a real trouper, straight into it, dropped everything else. It was odd how someone like him, who had played a part in that period of our lives when we all met, should suddenly be involved like this. Then as we left the hospital, we bumped into David Hill of all people. People were really nice back at the office but of course life goes on and all that had happened after several hours out was that a stack more work had piled up. And of course suddenly you felt none of it mattered. I went over for GB's CSR statement, which went fine, afterwards Ed Balls and I did a lower gallery briefing and I let him take the lead and just wanted to disappear now. One or two of them knew John, lots knew of him, but in the end what was it all?-another story they had to file, another briefing we had to do, and it all felt like total bollocks really. I was home by 8 and talked to the boys, who couldn't really take it all in. Calum asked question upon question. Rory was just a bit quiet...We were feeling pretty wretched. There were little pieces about Ellie in some of the papers, and the Guardian asked me to do an obituary, which I thought through while I was in the dentist's chair for ninety minutes. Lindsay said Geoff had been fantastic yesterday, found the place in no time, near Liskeard and when they arrived Hope was looking out of the window. She knew straight away and was crying even before Lindsay got in to see her.-"Thursday 11th June 1998-Friday 12th June 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

_I went to get the papers with Calum and we went round to Lindsay's. Calum was really sweet with Hope...I went home then round to Lindsay's where the sadness was almost unbearable...I took Grace to school then went for a haircut. The hairdresser had read about Ellie and asked if it was the funeral today. I wrote a little speech about Ellie for the service and then practised the reading I had to do. I cracked up several times and eventually got myself some tranquillisers to help me through it. Then walking into the church carrying the coffin I caught sight of the kids and that set me off. I just about held it together during the speaking but but I was conscious my voice wasn't carrying as strongly as usual. The school choir was really moving. I noticed CB (Cherie Blair) singing very loudly. Terry (Tavener) did a really nice speech, and Father Anthony was very comforting. It was not nearly as bad as it might have been. We walked through Waterlow Park with Philip (Gould) and Tessa (Jowell) and over to the cemetery for the burial, threw a few flowers in on top of the coffin, and there was something so ghastly about her being buried just a few yards away from John. Back at Terry's people's spirits started to lift a little. Lindsay was unbelievably strong but I guess it was going to hit harder once all the fuss was over and everyone else had gone back to their lives.-"Saturday 13th June 1998-Thursday 18th June 1998-Friday 19th June 1998", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Two: Power And The People: 1997-1999, Alastair Campbell_

* * *

_Playlist_

_Jealousy-Best Coast _ _-"We try to get along all the time/But it's hard, I look at you, you look at me/What do you see?...We've been taught to get along/Respect one another/And after all this time/We still fight over the small things..I don't wanna hate you, I don't wanna judge you/So I'll try/So I'll try to get to know you before I decide it's just not fair...We share the same cares, the same ideas/Why don't you like me, why don't you like me?/What's with the jealousy?"_

_Nemeses-Jonathon Coulton _ _-"It's an amazing smile/Even the suit has teeth/Everything flash and guile/With nothing underneath/Except a small black heart that no one sees but me...Being a brilliant man/Going to great expense/Devising a master plan/It doesn't make much sense/Unless you find the one that you're destined to destroy/Now that you're here/I don't seem that crazy, do I?...Could it be that you need me?/To keep you out, to run you faster?/Promise me you'll let me be the one/The worst of all your enemies/Pretending you're a friend to me/Say that we'll be nemeses"_

_Debate Exposes Doubt-Death Cab For Cutie _ _-"Then everything got frighteningly still as they entered and intersected the/Floor and I tried to choke my stare at the perfection others would kill for"_

_Mine-Taylor Swift _ _-"I was a flight risk, with a fear of falling/Wondering why we bother with love if it never lasts...Flash forward and we're taking on the world together/And there's a drawer of my things at your place/You learn my secrets and you figure out why I'm guarded...Do you remember all the city lights on the water?/You saw me start to believe for the first time"_

_Boyfriend-Best Coast_ _-"I wish he was my boyfriend/I wish he was my boyfriend/I'd love him 'til the very end/But instead he is just a friend/I wish he was my boyfriend..We'll sit and watch the sun rise/And gaze into each other's eyes"_

_ Spitting Games-Snow Patrol _ _-"I broke into your house last night/And left a note at your bedside/I'm far too shy to speak to you at school/You leave me numb and I'm not sure why/I find it easier to sit and stare/Than push my lens up towards you right there/My heart is bursting in your perfect eyes/As blue as oceans and as pure as skies/I struggle for the words and then give up/My head's up with the birds and the seagulls/A little piece of mind that I know better...It's not as if I need the extra weight/Confused by life so thanks a lot"_

_Heart Out-The 1975 _ _-"I forgot to call you/Running low on know how/This beat's made for two/'Cos I remember that I like you/No matter what I found...You push your lack of chest out, look at my hair/Gotta love the way you love yourself/Your obsession with Rocks and Brown/And fucking the whole towns/A reflection on your mental health...You've got something to say/Why don't you speak it out loud/Instead of living in your head?/It's always to say/Why don't you take your heart out?/Instead of living in your head?...It's just you and I tonight/Why don't you figure my heart out? "_

* * *

_Even before the 1997 election, according to one report, Blair and Mandelson attended dinner at the Hindujas' home in Carlton House Terrace, just down the road from Buckingham Palace...Three weeks after that bright May Day in 1997, the brothers threw a party at their London headquarters gazing down on Trafalgar Square and the powerhouses of Whitehall. In a short speech, Peter Mandelson purred to the brothers: **"You are friends of Britain and friends of New Labour."** Led by the example of the Prime Minister and his influential vizier, at least a third of the Cabinet had contacts with the Hindujas...A shower of confetti and a burst of fireworks were triggered by the arrival on stage of Tony and Cherie. The Prime Minister and his wife were the star attractions when the Hindujas threw a lavish celebration at Alexandra Palace in December 1999. The party was to celebrate Diwali...What this even more precisely marked was the high point of the Hindujas' successful envelopment of the British political establishment. The leaders of all the main parties were invited to dance in attendance. SP and GP escorted Cherie, who was wearing a £1,000 silk churidar kameez. The Prime Minister had the lead role in a lavishly produced souvenir film..As one of the brothers refers to him as **"Lord Rama"**, the Hindu God, Tony Blair can be seen smiling a little warily. There was a lot for the Prime Minister to be nervous about. Margaret Thatcher had been warned off accepting invitations from the Hindujas. Swraj Paul, the rich Indian industrialist and Labour donor, had counselled both Tony Blair and Gordon Brown to steer clear. The Chancellor-to his great later relief-took the advice. The Prime Minister ignored it..._

_The relationship between the mercurial Mandelson and the earthier Campbell was already riddled with some mistrust. Founding figures and close comrades of New Labour they might be, but they were also competitors with abrasive temperaments. The loyalist Campbell had long complained about Mandelson's way of dropping people, how he **"dipped in and out"** when it suited him, as Campbell saw it. To others at Number 10, the press secretary had in recent months been calling the Northern Ireland Secretary a **"liability" **who was tolerated only because he was **"special"**, particularly in the eyes of the Prime Minister. For his part, Mandelson had been increasingly critical of aspects of Campbell's behaviour. Mandelson was appalled by a television documentary in which the press secretary took the heroic role in the action and Tony Blair was given a diminishing walk-on part. Mandelson complained to Blair that it made Blair look like **"the hireling"** and Campbell look like the Prime Minister.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_This threw the Home Office into a flap and jangled Mandelson's sensitive nerves. Once disgraced already, he was intensely fearful of any story associating him with further scandal. Geoffrey Robinson's memoirs had been published the previous autumn. Though they proved pretty unexplosive, the brief revival of interest in the home loan affair that caused his first downfall pushed Mandelson to the brink of hysterics. **"It is a piece of terrorism"** he told a journalist particularly close to him. **"They are trying to smear me personally and destroy me politically."** According to one of his closest friends: **"Peter jumped at the least squeak of the door." **He'd jumped again at a story alleging that he'd been thrown a **"£5,000 birthday party"** by a bidder for the Dome. Frightened about public exposure of his relationship with the brothers, Mandelson argued with Jack Straw, more than once on the account of the latter that he, Mandelson, should not be named in connection with the Hindujas. Straw, with his own pressing reasons not to want to associate the Home Office with suggestions of a cover-up, resisted. By 16 January 2001, the parliamentary question was immediately due for an answer. In a phone call that day, Straw contended to Mandelson that any further delay would only arouse suspicion. Straw told the Northern Ireland Secretary that Mandelson had had a conversation with O'Brien, and the answer had to be drafted accordingly. The Home Secretary suggested they play this straight **"for your own protection as well, Peter."** Mandelson eventually agreed so long as the answer was rewritten to stress that he did not make **"representations."** The production of the written answer provided the Observer with its scoop. Had Mandelson left it at that, had he not tried to weave the illusion that Hinduja passports were a matter entirely confined to civil servants, then the fuse might not have been lit on his implosion.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_That Saturday night in late January, like every Saturday night when he was in London, the first editions of the Sunday newspapers were delivered to the Hampstead home of Alastair Campbell. As the Prime Minister's press secretary flicked through the pile, there didn't seem to be anything hugely alarming for the government. He wasn't happy with a page two tale in the Sunday Times: **"Mandelson caught in fresh feud with Brown over election planning."** The last thing they needed in the run-up to the election was more headlines about New Labour's eternal, internal, infernal feuding. Campbell also sniffed potential danger in another story on the front page of the Observer: **"Mandelson helped Dome backer's passport bid."**...The story was about New Labour and tycoons, a constantly toxic combination...Finally, the story connected the Dome and passports with Peter Mandelson. In Alastair Campbell's mind, anything with Mandelson in the headline invariably spelt trouble. He rang the press office at Number 10 to find out if there was much media interest. Told there was not, Campbell relaxed. Inquiries did begin to flow into Downing Street during the course of Sunday. That afternoon, Campbell phoned Mandelson. The Northern Ireland Secretary appeared to be much more agitated by the tale in the Sunday Times. About the Observer story, he was airy. Number 10 could use the statement he had issued to the newspaper saying it was an innocent inquiry which had been handled by officials. Mandelson dismissed it as a **"nothing"** story which was going nowhere.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_I went for a run and then was playing tennis at Market Road when I finally got hold of Peter to get a line on the story in the Observer that he tried to help the Hindujas get a British passport. He denied it, but I could tell he was in a real state. There was something bizarre about the sound of tennis balls getting whacked all around me as I tried to concentrate on what he was saying....I said the problem was that the media was on autopilot on this. They knew they (Peter and Gordon) didn't get on and so if ever they were short of a story, it was an easy one to do. Peter said what he hated was the sense among others-maybe me included-that there was an equivalence, that he and GB were **"both as bad as each other."**_

_He said he had no desire to destroy GB, but he had no doubt whatsoever GB was determined to destroy him. He said these stories only appear because GB and his people want them to. Routledge's book happened because of GB, so did Robinson's. I said here we are talking about a page 2 story unlikely to be followed, and nobody knew for sure they briefed it, and he just exploded. He said it was unacceptable to have a group of people determined to destroy him and all I could do was say that it was six of one and half a dozen of the other. He said he did not know when, but he intended to remove himself from the situation before too long. He was basically signalling he had had enough. I tried to pin him down a bit more re the Hindujas but he just said the story was wrong...Hinduja/Peter M was low-level but had a bad feel to it....I didn't do well at the 11, because I think they sensed my worry about Peter M, and I was not sufficiently on top of the detail. Peter had been very dismissive yesterday and I did not follow my own instincts sufficiently to get to the bottom of it. It went for ages and had a bad feel to it and they clearly sensed something here. Then it emerged that it was all being handled by a private secretary, Peter M seemingly did speak to Mike O'Brien about it. So we were heading for a process/handling drama that would have them obsessing. Peter M had been adamant yesterday re non-involvement. The Home Office finally told us there had been a call with O'Brien at 3.45 and we went into a stack of conference calls, the most important of which was me, Tom Kelly, Godric, Peter M and Mike O'Brien, where I said we had to get all the facts. The position was defensible but not if we were saying different things or the story was changing and we had to get the facts quickly. It was another wretched weekend situation, where departments had not bothered to grip until the next day when things were often too late. I should have done so myself yesterday. TB was adamant we must not let the press create a false firestorm situation if Peter had done nothing wrong at all. Even if he had pressed for citizenship, there would be nothing wrong with that provided the normal rules and procedures were followed. The problem was the changing line, Peter having first said it was all handled by a private secretary, us sticking to that, then the Home Office saying there was this phone call. It was not good. I called Peter M to say I was really worried about the Hinduja story and we had to get it sorted.-"Sunday 21st January 2001-Monday 22nd January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_In their conversation on the Sunday, Mandelson suggested that Campbell could use the statement if he was asked any questions about it during his briefing of political correspondents. On Monday, the story ran on some inside pages, but did not feature in the broadcast media. At his briefing that morning, Campbell told the journalists: **"Mr Mandelson had not got involved in the matter-beyond being asked to be involved, which he had refused to do." **Inadvertently, the direct Campbell had stretched the supple Mandelson's carefully nuanced denial to snapping point. In the Commons that afternoon, the Culture Secretary, Chris Smith, told MPs that Mandelson's **"sole involvement"** had been to tell SP Hinduja that his application would be dealt with by civil servants **"in the normal way."** Warning lights began to flash later that afternoon. Campbell saw **"a line to take"** issued by the Home Office. It was proposing to say-contrary to the impression given so far-that Mandelson had made **"verbal enquiries"** of O'Brien. Campbell had Mandelson dragged out of a dinner at Hillsborough Castle with the Chief Constable of the RUC. A conference call was set up involving the Northern Ireland Secretary, the press secretary and O'Brien. Mandelson challenged O'Brien's memory of the phone call about the Hinduja passport. He was sticking to his line that it was dealt with by officials. O'Brien was emphatic that they had spoken in the summer of 1998. Mandelson conceded, claiming afterwards that he did so because he was given the impression by both O'Brien and Campbell that there was a documentary record of this phone call, which it transpired there was not. For their part, in later evidence to the inquiry, Campbell and O'Brien denied ever making any such suggestion._

_This phone call would have a pivotal importance in the saga that was now unfolding. Did it actually occur or not? Sir Anthony Hammond concluded it was **"likely"** that there was such a phone conversation. Mandelson changed his story, first saying he remembered no call, then accepting there was, before reverting to his original version and claiming to have been briefly and fatally bamboozled into admitting to the call because of the untrue claim there was a record of it. What is beyond dispute is that he was much more involved with Hinduja passports than he had admitted to the Observer. Mandelson did not quarrel with evidence from Home Office civil servants that he had talked directly to an official about S P Hinduja. He also told the inquiry that it was conceivable that he had mentioned SP to O'Brien in the Division lobby. The real significance of the phone call was that it became the crucial strand of evidence in the noose by which the Northern Ireland Secretary would be hung....During the conference call between London and Northern Ireland, Campbell said that he would now have to adjust Downing Street's line about the Hinduja story the next morning. Mandelson ended the call by saying he couldn't leave the Chief Constable any longer. The thermometer at Number 10 was already rising to panic levels. That same Monday evening, Jonathan Powell asked the Cabinet Secretary to start looking into Mandelson and the Hindujas' passports so that the Prime Minister could be provided with a cast-iron line for Question Time on Wednesday.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_At Tuesday morning's lobby briefing, Campbell astonished journalists by telling them that the version he had given them on Monday, based on **"Peter's recollection"**, was wrong. After **"Mr Mandelson's office had been able to look at the records in full"**, they** "had discovered that he had had a very brief telephone conversation in June 1998 with Mike O'Brien."** This was simply untrue. Campbell was presumably trying to spin this line to assist Mandelson. What he did next was no help at all. **"Although Mr Mandelson had no recollection of the call, clearly it had taken place."** The implication that Mandelson had suffered a convenient attack of amnesia about the Hindujas prompted the journalists to the understandable assumption that the Northern Ireland Secretary had lied about the call to conceal a scandal. By that afternoon, the Westminster lobby was in full cry about the contradictions in the government's story. They mauled Campbell's deputy, Godric Smith, at the afternoon briefing. A shaken Smith reported to Campbell that he had been through the worst lobby of the government. Blair, by now being drawn into the imbroglio, went along with Campbell's advice that Mandelson would have to get on television that evening and make another effort to straighten it out. After a day devoted to talks about Northern Ireland, and with only a sketchy grasp of the new line spun out from Campbell, Mandelson's first interview was with Channel 4 News. He was now directly confronted with the allegation that he was a liar. **"There is no question of my forgetting anything"** he insisted. **"I was not asked until today."** Asked why Number 10 had said he had forgotten the call, Mandelson snapped: **"You will have to ask them that"**, adding **"Nobody asked me about a phone call on Saturday, Sunday or Monday. Nobody asked me these questions."** When he heard this, the press secretary exploded. He already believed that Mandelson had misled him about the O'Brien call, jeopardising his own credibility with the media, and drawing Chris Smith into misleading the Commons. What Mandelson now said made him, Campbell, look the liar. In a rage, he went off to find the Prime Minister._

_When his pager began to vibrate with the urgent message to call Number 10, Jack Straw was at the Whitbread Book awards. The Home Secretary ducked out of the ceremony to search for somewhere private, eventually ending up in an echoing stairwell. In the words of one aide, Tony Blair was now in his **"barrister-mode",** trying to establish for himself what was at the bottom of this morass. Straw told the Prime Minister that Mandelson's claim not to remember the O'Brien call couldn't be right. He, Straw, had reminded Mandelson about the conversation only the previous week. This was fatal for the Northern Ireland Secretary. **"Peter had better have a bloody good defence for this"** Blair said to others at Number 10. The Prime Minister and Mandelson had three telephone conversations that night. The problem, Blair told Mandelson, was the conflict between his statement that it had all been handled by officials and the reminders from Straw that he'd talked to O'Brien. **"In a reasonable world things would be different"** sighed Blair. Now the media would **"whip everything up."**-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_There was an odd feeling to the Hinduja story, which on one level was going away but I still feared the damage to be done if it came out later that Peter had spoken to O'Brien. Worse, we had known about it yesterday and indeed Jack Straw and Mike O'Brien both told us they had reminded Peter of the call last week. Jack felt we had to get it out because we were bound to be asked about it. I felt my position was difficult because inadvertently I already had misled people. TB was worried an admission out of the blue would simply set the touchpaper alight. Peter agreed that we brief that he had asked for all the facts and had not recalled the conversation but Mike O'Brien had. It was a bad scenario and he sounded worried. He was also not consistent, for example trying to say that what he told me at the weekend was consistent with what he was saying now. TB wasn't helping much because he was going into his righteous indignation later, saying what mattered was whether he had actually done anything wrong, not the press trying to present the handling as wrong. But the fact we had to change our story meant we were going to be lacerated. TB felt it was a classic firestorm and we should not concede. But he had to accept Peter had not given us the whole picture on Sunday, or at the least had been vague and unclear when we were asking for clarity. The Home Office were useless at setting out the facts clearly. Only when TV was asking for the facts and Clare Sumner (private secretary, parliamentary affairs) was pressing them, did they start toget going. Peter came over for the Northern Ireland talks and was nervous. The eleven o'clock was not as bad as it might have been, but we were still far from out of it. I did my best to appear calm and controlled, but it was going to be grim, as was clear with the BBC now leading on it and by the four o'clock, they were in full cry and the facts were getting lost. Peter was in and out of my office. TB now felt the situation was bad but we had to get the facts out. Peter and I agreed he should do the rounds at Millbank and defend himself, but he opened new loose ends, for example saying he had not forgotten anything, alongside unravelling the Home Office version too. He was strangely detached throughout the day, almost as if he were talking about someone else, not himself. TB was by now irritated we were having to spend so much time on this, which he said had nothing to do with real people and real lives and yet would get millions of words devoted to it. He accepted it showed a loss of judgement from Peter, who had damaged his chances of a top job post-election. I meanwhile was fed up having to pick up the pieces and draw so much of the blame. This was going to do us real damage. The press could sense how bad it felt. I was up till past 12 briefing people for the morning programmes. I was also sensing that if Peter was moved on, I would be the next target, and I was going to take a hit on this stuff anyway.-"Tuesday 23rd January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility, Alastair Campbell_

_Early on Wednesday morning Blair called his closest aides up to his Downing Street flat for a crisis council. Mandelson had no defenders left in the room. Just when the government was trying to get its achievements across in the run-up to the election, the message was being drowned out by another Mandelsonian scandal howling from every media orifice. This was not a first offence. It fitted a pattern of behaviour. No one could forget, least of all Blair and Campbell, how he had concealed his home loan from them. Was there a further calculation about Number 10's own entanglements with the Hindujas in their thinking? Mandelson's allies believe so. In the words of one of them: **"Peter was chopped off at the knees to prevent the scandal touching the Prime Minister. If they left this powderkeg in the Cabinet, sooner or later the Hinduja trail would lead all the way to Blair."** Evidence to support this is that the inquiry announced by the Prime Minister later in the day would be closely restricted to SP Hinduja's passport, and its remit wouild be extended somewhat only on request of the investigator. Just after nine, Sir Richard Wilson arrived...Wilson wrote that the case fell into a **"slippery area"** and warned that **"the Prime Minister and Number 10 should not get too involved in this."** Wilson's suggested **"line"** was that **"no one has produced a shred of evidence that anything improper took place."** Blair could have seized on this to put a protective shield around Mandelson. Once he might have done. The view of his aides was that this demonstrated Sir Richard's useless grasp of governing in the media age. Blair had become very defensive about accusations that he presided over a sleaze-ridden and crony-riddled regime. Not because he really accepted the criticism, but because he he saw how it corroded his reputation, and the potential threat to the government's election ambitions. Even Peter Mandelson, architect of New Labour, was not going to be allowed to stand in the way of Tony Blair's second term. Next to arrive was Derry Irvine. The Lord Chancellor took up the role of the hanging judge at what Mandelson would later characterise as the **"kangaroo court"** that convicted him. The Lord Chancellor pronounced that the evidence appeared incontrovertible. Mandelson had led Number 10 to believe there was no call to O'Brien when Straw had reminded him that there was such a call. As a result, the lobby had been misled and so had MPs. The Northern Ireland Secretary's fate was being sealed. Even he would subsequently concede: **"If I had been presented with the sort of case against me that was put up to him that Wednesday, I think I would have fired myself."**-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Peter Mandelson's friends always knew he was in trouble when they got a call before seven in the morning. Early that Wednesday, he phoned the author Robert Harris.** "I'm in a jam"** said Mandelson. **"It's all a mess." "You won't have to resign, will you?"** asked Harris. **"No, no" **replied Mandelson, not realising yet that the rope was already tightening around his neck. Harris later recalled: **"He called me at about ten to seven. He was pretty upset, but I didn't get the impression that he thought it was all over."** Ben Wegg-Prosser, his former aide, also found him **"remarkably upbeat"** when they had an early-morning phone conversation. When they talked again, about an hour later, Mandelson's mood had noticeably blackened. He had now read the newspapers. None of the broadsheets and only one, less important tabloid was demanding his head. The tone of the coverage was, however, savage: **"a shrieking lynch mob, some of them labelling me a liar"**, Mandelson would later wail. He did not need to guess how this was going down at Number 10. _

_Clutching two ministerial red boxes, Mandelson emerged from his flat in Notting Hill and sank into his blue armoured Jaguar. At shortly before ten thirty, the limousine delivered him to the car park at the back of Number 10. He slipped in by the rear door to meet the Prime Minister in his study. For the second time Blair was confronted with the hateful task of sacking his old friend and close ally, fully aware that it would make him look supremely foolish for bringing Mandelson back into the Cabinet. Knowing how queasy the Prime Minister felt about this, his aides hoped that Mandelson might **"do a Captain Oates"**: leave of his own volition.**"We will have one hell of a fight on our hands"** Blair told Mandelson, hoping to lead the other man to his own conclusion that he would have to go. The way Blair said this made it clear that he thought the fight unwinnable-and certainly not worth it. As it became evident that Blair wanted his resignation, Mandelson put up a defence. He couldn't see that he'd done anything wrong. It was all an awful muddle, he protested. When he had made his remarks about **"forgetting" **the conversation with O'Brien it was because he thought the allegation was that he had **"deliberately"** forgotten. As Mandelson tried to muster a defence, Blair shook his head. This was all **"rubbish", **growled Campbell. After a while, the press secretary left the room. Blair said that the contradictions about the O'Brien call made Mandelson's position **"untenable."** Blair couldn't see an alternative but for him to resign. Mandelson continued to struggle. Blair was setting up an inquiry. What was the point of that if Number 10 had already convicted and executed him? Why not wait until the inquiry reported? Better resign now, said Blair, rather than go through a prolonged torture at the hands of the media. The Prime Minister had selfish reasons for bringing this to a surgical end. The run-up to the election was not the time he wanted to fight a protracted and probably vain battle with the press over the body of Mandelson. The clock was ticking against several urgent deadlines. Blair had to answer Prime Minister's Question Time at three in the afternoon. Mandelson was due at the dispatch box immediately before him. The most urgent deadline was eleven o'clock. The political correspondents would soon be crowding into the basement of Number 10 for a morning briefing from Alastair Campbell. The press secretary burst back into the Prime Minister's study, interrupting the intense and fraught conversation with Mandelson. More impatient and aggravated than ever, Campbell drummed the table. **"What am I supposed to tell the fucking lobby? What do I tell them?"** he demanded.**"The later I am, the worse it will look."** Campbell shot a look at Blair which said: why the hell haven't you sacked him yet?-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_I slept really badly and woke up with a strong sense that Peter was a goner. Though John Reid did a good job on the morning media, I felt there was no way out. I went up to the flat where TB was going through it all. He had spoken to Derry (Irvine) and asked him to look at all the facts and Derry later joined TB, me, Jonathan (Powell), Bruce (Grocott) and RW (Richard Wilson). It was clearthat even if there was no problem with the application issue-and Derry was not convinced of that, feeling there was too much information about it in the July 2 memo-there was an insurmountable problem with the stuff about Jack reminding him last week that he had spoken to O'Brien. Jack also told Jonathan and me that Peter's office had called Jack's private office on January 11 to say Peter didn't see why the existence of the phone call had to be acknowledged. Peter had earlier called me and said we needed a chronology of the last few days squaring all the different statements. I said the problem was he did say to me that his sole involvement was via a private secretary and that I had passed that on to the media, as had Chris Smith in interviews based on what I told him. Also, his statement on TV last night, that he hadn't forgotten anything, did not sit easily with what Jack and O'Brien were saying. His friends, particularly Robert Harris (political journalist and novelist) and to a lesser extent Anji (Hunter), felt I was going for him. I simply said that he had misled us. It was all so piddling in one way but he had made it a big problem because of the way he had allowed us to handle it on Sunday. Again, as on Sunday, he was strangely disengaged but now there was just a hint of panic. He asked if I was still hating my life and I said** at times like this, yes.** I said to TB that the worst-case scenario was that he was asked direct in the House whether he had been aware of any evidence that Peter did know about the call. TB would have to say yes. TB spoke to Jack himself and I could tell from his tone of voice was satisfying himself that there were grounds for Peter going. He was asking whether he could stay for the duration of the next part of the process but we all agreed that wasn't possible....The mood was ghastly and it was pretty much curtains. TB said **I cannot believe we are going through this again. The guy is finished. Is there nothing we can do for him at all? If not, it's his life over.**..Peter came to see TB at 10.45. I went in at 10.55 and said I needed a line for the eleven o'clock. Peter said things weren't resolved. He was resisting the idea of going. I said we had to be clear that if any new information came out...it was curtains, and I feared that's where it would end. TB said** can't you just busk your way through it? **I said **no, I had to have something to say.**-"Wednesday 24th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_Campbell eventually abandoned Blair and Mandelson in the study to go downstairs to face the political correspondents. Though the pack had arrived in lust anticipation of a good morning's sport, no one expected that Mandelson was about to be sacked. The Times had headlined in its morning report that Blair would battle to save his Northern Ireland secretary. Campbell's late arrival was a clue that something big was up; an even more obvious indicator was the press secretary's angry demeanour as he revealed to the journalists that Mandelson had been hauled in to see Blair. Most damningly of all, Campbell refused to say that the Northern Ireland Secretary still enjoyed the confidence of the Prime Minister. Campbell terminated the briefing by telling the journalists that he would be **"more useful upstairs."** From that moment Mandelson was doomed. The television and radio reporters scampered from the room to broadcast it to the world. Had Blair actually done the deed by this point? More than one witness to this extraordinary morning in the incestuous and volatile melodrama of New Labour thinks now. Was Campbell forcing the knife across Mandelson's throat? It would not be the first time the press secretary bounced the Prime Minister. Not would it be the first time that he had been exasperated by Blair havering over an execution. Campbell had been furious with Blair for not disposing of Geoffrey Robinson much more rapidly. Past experience had taught him to worry that the wily Mandelson might sufficiently muddle a hesitant Blair to talk him out of sacking the Northern Ireland Secretary. Campbell had acted to make Mandelson's demise absolutely inevitable._

_In the study, the Northern Ireland Secretary was begging the Prime Minister for more time. A second resignation would mean that his political career was **"over", **Mandelson pleaded to Blair. **"That's my life, Tony."** Better to go in a way that they might dress up with some dignity, countered the Prime Minister. Overwhelmed by the forces arrayed against him, in Mandelson's own words **"the fight suddenly went out of me. I felt isolated." **The first time he was sacked, Campbell ghosted his resignation letter for him. This time, as a broken Mandelson crumpled on the Prime Minister's sofa, Blair wrote out a resignation statement. When he left Blair's study, a tearful Anji Hunter embraced him. Campbell had blubbed and hugged over the first fall. There was no repetition of that lachrymosity on this occasion. The only time he had wept in the past twenty-four hours, Campbell quipped that afternoon, was when he was listening to a radio report of Burnley playing Scunthorpe and his team missed a penalty. At 1.33 p.m. Mandelson emerged on Downing Street to read out the resignation statement. While continuing to deny that he had acted improperly, he did accept responsibility for giving conflicting accounts of events surrounding the telephone call to O'Brien. He had been sacked by his friends, but the statement depicted him as a man martyred by the media....Normality was never a trait associated with the most vivid member of Blair's Cabinet. His sacking was technicolour in its summary, brutal and ironic justice. He had handed ammunition to the media which he and Campbell had taught Tony Blair to regard with loathing and fear. His folly was to make himself so vulnerable to the very forces he had done so much to conjure into British politics that he was sacked by the Prime Minister he had done so much to create. For the second time. In barely more than two years.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_I did the 11, was as calm as I could be, maybe too calm, because they read from the body language a mix of feeling down and accepting inevitability re Peter going. I hadn't deliberately signalled it, but they sensed something was going on. After a while I said I was no use to them down here, I was better off upstairs, establishing what was happening. I went back up and TB looked absolutely wretched, Peter looked becalmed. TB said he had made clear to Peter he had to go and that though he wasn't sure, over time he would see why it had been necessary. TB seemed much more emotional about the whole thing than Peter. TB was writing what Peter might say. Peter went up to Anji's office to do the same. Up till now, I had pretty much dealt with it like any other difficult handling issue, but seeing him sitting there, looking pale, almost poleaxed, I was suddenly hit by how awful the whole thing was. Also there was a line emerging, via Andy Marr, that what this was all about was a blazing row between me and Peter, that I had said to TB it was him or me. It hadn't been like that, but here I was again, just me and Peter, drafting resignation letters, statements to the press, etc. Peter was far less emotional than the first time, much more matter-of-fact. I said he was a good thing, and he didn't deserve this happening to him again. He said maybe I did. He was strangely quiet and unmoved, maybe even relieved. We agreed he should be allowed to do Northern Ireland Questions and we went round to my office with Tom Kelly to prepare for that. In between I was backwards and forwards to TB to agree lines and letters and help him prepare for PMQs. Peter finally went out to the streets to face the media. It was windy and his hair was flapping about but he was pretty dignified and his fears that he would fall apart were unfounded. Fiona and Cherie came into my office to see him, and again he seemed strangely unmoved.-"Wednesday 24th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_He took a final session of Questions in the Commons that afternoon, a departing act of some dignity and courage. The rest of the Cabinet gradually filtered on to the frontbench for Prime Minister's Question Time. Jack Straw patted him on the forearm. David Blunkett grasped his hand in a minute-long grip, as if attempting to check whether Mandelson still had a pulse. When Blair arrived by his side, the two men exchanged looks in which affection warred with reproach. While a wan Mandelson hunched on Blair's right, to the Prime Minister's left sat Gordon Brown and John Prescott, sharing a private joke. Mandelson looked like a ghost; Blair looked as though he had just seen a ghost. A pale and harrowed Prime Minister told MPs: **"I made it clear that if people did something wrong they would pay the penalty and he has paid the penalty."** The leader of the Opposition mocked him ferociously. ** "Now that the Prime Minister has notched up the historic achievement of being forced to sack the same Minister for the same offence twice in 25 months, does he recognise that his career-long dependence on Mr Mandelson has been a monumental error of judgement?"** William Hague taunted him. Blair's voice cracked in reply that the **"tragic"** Mandelson was **"a bigger man than many of his critics."** It is hard to tell which was the more dismal for Mandelson: the joy of his foes-or the condolences of his enemies. As he prepared to leave the Commons, there was a tap on the window of his official car. It was Gordon Brown, just wanting to say that he agreed with Blair that it was a **"tragedy."** They should talk. Colleagues waved off the funeral barge of Mandelson's career on a river of crocodile tears. Campbell encouraged predictions that the imploded star would quit as an MP by telling journalists: **"I think Peter's making clear from his statement that he is looking to wind down his political activity."** Geoff Hoon-a man whom Mandelson might once have broken with a jagged whisper-suggested that all that remained of his erstwhile Cabinet colleague's political career was to **"knock on doors and deliver party leaflets."** It was reminiscent of the way in which purged members of Stalin's Politburo were airbrushed out of the picture as if they had never really existed. By teatime, the workmen had arrived in the Cabinet ministers' corridor to pick the letters of his name off the office door.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_ In the House, Hague was too shrill and misjudged it. Because it had been Northern Ireland Questions, Peter was on the front bench alongside TB and only now I think started to realise this was probably the last time he would be there. The four o'clock was packed, standing room only, and I think I did OK. I tried to kill the stuff about Peter and I falling out. TB wanted to do interviews but I felt the stuff in the House was better than any interview, and he could always do more tomorrow...._

_In all of the calls, TB said it was a tragedy for Peter M, that he had paid a terrible price for a small sin. Peter called me from the airport and was perfectly nice. There was a delayed reaction to come, I was appalled at Robert Harris going on TV effectively saying I had pushed him out...There was a real sense of vengeance in the media, Peter getting his comeuppance. TB said Hague would regret being as lowlife as he had been today. TB said he was heartbroken for Peter but now we just had to pick up and move on. Peter H(yman) said I must get Tony to look a little less like his child had been run over by a bus. PG (Philip Gould), as ever looking for the bright side, said maybe now GB would start working properly with us. I had my doubts. The only good thing out of today was people saying we had acted decisively, but by the time I got home, I felt drained and low, and Rory and Calum were both sad for Peter.-"Wednesday 24th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_The first time that he was sacked from the Cabinet, those closest to him feared that Peter Mandelson might take his own life. He had been nursed through the aftermath of that disgrace by no one more than Robert Harris. It was a dejected and shattered Mandelson who spoke to Harris and his remaining friends on Thursday morning. He brooded over the celebratory reaction to his demise. **"Sir, It feels like Christmas again"** read a one-line letter in the Daily Telegraph. ** "A glittering career in ruins"** was the Guardian front-page obituary. The Daily Mail printed a page of Blair and Mandelson sitting together with a homoerotic twist in the headline: "**THE END OF THE AFFAIR...****Blair's blackest day."** In the Daily Express, Peter Oborne wrote: **"This morning the Labour Party had the bemused and joyful air of a Transylvanian village where news has just come through that Lord Dracula will disturb them no longer."** **"GOODBYE AND GOOD RIDDANCE"** cackled the Sun, licking vilifying adjectives: **"Mandelson's out on his ear again because he is a lying, manipulative, oily, two-faced, nasty piece of work who should never have been allowed back into the Government."** The tabloid conveniently forgot that it had not only welcomed him back into the government, it had actively campaigned for his return. Even Campbell felt a twinge of sympathy. To others at Number 10, he remarked: **"Even Harold Shipman didn't get as bad a press as Peter."**-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Papers totally crucified Peter as expected. There were loads of predictable inaccurate pieces about me being the assassin. TB said all we could get out of this now was a sense of government as normal straight away. Peter, having slept on it, was now feeling a sense of injustice and was penning a self-defence that was wrong. At Cabinet, TB opened by saying there would be a political Cabinet on Tuesday, and there then followed a totally political Cabinet anyway. He dealt with the Peter business fairly quickly, said it was a tragedy for Peter, serious for the government, but provided we moved on quickly and got back on to the fundamentals, we would not sustain lasting damage. I was always struck at how quickly Cabinet business returned to normal, got over the shock of something like yesterday...As I was running later, up on Kite Hill, Jack called to say The Times had asked whether he spoke to Peter re the PQ (parliamentary question) and he was minded to say yes. I agreed. It sent Godric into a real stew. He feared it would end in a dreadful situation for me, but I felt we just had to get all of this out there and done with. The Sundays would be in meltdown. I did a conference call with Jack and advisers to pin down all the lines we needed for the Sundays...Another bad night on the sleep front. The press had now moved on to Keith Vaz, who was accused of all manner of things (re the Hindujas.) TB disagreed with me and Jack re our approach of getting out the stuff about Jack speaking to Peter. I said it would be a disaster if it came out as a new fact. Through the day, we had a series of conversations about whether to divulge or not. He and I were in favour of disclosing both that Jack spoke to Peter pre the PQ and that Jack's revelation to us had been what tipped it towards being a resignation issue. But Derry, TB, and Richard Wilson were all in favour of saying the inquiry would establish the facts and leave it at that. TB was more worried about Vaz, though again felt a lot of it was media nonsense. I chaired a handling meeting and made the mistake of mentioning the JS/Peter call, and became worried it would come out not on our terms.-"Thursday 25th January 2001-Friday 26th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_Harris said he'd drive up to London from Berkshire the next morning to help plan how Mandelson might retrieve something of his reputation. At a little after ten on Friday, the author arrived at Mandelson's flat to find he was not there. He had gone over to another friend's house in Bayswater where he was told something that seemed to put an entirely new complexion on what had happened. **"Fucking hell"** Mandelson muttered to the others in the room at the end of the phone conversation. Emma Scott, a civil servant who worked in his office at the time of the passport inquiry, was saying that she made the fateful call to O'Brien. And Rupert Huxter, another of his former officials, was saying that he had tried to communicate this to Number 10 on Wednesday morning only to be rebuffed. Mandelson went over to his own flat. Falling through the door, he was virtually speechless at first. **"She made the call! She made the call!"** he gasped to Harris. Mandelson paced around the flat, chanting the obsessive mantra: **"This changes everything. This changes everything.**" It changed little. It certainly could not alter the hard fact that he had been sacked. This would serve only to further muddy very murky waters. Even Harris-and Mandelson had no more dedicated and vociferous champion-accepted that this** "does not, of course, prove in any way that Mr Mandelson did not have a further telephone conversation with Mike O'Brien."** Harris also conceded: **"He should have been more candid earlier with his colleagues."** What this twist in the tale did offer the desperate Mandelson was a lifeline out of his depression. He was furnished with a reason to believe that perhaps there was a future for him in politics yet. He grasped at this psychological comfort which gave him grounds for arguing, at least to himself, that his fall was not his fault. It had all been **"a ghastly accident."** Dejection gave way to a burning sense of injustice against those whom he thought responsible for his dismissal._

_From his flat that morning, Mandelson rang Alastair Campbell. **"I told you, you got it wrong, I told you, you were rushing. I told you**" he ripped into Campbell. **"Don't give me that"**Campbell lost his temper, **"I'm fucking sick of hearing this."** The call became super-charged with emotion.** "You swept me out in the gutter like a piece of old rubbish"** Mandelson shouted down the phone. He got no more satisfaction from calls to the other men he believed to have sat on the hanging bench. **"I think it does change things, Richard" **Mandelson vainly tried to argue with the Cabinet Secretary. To Derry Irvine, Mandelson raged: **"It may be water under the bridge to you! It's not water under the bridge to me!"** Next, it was Mandelson who received a call. Tony Blair had been tipped off by Campbell and Irvine that the former Northern Ireland Secretary was not resting quiet in his grave. Blair was solicitous towards Mandelson. He left the other man with the impression that Blair was already regretful that he had been persuaded to sack him. It would be characteristic of Blair to employ that technique to calm him down. It was too late to go back, the Prime Minister told him. When the call with the Prime Minister was over, Harris remarked: **"You're completely on your own."**-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Peter then called on the mobile and said his ex-assistant private secretary, Emma Scott,_ _had called him and said she was absolutely sure that it was she who spoke to O'Brien's private office, she did not recollect Peter speaking to O'Brine, and therefore she vindicated his account. He had recovered himself, and was now convinced he was the victim of an injustice, not the perpetrator of a resignation-worthy mistake. He said there had been funny business at the Home Office and he intended to speak to Richard Wilson. **He had been treated unfairly, his career and his life had been destroyed and he had to get his side of the story out**. He said it was possible that everyone was telling what they thought to be the truth. There were funny things going on at the Home Office, but I couldn't ignore what Emma Scott was saying. He said I had a responsibility to sort it out. I said **I have thousands of things to do.** He said **this is my life, my reputation, my future and you have to grip it because nobody else can. ** I said **this was why I hated my life, because everyone told me only I could grip these things, but how was Ito make sense of the conflicting stories, the Home Office clear there had been these calls, him denying it, not recollecting fairly recent events.** I said **I will try, but he had to understand why it was difficult. **I had taken the call at Alison's desk, and it was becoming embarrassing because there were people walking in and out, and he started to sob down the phone, **please, please help. This is my whole life being destroyed and I don't know why. I have not been wicked. **He said he got something wrong but was it really such a bad mistake? He said **he was in there seeing Tony and he hadn't even marshalled all the facts, then you come in saying you have to have a line for the wretched eleven o'clock, a bunch of total bastards, and we didn't have all the facts, hadn't examined all the facts, and on that basis I am destroyed. You have to believe me, please believe me, I've been telling the truth. **I said **OK, I'll try but please understand the pressures I am under.** He said he was desperate. **We had pushed him out and he was a dead man. Jack Straw's version was wrong. **_

_He then called Derry and RW, both of whom called me to say they were worried enough to want to shut Jack up. We had various calls on it ending at 8pm with TB, Jonathan, Jack and I agreeing we should just say the Home Office handled it properly and we would now leave things to the inquiry. We got Richard to ask Hammond to make clear he did not want potential witnesses to give interviews while he was conducting the inquiry. Peter agreed to that and also said he was thinking about his future.-"Friday 26th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_On Saturday morning, Mandelson instead resolved to write his own account. This was a mistake. His plea in self-defence was rambling, contradictory and, in parts, self-defamatory. He may have unconsciously written his own epitaph: **"This relatively trivial error was turned into a huge misjudgement that led to my resignation."** What leapt its way into the headlines was that he had been the victim of a gross travesty of justice by Tony Blair._

_While Mandelson spun the line for one newspaper, Campbell was spinning against the fallen minister for all of the Sunday papers. Now alert that the corpse of Mandelson was twitching, the press secretary acted to drive a stake into his heart. There was no group of journalists for whom he professed more contempt than the political correspondents of the Sunday newspapers. Back in May 1997, he memorably opened his first briefing for them: **"Explain to me just why I should waste my time with a load of wankers like you when you're not going to write anything I tell you anyway."** At half past one on that Friday afternoon, Campbell began to provide such inflammatory copy that the **"wankers"** would devour everything he told them for regurgitation on their front pages. Arriving with his usual Burnley FC mug of tea in his fist, Campbell mock-innocently wondered: **"Right, what do you want to talk about?"** He knew full well that there was only one topic of interest to the journalists assembled in front of him. He launched into a detailed account of his version of events, including an analysis of Mandelson's mental state. **"Part of the problem, and Peter would accept this, I think, is that there are parts of this that Peter cannot explain and cannot explain to himself"** Campbell told the journalists. **"I think he has been slightly detached.****" **He also labelled Mandelson **"curiously detached."** Though he would subsequently claim that he had been misinterpreted, Campbell must have known exactly what construction the journalists would put on his words. Simon Walters, the political editor of the Mail On Sunday, asked whether he was saying that Mandelson was **"psychologically flawed."** (A phrase about Gordon Brown that had been attributed to Campbell.) **"Very funny"** sneered Campbell. Joe Murphy, the political editor of the Sunday Telegraph, wondered of Campbell whether he was comparing Mandelson's state of mind with that of Ron Davies during his **"moment of madness"** on Clapham Common. Campbell did not demur. **"Well, I think it was"** he replied. So unusually long was this briefing-seventy minutes in all-that Campbell sent out for a second mug of tea. Even when the session was over, he gave supplemental comments to some of the political editors which reinforced the insinuation that Mandelson was a mango short of the fruit bowl. That Sunday's papers also quoted **"Downing Street sources"**-in fact, this was again Campbell speaking-depicting Mandelson as a man who had been **"unfocused"** for some time.** "He's been a little bit like that for a while. He's fed up with it. He's kind of had enough."** When Blair grumbled to Campbell that his briefing had served only to further aggravate things, Campbell responded that he was **"trying to be kind."** This was true enough: his observations were actually a censored version of what he really felt about Mandelson.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_TB had said to me Peter might not stand again but when I put that to Peter, he said it was nonsense. I said he definitely needed a break from it all, but he was talking about fightback. TB felt I was being too brutal with him and that as a result Peter had refused to take our advice. He had to feel we were on his side. The Sunday lobby was the usual crap, going over and over the same questions. Again though, I didn't handle it well and inadvertently gave them the idea that Peter had been a bit mad. Peter called late in the evening and was very different to earlier, calm, friendly, asking about the kids.-"Friday 26th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility:1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_On Saturday evening, the presses of the Sunday newspapers thundered off headlines screaming that uncivil war had broken out between New Labour's premier protagonists. Even Robert Harris had been driven to question an aspect of his friend's sanity. **"What are you doing? You're mad"** Harris told Mandelson when he announced that he planned to go to Campbell's house in Hampstead that same Saturday night. The long-standing invitation was to join a birthday party for Audrey Millar, Campbell's partner's mother. The fallen minister cut a forlorn and solitary figure. He stood apart from the other partygoers, positioning himself next to the piano. As the pianist tinkled out a rather maudlin tune, Peter Mandelson began to sing along to it. After an awkward interlude, the other guests slowly joined in._

_The first editions of the Sunday papers were delivered to the house, bearing the headlines that the two men had spun against each other. **"Mandelson and Blair go to war over "lies""** was the front page of the Observer with the straplines: **"PM aide casts doubt over ex-Minister's state of mind"** and **"I should not have quit, says New Labour architect."** The Sunday Telegraph also put the story in its biggest type: **"Mandelson and Blair go to war over resignation", "Disgraced minister says he was forced out" "Downing Street questions his state of mind."** As they scanned the papers, Campbell told Mandelson that it was **"nothing personal."**_

_Captured in this surreal scene were the high politics and the low betrayals, the intense comradeship and the internecine rivalries, the fierce love and the fearsome loathing in the turbulent beast of New Labour.-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_TB called, having just spoken to Peter, who was now really angry, believed we had forced him out without allowing him to put a case. TB said he was genuinely worried about how far he might go, but he really felt deeply aggrieved. There were still a lot of difficult questions in this. TB felt that Peter had a case in saying we hadn't properly marshalled the facts, **if it hadn't been Peter, and we lived in a different country without our mad, wretched media, Peter might still be in government.** I still felt we couldn't square the different versions of events. TB called to say Peter had sent an article to the Sunday Times and we should be careful not to get into a slanging match. The Sundays were taking my briefing yesterday as me attacking Peter, and Godric and I were ringing round trying to calm it down. Andy Marr called and said he felt Peter's article damaged him more than us._

_We were having a birthday party for Audrey (Fiona's mother), and I had asked Peter to come round. To our amazement, around half nine, he and Reinaldo arrived. Shortly afterwards, the papers arrived, full of stories about me and him being at war. Rory took a very funny picture of the two of us reading papers with big headlines about us being at war. Some of his oldest friends, like Chris and Illtyd (Christopher Downes, theatre dresser, and Illtyd Harrington, former chairman of the Greater London Council) were there, but partly because he had not been so close recently, they weren't as sympathetic as they might once have been. But he was on pretty good form considering the nightmare he had been facing and was very nice to Audrey. Given how bad the Sundays were, it was not unhelpful for us to be able to put out a line saying that far from being at war, he had been here for a family birthday party. The problem was I had said he was curiously detached and had been unfocused and for the tossers of the Sunday lobby, that was enough for them to flam it up as me saying he was off his trolley. We didn't really discuss his Sunday Times article. Some of them were amazed at his nerve in being there at all. They arrived just as Grace and some of her cousins were doing a dance and so had to stand and watch, while loads of the other guests were muttering about them being there. But the boys were very nice to him and having a laugh, particularly once the papers arrived. He asked me why I said he was detached. I said because he was, but I shouldn't have said it to that lot. It was a surreal evening. TB was at a Holocaust memorial event and called on his way home. He too was surprised that Peter had turned up, but on balance he felt it was a good sign. We actually spoke very little about recent events and he seemed to want to talk about other things and be with other people. Reinaldo said they were just about coping but it was hard.-"Saturday 27th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

_The spin machine that Mandelson had done so much to build was now turned on its creator. At lunchtime on Sunday, Cabinet ministers endeavoured to shovel their erstwhile colleague back under the earth. The Home Secretary told a television audience that **"Peter"** had **"to go"** because **"there is no doubt by his own admission that he told an untruth."** Jack Straw seemed to talk more in sorrow than anger. Clare Short spoke more in glee than sorrow. **"Peter Mandelson went because he has got problems telling the truth. He wasn't accurate, didn't speak the truth, let himself down and the government."** She clog-danced on his grave. **"Peter Mandelson is over."** One member of the Cabinet was distressed: Tony Blair. A conflicted Prime Minister still felt for Mandelson and more, this was simply fuelling an inflammation he wanted smothered. Campbell was obliged to issue an extraordinary statement denying all the evidence to the contrary that there was **"war"** between Number 10 and the former Northern Ireland Secretary, and protesting that the press secretary had not **"knifed"** Mandelson, whom he insisted **"was still a friend."** This did not appease Mandelson and his supporters. Robert Harris deployed his own celebrity on the airwaves and in print to champion the cause of his friend. He described the sacking as **"an extraordinary miscarriage of justice, a kind of contemporary Dreyfus affair."** Even allowing for his distress about the treatment of his friend, this was wildly out of proportion....Harris, once a great enthusiast for New Labour and friendly with Tony Blair, curdled into a bitter critic of the government....Harris commented that the sacking of Mandelson to meet the demands of media presentation and news deadlines raised wider questions about **"the whole philosophy which seems to underpin the Blair administration-that government can be conducted as a vast, rolling newsroom in which the press secretary is as powerful as any cabinet minister."** As a general observation, this had much force. His loyalty to his friend blinded Harris to the fact that Peter Mandelson had been instrumental in fashioning the deadline-obsessive, image-driven, headline-fixated philosophy of New Labour. No one more than Mandelson had tutored the Prime Minister to be mesmerised by the media. As Mandelson spun, so he had reaped...._

_Mandelson pursued his own hyperactive campaign of self-vindication, offering interviews and briefings to any newspaper that was interested-as they all were. On Thursday, the news was dominated by briefings he had given to the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail which produced headlines that he was interested in becoming a European Commissioner. Mandelson made himself look foolish by then attempting to dismiss as invention the stories he had himself inspired. Using the two papers most vituperatively opposed to the government, and in such a way that it obliterated a major speech by Tony Blair, drove Downing Street into a frenzy. A **"Downing Street aide"** counter-attacked: **"The future for Peter Mandelson now is to shut up, then go off and have a lovely life with Reinaldo. News about the Government has been drowned out by Peter's flaky high drama nonsense. He's shown himself up as someone who is emotionally incontinent."** This sounded like a dead ringer for Alastair Campbell, though it was not actually the press secretary, but someone of his brutalist school reflecting the fury of the master. For the second Sunday in a row, the newspapers were dominated by the Mandelson Affair. For a fortnight now, the headlines had shouted of little else...Continuation of this internecine poison was mutually destructive to both Blair and Mandelson. The man who had done so much to create the Prime Minister not only knew where many of the government's bodies were buried; he possessed a most comprehensively detailed map of the graveyard. The Prime Minister had many imperatives to shut him up. It also made sense for Mandelson to go quiet. To antagonise Blair any further would mean thoroughly alienating the one man who might help him find some future role in public life. Bizarre as it may seem, they both still talked of each other as close friends. The two agreed to a cessation of any further hostilities...-Servants Of The People: The Inside Story Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_The broadcast media were still talking about little else and there was endless stuff about my relationship with Peter. I felt I had to do something to correct the dreadful coverage of my Sunday lobby briefing. **"Number 10 knifes Mandelson"** kind of thing. I put together a statement after an early morning run making clear I had been misrepresented. The truth was I should not have got involved in their amateur psychology games. I called Peter and he too felt they were worse in the cold light of day than when we had first seen the papers last night. He said he was determined to rebuild his reputation. He repeated that there had been funny stuff going on at the Home Office. TB, Jonathan and I had a conference call. TB felt it was all going to move to questions about me and Peter, and they would also be piling in on Vaz. He said Peter was in a dangerous mood and would be assuming we were advising him for our purposes not his. TB said he intended to have very sharp words with Richard Wilson on the quality of factual material that came back from departments. TB was clearly beginning to doubt whether he should have gone. He said it may have been he genuinely forgot, and it may be it was O'Brien who placed the call, and a private secretary who made the enquiry...The broadcasters were desperate to keep the story going. There was reams of AC/Peter stuff. I had the cameras filming me leaving home. Philip felt Peter had just lost it in recent days, and would now move against us unless he felt we were genuinely advising him in his own interests. TB felt it remained a difficult situation, which we had to close down as best we could. We must not play the game the press wants us to play. Re Vaz, Jonathan felt we should simply, even on that, be saying leave it to the inquiry. TB's worry was that our opponents would just create a massive fog around this and that nothing else the government is doing gets seen. Godric and Hilary (Coffman) came to see me before the 11, said **I must try to keep my cool, not attack the press, shut it down, refuse to engage.** I must have been OK because afterwards they were complaining they couldn't take the story on. Brilliantly boring....The Peter/Hindujas stuff was dying down a bit though the Mail led on MI6 advice that we should have rejected their application, which was crap but impossible really to deny because of our usual line. Godric and I put together a jokey line to deal with it. Robert Harris was all over the place and several other commentators taking the same line against me...-"Sunday 28th January 2001-Monday 29th January 2001-Tuesday 30th January 2001", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Three: Power And Responsibility: 1999-2001, Alastair Campbell_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samantha's confrontation with the protesters:https://tinyurl.com/wn6k3aw  
https://tinyurl.com/w9fxnye  
https://tinyurl.com/uf5jqn8  
Florence being carried into the Inn:https://tinyurl.com/ubdqszx  
The restraining order mentioned:https://bit.ly/2WDId6K  
Ed announcing Sam's birth:https://tinyurl.com/vlsh8wl  
David and Samantha's first appearance with Florence:https://tinyurl.com/vdnd5fq  
https://tinyurl.com/r2ycqga  
https://tinyurl.com/rbc2qks  
https://tinyurl.com/rc2vkcm  
https://tinyurl.com/rqpg8f9  
https://tinyurl.com/wfkgao9  
https://tinyurl.com/wlpdnko  
https://tinyurl.com/wnjhreq  
https://tinyurl.com/rclvv9r  
First photos released of Florence:https://tinyurl.com/37wqlvu  
https://tinyurl.com/w9oa298  
Elwen's birth:https://tinyurl.com/wux2ndq  
David and Sam's first appearance with Elwen:https://tinyurl.com/sxk5wgp  
https://tinyurl.com/ucfkour  
https://tinyurl.com/qmfuhks  
Nancy's quirk of biting her lip:https://tinyurl.com/s36gmd6  
https://tinyurl.com/sc78e4l  
George is looking at images of Coalition, a TV drama about the events of the coalition negotiations shown in March 2015:https://bit.ly/2J5VDAj  
David's speech:https://bit.ly/399ABeH  
The wasabi reference:https://bit.ly/2Ue8Sp7  
The Brat Pack:https://bit.ly/2y29Ax6  
Peter's second resignation in 2001:https://bit.ly/2wuFwtx  
Stuart Rose's remarks on Ed:https://bit.ly/2J7r3GP  
Brian Cox banning Ed from using his song:https://bit.ly/2Uqou7Q  
Alastair's 1986 breakdown and taking anti-depressants:https://bit.ly/2Uykhzb  
https://bit.ly/2QAmAQU  
Alastair and Fiona talking about his mental illness:https://bit.ly/2WCdHKD  
A documentary Alastair made about his illness and a book he's written about it:https://tinyurl.com/sjl6fcp  
https://tinyurl.com/rvdfp78  
Sam choosing Elwen's name from a book:https://bbc.in/33G3Apw  
https://bit.ly/2UunxeL  
Ellie's illness and death:https://bit.ly/2vEJjUC  
Ayesha was one of Ed's advisers who helped prepare him for PMQs-she later co-authored a book about PMQs and now works for George at the Evening Standard:https://bit.ly/2JaBMA1  
https://bit.ly/2vIas9f  
https://tinyurl.com/tuba266  
https://tinyurl.com/v4d5ebg  
Ed was known as "Ted" at Oxford:https://bit.ly/3bh60xm  
https://bit.ly/2WAJKKJ  
He was disappointed to only get a 2:1:https://on.ft.com/2xidO3c  
David M worked for the IPPR:https://bit.ly/3adHKfA  
George is a big fan of NWA:http://dailym.ai/3aoBCBn  
Fish stew is George's signature dish:https://bit.ly/3adgVIn  
Justine's speech:https://bit.ly/2J61ntR  
Miriam calling Justine out for her "more than a dress" remark:https://bit.ly/3aaW6NO  
The Mirror's articles about Samantha:https://bit.ly/3dmcJbh  
https://bit.ly/2xX646Z  
"Mid-Stafford" refers to the worst hospital crisis in recent times in Britain, which led to the deaths of over 1000 patients-it was blamed partly on the "tick-box culture" under the foundation hospitals brought in by the then Blair government:https://bit.ly/2JeeER7  
https://bit.ly/2QEY4hB  
A film was made about the scandal and the efforts to uncover it (TW: there are distressing scenes):https://tinyurl.com/wcddkoc  
A short documentary about the scandal (again TW):https://tinyurl.com/utr5a3m  
Nancy's guitar lessons:https://bit.ly/33GlbxB  
George babysitting Ed B's kids:https://bit.ly/3dmydVf  
Ed B and Yvette discussing their kids' schools:https://bit.ly/3bkNLXX  
https://bit.ly/33IYyZw  
https://bit.ly/2xgOb2L  
The suggestion of a Tory-Labour coalition:https://bit.ly/2xf72LE  
Elwen is a Chelsea fan:https://bit.ly/2QDy99Q  
https://bit.ly/2J7tfhx  
The two Eds not getting on:https://bit.ly/3acyx7l  
The "intellectual self-confidence" reference:https://bit.ly/2WIzEaC  
Osborne & Little is George's father's company:https://bit.ly/2QB61UP  
Jeremy Clarkson and Alex James live in David's constituency:https://bbc.in/2J9YAA4  
http://dailym.ai/2wnvjiG  
Beth and Margaret refers to the first lesbian kiss shown on British TV in 1994, on a soap called Brookside:https://tinyurl.com/t2t7yl5


	19. Obfuscating Oatcakes, Lunches Of Liminality And A Multitude Of Multiverses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which orange oatcakes is a code and everyone loves a fireman's pole."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask) .  
The quote references in this chapter refer to Ed's relationship with Tony, Bill Somebody, David's ex-girlfriends and the perspective Ivan gave Dave on his political career.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_Have you ever been to Davos, gathering with the elites?_

_Yes, I have, and I fell over as I got out of the car, on the ice-on the ice, got a terrible bruise, and that is the one-and I never went back...It was incredibly cold and I fell over and there were lots of, sort of, kind of-people who didn't really want to talk to me.-Ed Miliband talking about a previous visit to Davos in 2018_

* * *

_The two men (Peter Mandelson and Ed Miliband) were certainly talking a lot, sometimes in private, around September and October 2009. At one point during the 2009 party conference, Mandelson was sitting in Brown's hotel room watching the proceedings in the chamber on television when he spotted the younger Miliband. **"There's Eddie!"** he cried out extravagantly, a smile across his face. Witnessing the scene, David Muir, Sue Nye and Gavin Kelly all glanced at each other. Clearly however, **"something went wrong",** in the words of one senior party source, as Mandelson would later back David (Miliband) and issue a full-frontal attack on Ed during the (Labour) leadership campaign.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_I never usually questioned the purpose of a life in politics. Except for occasional Wednesdays at 12:35 pm from 2010 onwards, when I'd sit alone in my Commons office thinking "**Why am I doing this? Is this really a productive way to spend my life?"**_

_I would have just emerged from Prime Minister's Questions and, invariably, an angry clash with David Cameron. I'd taunt him, he'd hit back at me-and our respective sides would cheer or heckle as if we were pantomime dames...I was torn. I knew every time I got under David Cameron's skin and he lashed out angrily at me, it was a small victory for our side. I didn't think we could let him get away with his partisan bluster. But I would sit there afterwards with my head in my hands, asking myself: **"Is this why you came into politics?"** And when I felt a strange sense of relief at losing my own seat in 2015, it was avoiding a return to all that rubbish that I had most in mind.-Speaking Out: Lessons In Life And Politics, Ed Balls_

_That lunchtime, the fever was further intensified by Ed Balls, when he was asked on the radio whether it might not be risky to go to the country early. The Children's Secretary revealingly replied: **"It's a very interesting question as to where the gamble really lies."** Balls **"kicked himself"** the moment the interview was over. He was now converted to the idea, but he had not meant to go that far in public. The Sunday after the conference, Balls had a long and influential discussion with Brown. **"It is your decision, but I would go for it"** said Balls. **"What you can't do is make a half-decision."** One reason to go for it, he argued, was that it was unlikely the media **"will give us such an easy ride at any other time."....**_

_By mid-afternoon, the airwaves were already shrieking with the scorn of Opposition MPs and derision from some Labour ones as well. John McDonnell, the Labour MP for Hayes and Harlington, laid into the **"inexperienced testosterone-fuelled young men in Brown's team"** who had **"presented the Tories with an open goal."** This was kind to the Prime minister for it laid the blame on his courtiers rather than the king himself. That court started to devour itself as members of the inner circle attempted to dump culpability for the farrago on each other. To try to distance Brown and Balls from the debacle, Damian McBride spent Saturday afternoon on the phone to journalists of Sunday newspapers. He was spinning all the blame on to Douglas Alexander, Spencer Livermore and Ed Miliband. Several reporters were successfully persuaded that they were at fault for pushing Brown towards an election and then getting last-minute cold feet. As McBride rubbished other members of the Prime Minister's inner circle to reporters, he was caught in the act by Livermore, who yelled at the spin doctor: **"What the fuck are you doing?"** McBride retorted that he was obeying orders from Balls: **"I've been told to by Ed."** The two aides screamed at each other in front of civil servants until Sue Nye dragged them out of the room._

_Many relationships in the Brown court were permanently poisoned by this calamitous episode. Alexander and Miliband would never again trust Balls and McBride. An utterly disenchanted Livermore, who was least skillful in deflecting blame for a debacle that had many authors, left Number 10 six months later. The fratricidal spinning and the interview fiasco added tactical foolishness to strategic stupidity. Gordon Brown was supposed to be the great chess player of British politics, the man who always thought a dozen moves ahead. The legend was exploded that weekend when the supposed grandmaster checkmated himself.-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Meanwhile, domestically, Justine is undoubtedly the organiser and always has been-she handled their move in March 2008 from his flat in Primrose Hill to a spacious house in Dartmouth Park (and as the press has been keen to point out, it is her name on the house deeds.) A friend comments: **"The house looks imposing, but it's not glamorous and it's not a very swanky neighbourhood."** As to Justine's credentials as a domestic goddess: **"She doesn't swan around effortlessly producing three-course meals. She's more likely to be on her way to the kitchen and start a conversation with someone."** Another friend of Justine agrees that **"the striking thing about their home is the normality of it-it's a relaxed, informal family home."** A Labour MP, however, who has visited their home says it is **"a family house but you're not quite sure Ed is the creator of it. It feels like a house he inhabits which has been made by his wife."** Asked by a journalist in 2010 what was on the walls of his new house, Ed replied: **"Something white."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_All day on Sunday while finalising his speech, Brown's mind played over the question of timing, and the impact of that judgement on what he should say. The mood in his camp seemed to firm up on the Sunday: Ed Miliband whispered to Balls: **"My God, we've got to do it."** Balls now agreed; with his highly-tuned political radar, he was one of the few members of Brown's team to see that the media frenzy now made it impossible to pull back. He told the Prime Minister that he believed most papers would now endorse him, which they would not do in a year's time...What of Ed Balls? Brown would have been strongly influenced by his opinion, and the School Secretary had given the question of an early poll careful consideration. As Greenberg notes: **"I was surprised by how much thinking Ed Balls had done on this." I**n July and August, he had been a sceptic, but by the time of conference "**he and Livermore were the two principal advocates."** Balls's reputation would be badly damaged by the **"election that never was"**, because many suspected he was behind vicious briefings against his colleagues, but on the election decision itself, he had called it right: he had shared Brown's doubts at the beginning, knowing that the honeymoon could be temporary. And once momentum had built, at Brown's own instigation, he realised more than anyone that pulling back would be suicide. He swung behind the election not only because he believed it could be won, but also because he realised it was too late to cancel. Brown would have no one to blame but himself.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_The heat generated beyond Number 10 was nothing compared to the fury within it. Balls and McBride seized control of the agenda, and decreed that the principal scapegoat was the election coordinator, Douglas Alexander. Alexander himself offers a charitable explanation for this: **"Both were trying to deflect attention elsewhere as a way of protecting Gordon Brown, and I was merely the fall guy." ** But suspicion rapidly arose within Number 10 about Balls' true motivations. One observer who witnessed the drama unfold says: **"He and McBride were not trying to protect Gordon Brown-they were trying to protect Ed Balls. Balls worried about his credibility, and once the election was called off, he had to protect himself and ensure he was nowhere near the blame."** Paul Sinclair, who was working as a special adviser for Douglas Alexander at the time, was one of the figures to be phoned by the journalists saying that an "officially sanctioned" briefing from Number 10 blamed the "inexperienced" Alexander for whipping up the early election fever. **"I couldn't believe they were blaming Douglas. It wasn't just utterly disloyal and scandalous; it was also crazy"** he says. Balls flatly denies he briefed against anyone. It was a defining episode. For the first time in his premiership, the dark heart of Brown's Treasury operation had shown it was still in business. Those in Number 10 who had hoped that Balls and McBride would operate differently now that Brown was Prime Minister were disillusioned. **"They were the same old paranoid attack dogs" **said Paul Sinclair. Since his earliest days as Chancellor, Brown had shown a weakness for letting his lieutenants exercise excessive influence over him. As early as 1999 Blair had felt it necessary to ask Brown to dismiss his press secretary, Charlie Whelan, because of his poisonous briefings. It was in Whelan's wake that Balls had grown in stature, rising to become unquestionably the greatest influence on Brown as Chancellor, good and bad. As Alexander had now been reminded, Balls did not flinch from deploying the dark arts of politics. Observers described him as a **"mafia politician" ** who believed that **"bullying, briefing and aggression were all legitimate tools."** That bred resentment, and must qualify some of the comments made about Balls. As one adviser says: **"The most important thing to remember about Ed is that he never, ever-ever-wanted to lose any argument. If threatened, he would attack; that makes enemies."** Again, Balls roundly denies these traits. Alexander himself was now a victim of that approach. He felt he had been poorly treated, and that **"it made it very difficult to have strategic conversations based on trust in the future."** Brown must have sensed this problem, even if he did not know about the briefing directly..._

_The briefing episode had a lasting effect on Brown's premiership. Not only had it lifted the lid on Brown's operation, but relations between Balls, Ed Miliband and Alexander, already badly fractured beforehand, now deteriorated so badly that the three would never trust each other again. **"The three pillars of Gordon's chancellorship-the two Eds and Douglas-were gone for ever"** says one.-Brown At 10: 2007-2010, Anthony Seldon and Guy Lodge_

_Nonetheless, Blair's own relationship with Ed, if not with Brown, was a relatively friendly one. A close ally of the former PM says that **"Tony always liked Ed Miliband, and found him easy to get on with. He respected Ed's intellect and, during that whole period with Gordon in the Treasury, he considered Ed Miliband to be a man you could do business with."**...Blair's positive view of Ed was shared by the leading Blairites-including Peter Mandelson who **"rated"** the Brownite, younger Miliband brother from very early on. In Blairite circles, Ed was known as **"the emissary from Planet Fuck."** He was the Brownite who didn't tell supporters of the Prime Minister to **"fuck off."**-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_In the summer of 1995, Ed and his then girlfriend Liz Lloyd, who worked for Blair, went on holiday with Juliet Soskice (who would later date Ed) and her then boyfriend Phil Collins to the Soskice holiday home in the south of France. The two couples went swimming-Ed enjoys doing laps-and played tennis together, but the holiday was dominated by discussion of a national minimum wage, which had been reaffirmed as Labour Party policy by Tony Blair and Gordon Brown. **"We discussed it like we were in a Fabian Society seminar"** says Collins. **"I remember being in the kitchen and listening to Ed and David (Soskice) having a conversation about it in great detail. I, for my shame, had no real view."**.Ed had been invited to Harvard by the then director of the CES, Peter Hall. The bearded and scholarly Hall was familiar to Ed: two years earlier, in 2001, he had co-authored a book called Varieties Of Capitalism with the economist David Soskice-father of Ed's ex-girlfriend Juliet.-Ed: The Milibands And The Making Of A Labour Leader, James Macintyre and Mehdi Hasan_

_Having secured his university place for the autumn of 1986, Clegg opted to spend the main winter months of 1985-6 in the Austrian ski resort of Hochfugen in the Tyrolean Zillertal, where he got a job as a paid ski instructor, a profession that goes down on his CV as his first job. He went for the season but ended up spending just four weeks on the slopes, and the following three months on crutches. On arrival in Hochfugen, he was given the most junior classes to teach, an experience that made him feel more like a **"glorified Kingergarten childminder"** than a ski instructor. **"I was in these pens at the bottom of the ski slopes, decorated with Mickey Mouse figures. It was the hardest work I've ever had to do in my life because, if one of the kids suddenly had to go to the loo, you had to take the whole class, walk them across a snow field, which was exhausting because they kept falling over, go down some steps, supervise the kid getting undressed and doing their business, and then bring them back-it was just a nightmare."** After three weeks of serving his apprenticeship, he was allowed to take a slightly better class up to the top of the mountain. At the end of every day, all the ski instructors would assemble at the top lift and then show off by skiing in a great snake formation all the way down to the bottom. Clegg was always the last, because although he was a pretty good skiier, he wasn't in the same league as the other instructors, most of whom were locals who had grown up on the slopes._

_Clegg takes up the story. **"There was one bit towards the bottom of the slope where you fly over this lip into a long jump, and then you'd land, and had to slow down more quickly because it became a sharp gulley with moguls (bumps) down to a wooded path. So I flew over the edge, and suddenly saw this line of kids straight in front of me, who I obviously had to avoid. Before I knew it, I was going straight down this very steep gully at absolute breakneck speed. I hit something with a thud and I remember flying up in the air, and literally very slowly and calmly saying to myself, "Oh dear, I'm going to hit that tree." I flipped over, hit the ground, blacked out, and I then woke up and felt a pain I had never felt in my life and never felt since. I looked down and my right leg was stretched out next to me-it had come out of its hip socket. It was so painful I couldn't even locate the pain. Apparently it's very, very difficult to dislocate your hip, it only happens in high-impact accidents or Formula 1 racing, so I must have landed in a particularly bad way."** It was an obvious case for a helicopter rescue, only the slope's rescue personnel couldn't get a helicopter, so they had to make do with a snow plough. **"I remember saying "You cannot move me""** Clegg says, "**it was so painful. But they had to move me, so they put me on a horizontal platform on the snow plough, and bumped me all the way down-the pain was just indescribable. I was driven to Innsbruck in an ambulance, and I remember lying in the corridor of the hospital, and this doctor finally came and said "O, das ist sehr schlimm, das ist sehr schlimm**** (Oh, that's very bad, very bad)"**** and I shouted back, "How dare you just say that!" Then they knocked me out, obviously put my leg back in, and I woke up in a room next to a farmer who had been kicked hard by his cow and a lift attendant; I don't know what the lift attendant was in hospital for, but I quickly established that he had a seething dislike of ski instructors. I had to lie there with my leg up for several days. When I was finally able to get up after about a week, I was desperate to just wander around, so with nothing more than my hospital night shirt on, I took my crutches, walked to the end of the corridor, and I found a lift which had the symbol of a television room. So I pressed the button, but instead of going up, the lift went down, and opened up in the underground car park, with snow swirling in. I was there in my night shirt, being buffeted by snow, and I thought, "I've just survived this accident and now this!" It was obviously the service lift, so I put one of the crutches against the emergency switch and waited an eternity-well, it was probably only ten minutes, but it felt like an eternity-until I was rescued again. Afterwards, I painted one of my crutches with a metal laminate paint in quite psychedelic colours."**_

_The recovery has been largely successful, especially given that the hip was out of its socket for about six hours, which can cause serious blood and structural problems; Clegg has been warned he may need a hip replacement in his fifties. **"Sometimes I get some gyp in the winter, and I do a lot of stretching in the** **mornings"** he says. He also had some back problems, which he's convinced stemmed from his skiing accident. About four years after the accident, he slipped two discs quite badly, one playing tennis, the other playing squash, so he had several years of very bad back trouble, which landed him in a Brussels hospital a few times. **"It's never really gone"** he says, **"but I've become much better at handling it. I did a lot of physio to strengthen the back, and my stretching helps."**-Nick_ _ Clegg: The Biography, Chris Bowers_

_ **Home, bed** _

_**"Did you catch Ed and Bill?"** queries a late-night e-mail I read on waking. I didn't, but Twitter is full of Ed Balls' struggle on Newsnight last night to come up with a single business leader who is backing Labour. Asked to name one, Balls said he'd just been at a dinner with **"a number of business-supporting Labour figures."** The best questions in journalism are the simplest. **"Who were they?"** inquired Emily Maitlis. **"Well, erm, Bill. The former chief executive of EDS, who I was just talking to..."** Emily scented his uncertainty and pressed on. **"What was his name?"** Balls candidly admitted that the name had **"just gone from my mind which is a bit annoying at this time of night."** Emily smiled and moved in for the kill. **"OK. So, frankly, you've got Bill Somebody. Have we got anyone else?"**_

_Balls had taken to the airwaves to try to reassure voters that Labour is the centre-ground, pro-business party, but instead he has accidentally offered up what the media can never resist: a memorable gaffe that risks doing precisely the opposite. A text pings up from the Today programme: **"Can you come on to talk about Bill Somebody?"** It is, of course, a phrase Balls never used, but it's going to stick._

_ **Prime Minister's Questions** _

_Ed Miliband chooses to march towards the sound of Tory gunfire at PMQs. He knows that if he dares to raise anything about the economy today he will face a barrage of **"Bill Somebody"** taunts. But he takes the risk. The reason becomes clear in his final, carefully polished soundbite which brands the Tories **"the party of Mayfair hedge funds and Monaco tax-avoiders."** It's a none-too-subtle message to voters that he is **"on their side"** and comes on the day the Mirror splashes on the news that the company Samantha Cameron works for-Smythson, the makers of posh stationery and handbags-is, you guessed it, avoiding tax. Her husband has a pretty good soundbite of his own prepared. ** "Bill Somebody isn't a person!"** he jokes.** "Bill Somebody is Labour's policy!"** He employs this gag after ignoring Miliband's posing of the same question-on why hedge funds have been given a tax break-a total of six times. Cameron's refusal to answer outrages many watching live, but he knows the **"Bill Somebody"** clip will make the TV news, along with the hedge-fund attack-a score draw is his best hope. It's cynical, but a reminder of his ruthless determination to hold on to power._

_To move the story on from Bill Somebody, I want to find a business leader who will highlight in public what I'm hearing about in private: business anxiety that David Cameron could end up steering Britain out of the EU. I call a couple of well-connected contacts. Both tell me the same thing. There are plenty of bosses who are very nervous about what may follow a Tory victory, but as almost all of them are more worried by the idea of Ed Miliband reaching Number 10, they're keeping quiet.-"Wednesday 4th February 2015", Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Cameron's good looks and unforced charm meant he was rarely short of female attention. He had had lots of girlfriends in his teens and, as one friend put it, **"he went out with some absolute crackers."** At Oxford, he would go to old-fashioned sherry parties to meet girls. He also went to the Playpen nightclub, which was run by friends and was a popular haunt for those anxious to find likemindedly uninhibited souls. There Cameron would set to work on the opposite sex for what he would call, a little crudely perhaps, an evening's **"wooding."** Purely as a precaution, he once felt the need to visit a sexual diseases clinic (this was not, as has been suggested, for a HIV test.) On other occasions, he would simply stand at the back, puffing on a Marlboro Lite and chatting with his male friends. Women were attracted, specifically, by his intelligence, his sweetness of nature and his emotional security. Many of his friends speak of how candid, how unEnglish, he is about his emotions. Frequently he will be in tears at the end of a play or film, and be quite open and willing to talk about it. This is no wheeze: he is confident enough not to regard it as a sign of weakness._

_In his first term he dated a girl called Catherine Snow, who was at St Edmund Hall. Snow was notably strong-willed. **"Dave didn't have to do much decision-making when he was going out with her"** says a friend. The most serious of his Oxford girlfriends was Francesca (**"Fran"**, as she was known then) Ferguson, a statuesque, athletic and forthright half-German History student. Cameron was, according to a friend, **"mad about Fran."** She arrived at Oxford having had no serious boyfriend and became a thoroughly worldly and lively character. They started going out shortly before Christmas in their first term and it quickly became a pretty serious affair. The daughter of a peripatetic diplomat, she was very conscious of not being from the same settled Home Counties milieu as Cameron, but they seemed a good pair. **"I didn't go skiing with everyone else, or stay in the same house in France as they all did, so I didn't feel really a part of his very English world"** she says. **"I was bored senseless with that party scene in England. He managed to be always comfortable in it but his life had more content. He would read more, think more. He wasn't one of that bland lot."** She invited him to stay with her parents in Kenya in the summer of 1986, prompting him to take a temporary job shifting crates near Newbury to help earn enough money. Both enjoyed the holiday hugely, spending time away on a **"real safari, with trucks"** and Cameron, having missed his plane home and delayed returning by a week, enjoyed the celebrated (from White Mischief days) Muthaiga Country Club and playing golf with Francesca's father, John. He impressed her parents with his charm, but there was an initial sticky moment involving her German mother Monika. He bought a present for his hosts of a Monty Python record, presumably thinking it would be something of an ice-breaker, should that be necessary. What he did not recall until the record was playing on the first evening was the North Minehead by-election sketch, which includes a scene of highly dubious taste featuring a "Mr Hitler." Monika Fergusson still remembers with amusement the look of embarrassment on Cameron's face. Nonetheless, so impressed was she by Cameron's easy manner and intelligence that she told her daughter one evening, **"That chap is going to be Prime Minister one day."** On leaving, he won further goodwill by discreetly leaving a tip and a thank-you note for Alice, the Kenyan woman who cleaned his room. _

_Francesca and Cameron went out for nearly eighteen months. She wanted to experiment, but her boyfriend didn't feel the same. **"I was too much for him"** remembers Ferguson, who now runs an architectural practice in Basel, Switzerland. **"I was too demanding of his time. I wanted to have arguments and be distracted, but when someone is very ambitious and wants to get a First they don't want someone demanding too much of them, and I think I probably did that. Also, I was quite jealous and would provoke him to try to shake him out of his self-assuredness."** When Cameron ended the relationship, she was very upset and asked a friend to speak to him on her behalf. The friend remembers he was unshakeable. The relationship was to end. She was also struck by how much he seemed genuinely concerned that Francesca should not feel too hurt._

_Generally, he is good at keeping up with old girlfriends, but his relationship with Lisa de Savary, a retiring, sweet-natured girl and daughter of the flamboyant property developer Peter De Savary, did not end well. She fell for Cameron in a big way but, as a friend puts it, **"Dave kind of dumped her and she was very cross about it. It all left rather a nasty taste."** He also went out with Alice Rayman, a student at Wadham, who marked a reversion to type. She became an entertainment lawyer and married the son of Tory politician Tom King....It was not long before this serious, good-looking, intelligent man started attracting admiring glances. **"He was very young, boyish good looks, clearly very bright"** recalls Angie Bray, then the Tories' head of broadcasting and now a Tory MP. Caroline Muir, a secretary at the time, remembers: **"He seemed to be the only human being in the Research Department and he had superb manners."** Another former Smith Square secretary says: **"All the girls fancied him-he talked to people. He was always bobbing in and out of his office, willing to pitch in."** One colleague who took a shine to him was Laura Adshead, whom Cameron had known slightly at Oxford. In common with a number of Cameron's former girlfriends or close female friends, she is from a diplomatic family. She had been educated at Cheltenham Ladies' College and Christ Church, Oxford before arriving at CCO around the same time as Cameron. The romance began in the spring of 1990 and lasted until summer 1991, although it does not seem to have ended very tidily. **"I seem to recall the young lady had to be given a period of compassionate leave to recover"** says one of the couple's managers at the time. (After her relationship with Cameron, Adshead, a close friend of (Rachel) Whetstone, dated the historian Andrew Roberts. Later she moved to New York, where she underwent a spell as a nun, tending goats and immersing herself in Catholicism, the faith of her birth. She subsequently became a management consultant, before returning to London.)..Now that he was no longer dating Laura Adshead, other eligible Tory women moved in and out of the frame. Petronella Wyatt (later Boris Johnson's mistress) daughter of the Lamonts' close friend Woodrow Wyatt, a newspaper columnist, found herself sitting next to Cameron at a succession of dinner parties, at least once because Rosemary Lamont, who thought the two well matched, had so arranged it. Wyatt herself has described a close encounter at the Chancellor's fiftieth birthday party in Number 11. On accepting his proposal to dance she says she was amazed when Cameron **"touched the floor with the grace of Astaire and the manliness of Gene Kelly."** On the same night he squired Carla Powell around the floor with such practiced ease that his colleague Bill Robinson mistook the wife of Charles Powell, who had been Margaret Thatcher's private secretary and continued in that role under Major, for Cameron's girlfriend. Robinson's mistake was a compliment both to him and to a woman who was at least two decades his senior.**-**Cameron**:** Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Cameron himself has said his happiest memories of university were **"drinking and chatting."** Asked what obsessed him at the time, he replied: **"Mainly girlfriends!"** Clean cut, supremely self-assured and good-looking, with **"slightly floppy hair"**, he did not want for female attention. Rathbone says he would dress** "in a way that reflected he was fairly well-heeled. He would have been considered to be well-dressed, but by no means a dandy." **By all accounts, he was a hit with women, enjoying nights on the pull (a recreation he apparently called **"wooding") **at a club called Playpen, run by some friends. The venue had a reputation as a meat market. A contemporary whose room was across the corridor from his in college recalls **"a conveyor belt of pretty girls coming in and out of his room." "Living next to him, I was quite jealous. Most people were, I imagine. I think he slept with all the good-looking girls from college"** he recalls._

_However, his romantic encounters were not all brief. At Oxford, he had two serious girlfriends, Catherine Snow, whom he dated in his first term, and Francesca Ferguson, a tall, half-German history student, with whom he had a long and committed affair. The daughter of a diplomat, she was far from the typical Sloane who fell at Cameron's feet. She has said that she **"didn't really feel part of his very English world"** and **"didn't go skiing with everyone else, or stay in the same house in France as they all did."** She was bored by many of the people she met on the social circuit, and felt Cameron was different. For his part, he was **"mad about Fran"** and happily took up an invitation to stay with her and her family in Kenya, finding a holiday job **"shifting crates" **to save money for the trip. Fran's parents apparently found him delightful, and were impressed when he discreetly left a thank-you note and tip for the Kenyan lady who cleaned his room.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

_In Downing Street I kept reading that I was **"the essay-crisis prime minsiter"**, leaving vital work until the very last minute. I will come to how I made decisions as PM a bit later, but that certainly wasn't how I worked at Oxford. While most of my friends had late-night essay crises fuelled with black coffee and cigarettes, I hardly ever worked in the evening, and almost never at night. But I loved the life. I was fascinated by my studies. I made friends. I had fun. I argued. I gossiped. And I fell in love. Lots of times.-For The Record, David Cameron_

_Then, in the middle of 1992, Clare (Cameron) asked Sam if she would like to go on holiday with her family for the last week of August and the first of September...._ _But it was not long into the holiday before (David) Cameron had set his sights on Samantha Sheffield. Clare Cameron is outgoing, and her brother had always been intrigued by her amusing but cool and reserved friend, the "straight man" to his effusive sister. Five years older than Samantha, he was determined to make her laugh, conscious that to the twenty-one-year-old, he might have seemed **"a serious, scary, slightly earnest older bloke",** as one friend put it. **"When he's relaxed, Dave can be very, very funny"** he added. It helped that the fortnight was free-wheeling. Loehnis spent much of the day sitting in the bar complimenting Giovanni on the excellence of his cocktails, while others pursued similarly undemanding activities. With increasing frequency, Cameron and Samantha found themselves poolside at the same time..-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, James Hanning and Francis Elliott_

_Blue-blooded, beautiful, and much cooler than he could ever hope to be, she was an incredible catch. Cameron says they first met when she was a teenager at a party in Peasemore thrown by his sister Clare. The two girls had been close friends since they were young, though they went to different schools-Clare was at St Mary's Calne, while Samantha attended a school called St Helen and St Katharine in Abingdon. It seems he didn't make much impression, as she can't remember meeting him on that occasion. It was not until she was twenty-one, when Clare invited Samantha to join a family holiday in Italy to mark Ian and Mary Cameron's 30th wedding anniversary and Ian's 60th birthday, that their relationship took off..._

_**"That's when it all started"** Cameron has said of his romance with Samantha, hinting that while the age gap (only four and a half years, but both were young) was an initial worry, he swiftly got over it. **"I just began being more and more certain about it...It just became the right thing to do. I fell in love with her."** According to a detailed account of the holiday, the party block-booked part of a resort in southern Tuscany, where the younger crowd seem to have spent most of the time lounging by the pool sipping cocktails mixed by a waiter called Giovanni. As they whiled away the hours sunbathing, eating and drinking, Cameron could not take his eyes off Samantha. Tall and willowy, with long, glossy hair, she was stunning. From Cameron's point of view, it was love at first sight. Watching with amusement, Pete Czernin and Dom Loehnis, another Oxford friend, knew their old friend was smitten when they spotted the pair playing tennis. By all accounts, Samantha is a lousy player, while Cameron is accomplished and extremely competitive, and hates playing with anyone worse. **"She struggled heroically, and he took pains not to humiliate her"**, according to an account. By the end of the trip, they were an item.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft & Isabel Oakeshott_

** _Did you cry at your wedding? Why?_ **

_I did, actually. This lovely Oxfordshire girl sang a beautiful piece of music, and we were right up in the nave, sitting down, and it was just a very beautiful moment and I felt very emotional. I was overcome with such very happy emotions. There I was, marrying Samantha, this wonderful, beautiful girl who I'd fallen in love with, and there were all my family, all my friends, this lovely church and this beautiful singing. I tend to cry when I'm happy, and I did then. And then Samantha started crying, and she's very cleverly arranged the pictures of the wedding in our bathroom to make them look as though she started crying first!-Cameron On Cameron: Conversations With Dylan Jones, Dylan Jones_

_As Ivan became bigger, they converted their north Kensington home to create a bedroom and bathroom for him on the ground floor, with a hoist and pulley system as well as facilities for a specialist nurse. Every morning, at 7.30a.m., the nurse would bring him upstairs and hand him to Cameron, who would take over what they called his morning routine. It involved multiple face creams and massages, brushing Ivan's teeth and hair, dressing him for the day, and manoeuvring him into his wheelchair. In order not to upset his son by suddenly putting a toothbrush into his mouth, Cameron would-on expert advice-gently and repeatedly tap Ivan's forehead as a signal that intrusive ablutions were coming. He became adept at multi-tasking.-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

_Every morning soon after seven, Ivan would be collected from his basement quarters by his mother or father or brought upstairs by his night carer. His father, generally, would then apply Ivan's face creams, brush his teeth and hair, dress him, put him in his wheelchair and get him ready for school. Then Cameron would wheel him out to the ambulance and kiss him goodbye before he was taken, in the early years, to the Cheyne Centre....In the Cameron household, it became completely normal to have lots of people, carers and respite nurses and so on, wandering through. (The arrival of their third child, Arthur Elwen-now known to his family as Elwen-in February 2006 added to the chaos.) The Camerons did extensive work on their Edwardian terrace house, on King North Street just around the corner from Finstock Road, although the main press interest was in the environmental measures they took. They demolished the rear extension and had the basement redesigned to provide a room for Ivan (complete with pulley-and-hoist system to help lift him), a room for a carer, a playroom and a customised lift to take him upstairs and down. **"I know Sam worries about him, almost every second, every day"** said (Ian) Birrell in 2006. **"She has told me that she is always thinking: Is he in pain? Is he happy? What's happening with the carers? The truth is that a severely disabled child does overshadow so much else in one's life."** With both parents having grown up in hospitable families, their inclination has always been to invite friends for a meal in the evening or at weekends, and they sought-for Ivan's sake and their own-to continue that pattern of life. Their gregariousness surprised some people, given the other demands on their time and energy. They used to tell friends that, just occasionally when they were the only two adults in the house, they would look at one another in amazement, as if to say **"Is it really true?"**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_While some have said his family is so important to him that he might one day just walk away from politics, others think Ivan's influence has emboldened him. **"They'll never get over it, in one way"** said Dom Loehnis, soon after Cameron became leader, **"and in another way it's the steel. It gives him the ability to say "It's just a job" and to think there are many more important things in life, but be happy to take risks and be shot at."** (Ian) Birrell agreed: **"I think what it does mean is that-and I've spoken to him about this-the worst thing that can happen to him in his job is that maybe he gets rejected by the party or suffers a cataclysm at the election. For any other politician that would be an absolute disaster, and of course with David it would be very upsetting. But having been through what he's been through, he has an unusual sense of perspective for a politician on his political life."**-Cameron: Practically A Conservative, Francis Elliott & James Hanning_

_Did Ivan also make Cameron bolder? Birrell says being the parent of a desperately disabled child puts everything else in perspective, making it easier to take risks._

_**"Say you're a complete disaster; you're laughed at; your career is over. Obviously you care, but it's not the end of the world-you've suffered far worse. It gives you a certain confidence to do things you might not otherwise have. You just say fuck it."**-Call Me Dave: The Unauthorised Biography Of David Cameron, Michael Ashcroft and Isabel Oakeshott_

* * *

_Naomi: Can we go somewhere?_

_(On the phone, Emily says something we can't hear.)_

_Naomi:...Anywhere._

_-Skins _ _, s3ep6, "Naomi"_

_Emma: It's nice here._

_(Adele nods)_

_Emma:....A little too nice?_

_Adele: ...I guess so._

_-Blue Is The Warmest Colour _ _(2015)_

_""We talk all the time-we used to. And it just made me want to talk to you more. That's a really good sign."_

_"What do we have in common?"_

_"We like each other" he said. "What else is there? Also, compared to the rest of the world, we have everything in common. If aliens came down to earth, they probably wouldn't even be able to tell us apart.""-Fangirl, Rainbow Rowell_

_Genevieve: he thinks there's something between us, doesn't he_

_Finn: he didn't say that_

_ exactly_

_Genevieve: fuck_

_Finn: you didn't do anything wrong_

_Genevieve: I mean, is there something between us?_

_ there's....not not something between us_

_ shit_

_ -Gena/Finn, Hannah Moskowitz and Kat Helgeson_

* * *

"So does it _worry_ you, then-" Ed gets a brief glimpse of Emily's blonde hair falling forward before she looks back up at him, dark eyes shining bright with interrogation through her fringe.

"When you look back at the, the last elections you've fought-" Emily lifts a hand. "2001, you had 58 business leaders writing to the _Times_, urging people to support Labour-"

Oh, fucking perfect.

Not for the first time, Ed wishes dearly that it was Miliband who was being grilled here, and not him.

God, if only Miliband could be on some of the fucking doorsteps he's on these days.

"2005, _63_ business leaders, writing to the _FT_, backing Labour-"

Ed keeps his face carefully blank, the way you learn to all too quickly.

"Quite bland, isn't it?" George had said once, while they were both backstage at Marr.

"Yeah. Fucking politely preserved."

"Yeah." George had tilted his head, examining Ed's assumed expression of concern. "Sort of Trustworthy Twat, really-"

Ed presses his lips together now to prevent himself from bursting out laughing right as Maitlis points out that businesses no longer back Labour.

Typical fucking Osborne.

"Where are they this time?"

Fucking hell.

This is Miliband's fault, everyone _knows _it's fucking Miliband's fault, but _Ed's _the poor sod who gets shoved out in front of Maitlis, who's looking at him like he's a big, tasty slab of meat to gobble up all because Miliband comes over like Hannah Montana hearing the word _sex_ when he's asked to just fucking talk to some business leaders. (Ed will never forgive Ellie for putting that reference in his head.)

(Though Miliband would probably come over like that confronted with sex too.)

(Which puts Ed far too much in mind of that conversation with Osborne before dinner.)

"Well-" He leaps in before Maitlis can finish her sentence and hopes she remembers the stammer, that he needs to get a grip on it-

"Well, look, there were some business leaders who wrote to the _FT_ a-saying the opposite before 2010, after the global financial crisis-"

(Keep reminding them it was _global.)_

(He's having to joke about business leaders not backing them.)

(Their literal _only defence_ is _joking about people not backing them.)_

(This is fucked.)

(The only good thing about it is that she's letting the global bit slide. Though it'll probably get a fucking op-ed in the _Daily _bloody _Mail.)_

"As I said, there will always be some business people who are supporting Labour, I've been at a dinner tonight-" Dinner shouldn't be dinner after 8 in Ed's book, but what with taking Maddy home, he wouldn't have been able to be there any earlier anyway.

"-with a number, erm-of business-supporting Labour figures-"

"Who-"

"-that we've-"

"-who, who?"

Fuck. _Fuck._

No-one remembers anyone's bloody _name _at these black-fucking-tie things, everyone _knows _that, it's practically an accepted _fact_, but Maitlis has to go and bloody-

"Well, erm, er-" and to top it all off, he's worried about the fucking _stammer_ deciding to rear its' head too. "-the-er-er-Bill-erm-"

Bill-

Shit.

_Shit._

No, no, fucking _no, _what's his-

"The former chief executive of, of, of EDS-" he barrels on, praying that Maitlis will focus more on that part and that there'll be some fantastic link between Labour and the EDS to be treasured and nourished.

"Who I was-talking to just a few moments ago-"

Now, he's insisting he had dinner a few moments ago. His speech is quickening.

"_Former_ chief executive of EDS-"

Oh, thank Christ.

"Yes, yes, of course-" he plunges on, with the rather unnerving sensation of being a barrel carried over a waterfall and just hoping there aren't any rocks waiting beneath. "He's, he's a big supporter of ours, and-"

"Wh-what's his name?"

One moment ago, Ed was praying that his stammer wouldn't rise to the surface. Now a part of him silently dares the thing to appear because right now, after that question, he's pretty sure he could smash the fucking thing to pieces by bellowing every expletive he knows and quite possibly inventing a few new ones on the side.

He'd have even taken a question on the _global _part.

"Well, I-to be honest, I said-it's just gone from my head-"

_Fuck._

"-which is a bit annoying, this time of night."

He laughs. He fucking _laughs._

No. _No._

Abort mission. Abort.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck-_

"But he-but he said what?" Maitlis is giving him a politely patient smile under that blonde hair, with eyes that could eat your soul. It's a compliment, but not when they're directed at Ed.

"He's _supporting_ Labour, is he giving you-_donations-_is he-

"His-his-"

"-wh-which of his-which of your policies is he extolling?"

OK. He can handle that. Thank Christ. Right.

"He actually chaired the Small Business Taskforce-"-_what the fuck is his name?_

"-which made a hundred and ten different, er, recommendations-"

One of which would be to remember people's fucking _names._

"-which we're-we're gonna-implement in, in government-"

Which is fucking wonderful and fine and dandy and we call all skip around in a fucking circle singing Kumbay-fucking-a but that doesn't tell us _what the fuck is his name._

OK. She hasn't asked yet.

"The British investment bank, is one of the policies which we support-"

"Mmm-"

"Which is-being widely backed by-"

"OK-"

"-by business-"

Shut up. _Shut up._

"So we've got-"

"This infrastructure-commission-"

He's now just babbling words as Maitlis glances down, then up. Ed can't decide whether he's pissed off or grateful that it's at least meant he's had to shut up.

"Frankly-" Maitlis leans forward with a slight smile. "You've got _Bill Somebody."_

Ed freezes.

"Have we got anyone else-because you _were_ talking about 63 or 50 or FTSE 100-"

OK, now he knows. Now he knows.

And yes, really, thinking about it, Ed could, he thinks, while holding a smile on his face that hopefully makes him look like the most trustworthy twat that ever walked the planet, he would quite happily have taken her asking more about whether or not they personally bankrupted the country, because then he might have simply been able to keep blabbering himself into a corner, until, if he was lucky, his stammer rose up in his throat and fucking choked him into the next life.

_Bill Somebody._

_Fuck._

* * *

The Strangers Bar is quieter than usual. Even so George has chosen to take a seat at one of the tables rather than the bar, where he can keep his head down in case any aspiring journalists are waiting to make their career.

Though with the person he's meeting, they'd probably make the end of it.

George sighs, pulling his phone towards him. He should probably check how Balls' Newsnight interview is going. Given Frances' reaction when George told her he was heading out after all-

Yeah, George is probably best putting off heading back to Downing Street.

He pulls his phone towards him right as the door opens.

The barman glances up and drops the glass he was polishing. At the same moment, the lamp above George's head begins to flicker ominously. Someone at the next table glances over his shoulder at the long-coated figure of the man in the doorway, and appears to choke, clutching frantically at his throat.

The man sweeps past them with a disdainful glance to George's table, gathers his coat around him, and sighs. "The lighting in this place really is...._distasteful."_

George smiles. "Hello, Peter."

* * *

David doesn't lie to Sam. Ever.

That's why, after a few long moments of watching her watch the TV, curled up in the corner of the couch, he takes a deep breath and touches her arm. "I need to ask you something."

Sam glances at him through her dark curtain of hair, darker still against the canary yellow of the couch. "What is it?" she says quietly, reaching out and touching the mute button without once glancing away from him.

David takes a deep breath. A part of him wants to say it all at once, like ripping off a plaster. Another part wants it to stay like this just a bit longer, when he hasn't asked her yet.

Almost without thinking, her fingers dance through his, interlinking. She'd done the same on their wedding day, when she'd laughed, and she'd lifted her hand to his cheek, touching the hot tears there.

"What is it?" she says quietly, and David has never lied to her.

He takes a deep breath. "Lynton said something today."

* * *

Frances knows Justine will be there before she is. When they were at Gray's Inn together, Justine was known for completing a brief in one day, as though she was frightened someone might rip it away from her before she was finished.

It's why she's not surprised that Justine's still got her phone in her hand, her eyes moving over the screen almost too rapidly to read, as she sits, perched at the bar. Frances watches her for a few moments quietly, taking in the white shirt with the odd grid-like pattern she probably wore to work, slightly too casual for the restaurant, gleaming white floors and pillars stretching around them, chest snarling with the same confused tugging she always feels when she's around Justine. Exasperation's a part of it, but not all of it.

Even before she'd befriended Justine-a conscious befriending, not the casual way most young students and lawyers fell into a camaraderie together-Frances had noticed her. It was just the way her clothes often hung off her, sometimes a little too big, as though she'd fallen into them without noticing or the way her hair dangled almost limply around her face. On someone else, it might have been possible to pull the look off as a mad-professor affectation, someone so wrapped up in work that they simply didn't have time for the mundane trivialities of clothes and make-up. But somehow on Justine, she didn't quite seem to manage it-like a child playing dress-up with clothes one size too big. There seemed something almost a little desperate about her appearance, as though she had purposely selected the worst clothes she could in order to hammer home this exact point. Like all efforts that want to look natural, it looked less so for wanting to be.

But it wasn't just that. It was the speed of Justine's pen as she took notes, the over-widening of her eyes every time she glanced up at her senior. There was something almost frantic about it, like feet scrambling over a bridge crumbling beneath them. An almost hungry look in her too-wide-jawed face.

Frances taps her on the shoulder, suppresses a grin as Justine jumps a little, glancing around in surprise. "Hi."

"Oh." Justine blinks at her for a second. "Hi." She slides off the barstool she's commandeered-Frances knows it was only for waiting-and pushes the seat with one hand, as though needing some other outlet for that hunger, that battle to capture solid ground.

Frances grins. "Am I not getting a hug?"

She smiles to herself as Justine-Frances can only describe it as _manoeuvres _herself, really-into Frances' arms. Frances, though, wraps her arms around her, noticing how her shoulders and ribs could almost bruise her.

Justine's never been one for hugs, really, which had only stoked that odd tugging Frances had felt whenever she'd glanced at her, which she eventually came to recognize as protectiveness.

Something about the situation-the way Justine slips somewhat awkwardly out of the embrace, the jumping of her hand to her brown bob, that same hungry gaze-reminds Frances of that now.

* * *

David sits quietly after he's asked her what he needs to ask her.

Sam isn't looking up at him. She's curled into a corner of the couch, her legs pulled up so she can wrap her arms around them. She looks much younger like this, like he's reached into her chest and pulled something older and living and beating out of her. David can't stand it.

He moves over to gather her in his arms, half-expecting her to push him away. But she doesn't, wriggling further into him instead so that her head rests on his chest. He hugs her tight, the way he used to when she was a student, giggling into his shirt as he carried her up the stairs to her flat, head swimming with smoke after a night out in Bristol.

"We don't have to do it" he finds himself saying, before he can think about the words. "We don't have to. I'll tell Lynton we're not-Nick isn't doing it, there's got to be a-"

"But you're not Nick" she whispers, and when she looks at him, he half expects her eyes to be sparkling with unshed tears. But they're dry, a deep, keen, blue, and as they watch each other, David has the sense that he always has had, even when she was sixteen and glanced up at him through a dyed black fringe, those same blue eyes caught in the glow of the fairy lights draped over her head, flickering over and over.

He stares at her. "I know, but-"

Sam could always take away his words. He never needed to tell her, because no one ever needed to tell him.

She just looks at him and seems to tighten her arms even more around her knees.

They sit there, nestled into each other. David looks at her, then again, aching.

"You don't have to do this" he says, quietly. "You don't, because-"

His voice trails off.

"It's not like he can make you choose" he says, the words already sounding a little hopeless.

For a moment, he thinks Samantha isn't going to say anything at all. But then she says quietly, "But it's not about making us."

The words shouldn't make sense, but they do, and David feels his heart contract almost painfully.

"Sam" is all he says, because it hurts to say.

Instead, her head moves slowly to rest against his chest, finding his heartbeat, her eyes meeting his as she feels it beat against her ear, strong and steady, as though reminding her that he's still there.

He leans forward, letting his forehead press against hers'. They watch each other the way they have so many times before, the way you only do when you know each other well enough that you don't need to watch each other. You just do it.

They stay there for a while, arms around each other, until her head lies on his chest, his hand stroking her hair, cradling her, just breathing.

* * *

"Now listen" says Peter, stirring his lemon in delicate, precise circles in his water. "As you know, I loathe drama."

A bargirl approaches their table, with a smile. "Would you like me to add another lemon, Mr Mandelson?"

Peter's welcoming grin disappears to be replaced with a cartoonish look of horror. George reflects that it looks rather as though his face transforms into an O-mouthed emoji. Slowly, he swells. "Go. You disgust me."

Several minutes later, once Peter has finished expanding on the many errors of two-lemon drinks and George has spent time appeasing the bargirl, he returns to the table and sighs. "You arranged this meeting."

Peter smiles. "And you're saying you wish to be deprived of the pleasure of my company?"

George merely allows his own eyebrow to arch. "Oh, I'm sure I'm pleasured by your company often enough."

Peter raises an eyebrow of his own, allowing a small smile to break out. "You're getting better, dear boy."

George looks straight at him. "I know what you're doing."

"And what's that?"

"Trying to avoid the subject."

"No." Peter looks straight back at him. "Rather, trying to gauge your thoughts on the subject, Georgie."

George waits. It could be true. But then, it is Peter.

"And I thought I was here to gauge _yours'"_ he answers, not looking away from Peter.

Peter takes in a deep breath, then, as though he's going to stop being cryptic. If he wasn't Peter.

"Well, you would know more than me." He traces the rim of his glass very slowly with one finger. "After all, you and Cameron are the _best_ of buddies."

George raises his eyebrows. "Weren't you the one who mentioned being too benign not to take him to bed?"

Peter's mouth twitches. "I was offered a Sophie's Choice, one might say. Whether that circumstance affected my decision-" He allows himself to shrug slightly.

George decides to stay his hand. "What do you know?" he says, extending both his hands, palms out. "This is of mutual interest, after all."

Peter's eyes rove over his face for barely a breath before he speaks. "That some concerns have been raised over their-"

He hesitates very carefully. _"Fondness_ for...spending time together." He puts the gentlest of inflections on the first word.

George hesitates. "Well" he says, debating for a moment whether or not to mention the conversation with Balls.

"That, and the fact that they seem rather reluctant to...stop." He meets Peter's eyes, watching his face very closely to see how this is being received.

"Ah." Peter speaks delicately. Peter always speaks delicately for a reason.

"And I understand your side aren't entirely _happy-"_ George glances casually at the drinks menu as he stresses the last word. "With recent developments."

He sees something flicker very slightly in Peter's eyes. He chews the side of his mouth, knowing Peter can see both of them enjoying the game.

"I see" is all Peter says slowly. "I hear-ah-Alastair rather compared them to Tony and Gordon, in their younger days."

"Did he now?"

"Indeed. Of course-" Peter pauses ever so slightly. "Tony has his own views about how_ that_ ended."

His eyes meet George's very briefly, just enough for George to catch as he remembers the words, knows Peter is waiting for a denial, a subtle redirection.

George hesitates.

He looks up at Peter slowly. "Well" he says, fishing the lemon out of his own drink and laying it carefully aside on a napkin. "Tony could be right about some things." He meets Peter's eyes. "As you'll remember we agreed."

Peter's cheek twitches very slightly. But apart from that, the only thing he does is to lean back an inch in his chair. He doesn't look away from George the whole time.

"Well" he says, his eyes still on George, reaching slowly for his glass without looking away, "that makes things very interesting."

* * *

Frances still remembers being strapped onto the stretcher.

"I'll be fine" she'd said to Justine, the familiar protective instinct rearing again, Kate in that hospital bed flickering before her eyes, even though it was _Frances _who'd been secured tightly in a neck brace. "Here-"

She'd reached out a hand, not at all sure that Justine would take it, but after a moment she had, with a cautious squeeze, as though her fingers were still learning how to do it.

"Are you sure you want to come?" she'd said quietly, so that only Justine could hear.

Justine's eyes had widened a little, and for a second, Frances had been reminded with a jolt all over again just how _young _she was. Sometimes, Justine spoke as though she was trying to make you forget that.

But Justine had blinked and then set her jaw determinedly. "I'll come with you" she'd said, and she'd squeezed Frances' hand again, a little harder, as though trying to prove to herself that she could.

Now, Frances listens to Justine do the closest thing to chattering that she's able to, which is when they talk about work. Frances doesn't mind that-it's a bonus to _see_ Justine look animated about something, to see her allow herself to. Not just her work, but Frances' too-as though these topics provide her with some safe ground, allow her to be excited without the world cracking under her feet.

"How are the kids?" Justine asks, and Frances notices the way her eyes dart away with a blink, as though checking off a question on a list.

"They're good" Frances says, feeling the same ache of sadness she always feels when Justine has to make herself bring this up. "Luke's getting into his rugby-Liberty's getting into debating, I think the school's just opened up a club for the younger girls, after all the fuss she made-" Liberty had been one of the most insistent on one being set up, at one point demanding David add his name to the petition she, Giang and Nikaya had set up, and issue it as an official governmental command. Frances had wondered whether she should prevent disappointment by tempering her daughter's zeal, but had then remembered herself at that age, crammed into the navy jersey and sharply creased skirt of Wycombe Abbey, halfway through her second term and wondering if there was anyone in the world like her.

"How are the boys?" she asks, and feels a deeper pang at the way Justine's gaze immediately wanders away, her knuckles whitening slightly as they dig into the table.

"They're doing well" she says finally, eyes skittering away to a plaque on the wall. "Daniel's got his Assessment Week coming up in March, so we'll have a better idea of what levels he's at for next year."

Frances feels a stab of disappointment, but, she reminds herself, it's what she expected.

"And Sam?" she asks, reaching for another pepper. "He's-starting school in September?"

"Yes. Brookfield, same as Daniel, hopefully. They have a siblings policy."

"Oh." Frances can't help but notice the slump of relief in Justine's shoulders at the mention of schools, the same way they had the first time she'd been able to hand baby Liberty back to Frances, adjusting the baby's head carefully as though that was the safest affectionate touch she could allow herself.

But George wants her to ask, and so Frances does, taking an only slightly deeper breath than usual, as she reaches for a piece of chorizo, and says, casually, "How's Ed?"

* * *

"We are in a delicate situation" Peter says, with the appropriate amount of delicacy, tearing the bread fastidiously between his fingers as though peeling a fruit. "A very delicate situation."

George glances up at him, widening his eyes. _"No."_

Peter meets his gaze with a pained grimace. "Please do not offend my digestion."

George rolls his eyes. "Well, I thought the entire point of this discussion was to find a way to deal with it."

"And just how-" Peter stirs the straw in slow, painstaking circles. "Exactly do you propose to do that?"

"You can't try that with me."

Peter holds his gaze a second longer than he needs to. "Indeed."

They stare at each other for another second before George sighs. "That's what I said to Lynton."

"Well." Peter leans back in his seat, pinching the napkin between his fingers. "I told Alastair something rather similar. We can't keep them away from each other. No matter whether _we_ want to or not."

George peers at him. "I can't decide whether you regret that or not."

Peter arches an eyebrow. "Maybe neither."

George narrows his eyes.

"I surmise-" Peter leans forward too. "That it would be far easier to plot a course of action, should we know exactly what we are dealing with."

"I thought that was the point of _this."_

"I imagine it may be time to satisfy our curiosity for certain."

"I imagine you've already thought of a way."

Peter smiles very slightly, eyes dancing, and, crooking the finger gently, beckons George forward.

"Do you _pride_ yourself on being a cliche?"

Peter preens. "It is one of my most treasured and envied gifts."

* * *

Justine looks blankly at Frances for a moment. "Oh. Ed's fine. He'll be working on his-PMQs preparation, I suppose."

Frances gives her an odd look. "No, I meant-how is he, you know, generally?"

"Oh. Well." Justine tries to remember the last conversation they had. "He's fine. You know, he's Ed. He's very focused on the election, and, you know, the manifesto draft."

Frances takes another bite of a pepper. "Wasn't he away this weekend?"

"Oh. Yeah." Justine bites into a pepper herself, nibbling it slowly. "He and the boys went up to-er-" She wonders what the correct reference is to use here.

"David and Samantha's" she finally settles on, scrubbing her hands harder than she needs to.

"Oh." Frances doesn't seem surprised. "So-how come you didn't go?"

Justine shrugs. "Had to work on the Ocensa case."

"Oh, I thought you finished your cross-examination back in October-"

"Yes, but they seem to be, they seem to be-reviewing, reviewing some of the evidence. And we don't know if they could call us back in whenever they want, you know."

"Ah, right." Frances takes a sip of her wine. "Aren't you having any more?"

Justine glances at the tiniest measure of wine she's allowed herself to pour. "Nah. I'm fine." She'd leave it otherwise, feels her lips tighten slightly.

"Like you're taking Communion" Frances teases gently. Justine smiles, less uncertainly than usual.

She knows where she is with Frances. Somehow that's lasted, even through the previous five years. She's felt like that ever since that day at Gray's Inn, when Frances had walked up to her in the staff cafeteria, gently bumping her with her tray.

Justine had looked up at her with a little jump, nearly knocking her salad over.

"Oh, sorry." Frances had given her a grin, and for a moment, Justine had tensed. But Frances had already been talking, words falling out, bouncing and easy. "I just wanted to say-you were in that talk this morning, weren't you? About when we sit the Bar exam-"

"Oh!" Justine had blinked, surprised the older girl, with the flyaway blonde hair and the rings on her fingers, had noticed her. "Yeah, yeah, I was. You?"

Frances had grinned back at her. "Oh, yeah. I knew I recognized you. I'm Frances." She'd leant her tray on the metal bars below the serving trays, taken Justine's hand with a casual sort of confidence. Justine had noticed that she had a silver stud nestling snug in the curve of her nose.

"Oh. Hi." She'd fumbled with her own tray, nearly dropping it in her haste to return the handshake. "I'm Justine."

Now, Frances grabs another piece of chorizo. "Did they enjoy it?"

Justine has to hesitate before she remembers what they've been talking about.

"Oh. Yes, I think so. I mean, Ed, Ed hasn't said much about it, but they had-er-they went to a football match, I think-"

"And the boys?"

Justine has no idea, but Frances seems to know everything about her kids. "Oh. Yeah, they loved it-"

"Daniel into football now, then?"

Justine can't remember if she's ever seen Daniel watch football or not, if Ed's talked about it in any of his interviews. But it seems a safe enough sort of topic, one that sounds normal, everyday. "Yeah, he's, he's interested, I think."

A furrow appears in Frances' brow for the slightest of moments. But then she just says, "It must be strange."

"What must?"

"I mean, for Ed. You know, given he and Dave are-you know-facing off against each other."

Justine's never really thought about it. "Well. I suppose they just-separate it. I mean, he's done it with George." As a lawyer, Justine's all too used to eating lunch with the solicitor trying to tear your argument to shreds in the courtroom, to the drinks of rival lawyers clinking together in some hotel bar somewhere afterwards. She's presumed, she supposes, if she's thought about it, that it's the same for Ed.

"Mm. I suppose."

Frances watches her over the rim of her wineglass. "Does Ed seem to like it? Spending time with Dave, I mean?"

The use of his first name jolts Justine a little. "Erm-" She hesitates. "I don't ask him, really."

Frances' forehead furrows again, but before Justine can grab hold of the look, it clears, and Frances reaches for her glass, clinking it against Justine's, taking a final sip of her wine.

* * *

David is still awake when Sam finally gets back into bed.

He wraps his arms around her, feels her fit right against him the way she always does, the way she's seemed to ever since the first time he tried putting his arms around her, and felt her curl into him, their chests rising and falling in time with each other, as naturally as if they'd been breathing together their whole lives.

He doesn't need to ask where she's been for the last ten minutes, but she reaches back for his hand without even having to look, knowing his will be there.

"I'm not making you do this" he says suddenly, holding her tighter. "I'm not."

She just squeezes his hand even tighter.

"Sam" is all he says, quietly, stroking her hair, pressing his cheek against hers'.

She just pulls his arms up and around her and snuggles into his chest. Knowing what she needs without having to be asked, he pulls her closer into his chest.

He can tell the exact moment when she falls asleep, more than he knows when he himself does.

* * *

"Where's Lampard?" Maddy demands, shoving her face into Joel's.

Joel, phone extended out in front of him, nearly chokes, shoving his cereal bowl away. "Jesus fucking Christ-"

"Watch your mouth!" Mum lifts her head from where she's rummaging through her handbag at the head of the table. "I don't want to hear that kind of language from you."

"She nearly gave me a bloody heart attack" Joel mutters, glaring at his little sister who manifestly ignores him.

"What did you _do _with _Lampard?"_

"What?"

"You mean the football player?" Dad asks, wandering in, pulling his tie around his neck.

"Well, who else, Dad?"

"Is he missing?" Ellie barely glances up from her work at the other end of the table.

"Yeah."

Dad blinks. "Nothing's been on the news."

Maddy despairs.

"Not the _player_" she almost screeches, collapsing into her chair. "My _card."_

"Your-"

"My _Top Trumps card."_

Dad's face clears. "Ohhhh."

"What, did you think Mads was asking if Joel had Lampard under his bed or something?" Ellie mutters, pushing her glasses further up her nose-Maddy knows that she'll battle to shove her contacts in in the passenger seat on the way to school.

"_On the ball-_" Joel raises both hands into the air, and then promptly chokes on his cereal again.

"Where'd you last have it, Mads?" Mum half-shoves Joel back into his chair. "Would you _stop_ trying to kill yourself before breakfast, please?"

"Last night. Waiting for Dad. I was showing it to Nancy."

Joel's head whips round to stare at her. _"Who?"_

Maddy hesitates. It's Dad who saves her. "David Cameron's daughter" he says, as if it's no big deal at all. Maddy, for some reason, feels her shoulders sink slightly in relief, and is rewarded with a wink.

_"David Cameron's_ _daughter?"_ Joel repeats, as though his father's just told him that Maddy's been conversing with the moon.

"David Cameron's daughter" confirms Dad calmly, with another wink at Maddy.

_"David Cameron's daughter?"_

"Everybody, now" barks Ellie, crossing out a sentence for what looks like the third time.

"David _Cameron's _daughter?" Joel almost spits out, staring at Maddy as if he doesn't recognize her. "Why were you talking to _her?"_

Maddy bristles immediately. "What's wrong with _her?"_

"Quite right" her mother says, giving Joel a sharp tap on the shoulder. "What's wrong with her, indeed?"

Joel goggles. "But-"

"But?" Dad asks mildly, popping what looks like a whole Tesco doughnut into his mouth. "She's a person, isn't she? Like any other."

"But-but-" Joel seems to be struggling to find another reason to object to it. "She's-she's David _Cameron's-"_

"Oh, please" Ellie says, barely looking up from her essay. "Where the hell's this attack of conscience when you and Luke go to football matches and you spend the whole time talking his bloody ear off?"

Joel almost explodes out of his seat. "That's _football_. It's like _war-"_

Mum looks directly at Dad across the table. "I blame you for that" she says quietly.

Dad rolls his eyes, but Joel's already speaking again. "Anyway, that's Uncle _George."_

"So?" Mum asks breezily. "And Luke and Liberty are Luke and Liberty, aren't they?"

"What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"It means" Mum says briskly, with a ruffle of Maddy's hair-out of gratitude, Maddy doesn't wriggle away quite as violently as usual. "That Nancy is Nancy, just the same way. You'd throw a fit if someone spoke about _you _like that."

Joel shrugs mutinously.

"So, no-one knows where my card is" Maddy concludes to the table at large, once a relatively huffy silence has descended on the kitchen. "Great."

"I'm seeing Uncle George today" Dad announces, kissing her on the head before heading to the door. "I'll ask him to ask Cameron for us, see if Nancy's picked it up-"

Maddy frowns. "How come you're friends with Uncle George and not Mr Cameron?"

"Because George isn't a massive twat" mutters Joel.

_"Joel!"_ The shouts from both of their parents come at once, making Maddy jump, Joel flinch, and Ellie's pen come skittering off the page (which she articulates only with a grinding of the teeth, with a restraint which goes manifestly unappreciated.) Maddy studies first Mum's, then Dad's faces, for any telltale trace of sparkling eyes or twitching lips, but finds none.

"You do not _ever-"_ Dad says quietly. Maddy leans back in her chair to watch the conversation-it's not the time to interrupt when Dad speaks like this. "Speak about one of our colleagues in that way again, do you hear me?"

"I was only sticking up for you" Joel protests furiously. "You're the ones who hate him."

"There is a big difference" Dad says, still very quietly, each word cracking in the air. "Between hating someone's ideas and hating them as a person. If you can't understand that, then it says far more about you than it does about anyone else. People have died for the right to have different beliefs before now."

"Bit dramatic" Ellie mutters. "We're only at breakfast."

"And they're our colleagues in the House Of Commons" Mum says quietly, her jaw tight. "Even if we're not on the same side, they've been elected, the same as we have. We need to work together."

Joel stares sulkily at the table.

"Don't let me ever hear you talk about someone in that way again" Dad says, slightly louder this time. "There's enough of that kind of politics already without my own kids doing it."

There's a long moment of silence, then Dad claps his hands together. "Right. I'm going to get ready."

"Do not take another step towards that piano" Mum says, without even looking up from the letter she's now reading.

Dad freezes in the doorway. "I am engaging in substantial musical decompression of the piano keys in order to prepare for the day ahead."

Mum mutters that the piano keys can do something anatomically unlikely to themselves.

Maddy turns to her, grin brightening her eyes. "You said-"

"I said nothing of the kind."

* * *

"You OK?" George asks, over Theresa's head, as David straightens his folders, already examining the lines they've scribbled out together.

It's no surprise George didn't ask him during PMQs prep. With the way George had almost fallen through the door, laughing so hard he'd been obliged to sit down for almost ten minutes, reduced to almost total silence, during which time Craig had had to fetch him a glass of water, David's almost surprised he's speaking at all.

"It would usually be a blessing" Michael had remarked with quiet amusement, polishing his glasses as they had all stood round George and watched him slap his knee, nearly managing to spill the water all over himself.

"Careful" Michael had warned. "Could end up looking like the Enoch Powell trick went wrong."

George had managed to straighten himself up with what seemed a masterful effort at heaving for breath. "Bill" he'd managed to pant out as explanation.

"Bill-"

"Bill."

"Bill-"

"Bill-?"

"Bill-"

"Bill?" Michael had glanced at David.

"Bill?" David had announced it in the same tone as one of the pigeons from _Finding Nemo._

"Bill, Bill, Bill-"

George's hand had grabbed David's tie, dragging him down to within a few inches of his face.

David had blinked. "Now I'm scared."

George had shaken his head, cheeks uncharacteristically flushed, and had leaned in slowly, almost whispering the words, his eyes touched with something that could almost resemble ecstasy-_"Bill Somebody."_

So it's really rather galling, David thinks, to have his health inquired after by the same man who, less than two hours ago, was experiencing something resembling a religious epiphany at the spectacle of a Newsnight episode.

But David has to admit, as he finds his eyes straying across the dispatch box _again_, it may be a valid question.

Across the chamber, Miliband is sitting with his head down, studiously scribbling. David stares at the top of his head for a few seconds, watching the way it bobs awkwardly, the tight grip of his long fingers around that pen. How intently he stares at the notes, denting that little crease between his eyebrows.

David forces his gaze away.

This is one of the few times he's wished he could be further away from Miliband in the chamber.

Miliband's still not looking at him.

Fuck.

"Dave?"

"No, I'm fine" David replies automatically, the lie settling smooth and gentle in his mouth, almost dissolving on his tongue as he tries not to let his eyes linger on Miliband's forehead. "I'm fine."

* * *

Miliband isn't looking at him, is all he can think, several minutes later. Miliband's eyes are on his paper, darting from face to face, but never resting on David's.

David shakes his head slightly. For God's sake.

He can almost feel the grinning from behind him-the wave of cheers that had broken out from his own benches when Miliband's name had been called, orchestrated enthusiastically by George and William-_"More, more, more"_ he can hear Anna chanting from somewhere on the backbenches, the chant being taken up mockingly by other Tories every time Miliband opens his mouth. George's eyes catch David's, flash him a wink.

But Miliband's voice is quieter than usual, his eyes wandering, the words oddly clunky in his mouth. David stares at him for the briefest of moments, finds himself squinting at those shadows under Miliband's eyes.

All of a sudden, he's far too aware of George's gaze on him.

"Mr Speaker-" Miliband's eyes keep flickering back to his notes, as though he's scared he might forget what they are.

"Everyone pays stamp duty on their stock market transactions-" Miliband's eyes meet his for the briefest of seconds, wide and dark. David stares back, with absolutely no idea what expression is on his own face. "Except hedge funders-"

David has to lean forward slightly to catch all the words. Jesus, what's-

"Who are allowed to avoid it, costing many hundreds of millions of pounds-" The last few words all seem to fall into each other at once, as the voices start to rise louder and louder from the benches behind David.

"Keep it coming" someone says, in amongst the chuckles, the slow hand-clapping gestures David doesn't have to look round to know are there, each silent slap for Miliband.

"Why is the Prime Minister refusing to act on this?" Miliband's last few words crash into each other again as he almost scrambles back into his seat. For a second, David actually sits still, waiting for the self-righteous denouement he's sure must be coming, before he realises that no, that really was _it._

He didn't even wave his finger.

David gets up slowly-the question's almost too easy to answer, the words a dull echo behind his eyes, like the hymns they'd sing at school that seem to have seeped, greying and thin, under his skin even years later.

"I-I have to say, Mr Speaker-" He turns away from Miliband, because the sight of his face, paler than usual, almost drawn, makes something contract oddly in David's chest.

"For thirteen years-" and OK, this will have to get through, Miliband _hates_ it when he does this, the man would have crawled around clinging to Brown's _coat _if he could-

"During many of which he was _in_ the Treasury-" He turns his gaze to the frontbench, letting the disapproving shakes of the head fuel him a little, stoking the argument higher in his chest.

"They did absolutely nothing about this-"

He waits for some sign from Miliband. For some jab of the finger. An outraged shake of the head. Even that attempt at an arched eyebrow Miliband sometimes gives, perhaps under the impression it looks cool and dismissive, when _Nancy _can be more convincing, for God's sake.

"What _this _government has done is more than any previous government, to make sure that individuals and companies-" He's almost having to shout to be heard over the rising tide of noise. "Pay their taxes _properly._ But, I have to say, I'm delighted he's raised the economy-"

He lets the noise carry his voice louder, tries to stoke up the momentum building in his chest.

"On the morning _after_ his Shadow Chancellor-" He's turning towards his own benches now, feeling his grin widen. "Couldn't name one _single business leader_ who backed Labour!"

They're saving the Bill Somebody line. Makes it stick in the mind more.

"Mr Speaker-" and Miliband's got a bit of that smirk back, which makes something leap in David's chest. "This is Prime Minithter's Questions-and he should_ try_ _and answer_ the question."

That nasal tone makes something curl joyfully in David's chest. The finger's back too.

"Now-" That finger's moving slowly up and down. David lets himself watch it, something about the movement delicious.

"I asked him a very specific quethtion-I athked him a very specific quethtion-about why hedge funds aren't paying stamp duty on stock market-transactions-"

Miliband's doing the slow enunciation thing again. Something curls again in David's chest.

"It's costing hundreds-of millions-of pounds-"

George snorts.

"He's being funded to the tune of-" and oh God, Miliband's trying to copy him by turning away to his benches, dear God, it's embarrassing-

"£47million by the hedge funds-" Miliband's facing him again with that wide-eyed look. "That-everyone knows that's why he's refusing to act-"

David glances up at him, finding those big dark eyes across the dispatch box, wide and indignant and querulous.

"But what is his _explanation?"_

Miliband makes it too easy, sometimes, with all that wide-eyed outrage and indignant little jerks of the head as he sinks back into his seat.

"L-l-let me just _remind _him-" He leans on the dispatch box, knowing Miliband's eyes will linger on him before he can stop himself. The thought makes David fight back a grin.

"When _we _came into office, foreigners didn't pay stamp duty on the _properties _they bought-"

The noise rises louder, but it's like a bite of candyfloss for fuel, dissolving before you can properly bite into it.

_"Foreigners_ didn't pay _capital gains tax_ on the properties they bought-and because of _his _tax rates, City hedge fund managers-"

Someone's shrieking at the top of the House. It's like an extra lick of flavour to the words.

"Were paying-_lower tax rates-than_ the people who _cleaned their offices!"_ He turns, taking in his own backbenches, letting his voice grow stronger, not sparing Miliband and Balls a glance. "That's what _we_ had to sort out-"

Miliband isn't candyfloss, by a long way.

"But let me put it to him again-" He pauses, for effect. "The day after his Shadow Chancellor was asked on the television-"

Miliband isn't the only one who can wave a finger around.

"Could he think of one _single business leader-"_

Miliband isn't candyfloss. Miliband's a whole roast dinner when you're starving. Roast dinner with all the trimmings.

"And do you know what he said-"

Sometimes, you feel dazed afterwards, gorging yourself on it, but he's what you needed-

"Do you know what he said, Mr Speaker-" And he's sliding his glasses on now, but he glances at Miliband for the briefest second over them and for the first time Miliband's looking at him too.

David meets his eyes with a jolt. A smile twitches treacherously at the corners of his own mouth, as he turns away, sliding his glasses loose.

"He said-he said-"

Miliband's staring at him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, bright with anger and David feels something soar in his chest. _There you are._

"He said-_Bill Somebody!"_

He lets the words ring out through the Chamber, under the bubbling cacophony of laughter that swells around him, hands slapping together. He can see Harriet's face, lips tightly compressed-Balls is mouthing something at him, something that ends in _didn't. _But it's Miliband's face David searches for, finds with a leap in his chest, the crease of his forehead, the hard blaze of an argument forming beneath his brows.

It's the hardest thing in the world not to grin.

"Mr Speaker-" He glances round. "Bill Somebody's not a _person-"_

He looks at Miliband now, across the dispatch box, eyes finding each other, the way they have so many times before. _I know you._

The thought jolts in David's chest.

"Bill Somebody's Labour's _policy!"_

(_There you are.)_

* * *

"Mr Th-Speaker-"

The noise is deafening. It's always loud, but today, it's _deafening._

Ed stares at him. Cameron's smirk's curling his lip slightly and he looks like-

Like all of his worst characteristics decided to show up at once.

He looks arrogant and posh and completely fucking-

All the things that Ed _hates-_

He can't let himself look at Cameron properly. He can't, so he has to look at the frontbench instead, giving them the look that he knows Cameron will see-that head-shaking, finger-wagging look that he _knows_ gets under Cameron's skin, that if Cameron would just fucking _look at him-_

Cameron spares him the briefest glance over his glasses.

Something unfurls in Ed's chest, untangles, and then snarls tight in an angry knot.

_You-you-_

His voice comes out nagging, the type Cameron hates the most, because _look at me-_

"Mr Speaker-I'll tell him-I'll tell him what people on this side are doing-"

Cameron won't look at him.

Because he doesn't want to hear the _facts, _Ed tells himself. Because he-

But Cameron's smirk's still there and all Ed wants to-to-

"_We_'_re_ standing up for hardworking families and businesses while _he's_ a friend of the tax avoiders-"

The sentence trails away, quicker than he'd hoped under the building wall of noise, but _God-_

Cameron just smirks, eyes darting to Osborne's with a slight deepening of the grin, as though sharing a private joke. The knot twists in Ed's chest.

"Now-now-now-I'm going to _keep _asking him the question-"

_Until you fucking look at me._

The laughter's rising but Ed can't look away from Cameron. He's staring at the other man's head so fiercely a part of him's surprised Cameron doesn't flinch.

"Until he answers it-it'th a very specific question-about hedge funds avoiding stamp duty-on their share transactions-" He can feel himself getting into his stride with each word, because he _knows _this, he _knows, _it's not _fair-_

"It's costing _hundreds of millions of pounds_-"

_Look at me._

"He's _bankrolled _by the hedge funds-he _claims_ he wants to act on tax avoidance-"

Cameron's eyes flicker to his and Ed's chest does an odd swoop and clench at the same moment at that _look_ of Cameron's-

That pitying-

That _smirk-_

"_Why won't he act?"_

He has to back away into his seat, because Cameron looks up-bloody _finally-_as he gets to his feet and Ed feels a rush of-of-

"If, if he's got a-good submission for the Budget-" Cameron's laughing, eyebrow arched, as though Ed's words are just bouncing off him. "He can-we can talk to the Chancellor about it-"

Ed has to look away. Look away from the smirk and the words and the-

The utter _confusion_ tangling in his chest, because-

He's so fucking-

Ed's seized with a bizarre desire to scream.

"But he, he says, what, erm-he says what they're doing-on his side of the House-" God, he's holding those _glasses_ again.

"Let me _tell _him what he's been doing on his side of the House-"

Balls is saying something but Ed can't hear it. Not just because of the voices shattering in the air around him, but his heartbeat, suddenly audible, as he focuses on Cameron, on the way he glances around with that _smile-_

_"Two_ former Labour health secretaries _completely _condemned his health policy-"

_What's that got to do with the question?_

Ed doesn't realise, until Harriet turns slowly to look at him, in Cameron's momentary pause for breath, that he's said it out loud.

It's barely a second, but he still catches all too clearly what Harriet says. "Everything."

_"All_ the leading university vice-chancellors condemned his _university_ policy-"

Ed glances at him. Takes the moment to _glare _at him, because he's-he's just-that's not what they-

"He can't find _one single business leader-" _Cameron's turning round now, addressing the whole room, finger stabbing the air. "To back his economic policy-" Cameron turns a little more. "Is it _any wonder-"_

_Look at me, you git._

"That the _Chuckle Brothers-"_

The House dissolves into collective mirth.

"Have launched a-an _official _complaint-" Cameron spins round, his eyes catching Ed's for the briefest of moments. Ed just looks at him.

Just looks, and Cameron-

Cameron's gaze wavers ever so slightly.

Then he looks away and the moment's over.

"And said that they don't want to be compared-" Cameron's pen flickers between him and Balls. "To the _two_ _clowns opposite?"_

Ed's face burns as he scrambles upright, but his eyes linger on Cameron's hand as it drops to his side and-

_I've held that hand._

The thought burns across his face, making his heart race, trying to push away the touch, that lightning-electric moment when Cameron's fingers had closed around his own with-with-

"I'm afraid-I'm afraid-I'm going to keep asking the question-"

He's laughing. Why is he _laughing?_

"Until he has an answer-" Ed can hear his own voice, can hear the patronising tone ringing out through it. Cameron barely glances at him.

"Right-" His finger's jabbing in the air as he tries to grasp for the facts he knows he can recite in his sleep.

"Let me explain-let me explain it to him-"

Osborne says something to Cameron over May's head. Ed doesn't catch it, but he catches Cameron's smug grin in return and the knot tightens in his chest.

"You can't _help_ him, George, you're too far away-"

Osborne cackles. So does Cameron, but quieter, glancing down at his papers, even as the jeers rise around them, as if Ed simply isn't important enough to warrant attention.

"Let me explain it to him very simply-very simply-"

Cameron's eyes flicker up and he winks.

Ed jumps.

What.

What's he-

_What._

Cameron's already looking back at his notes as though butter wouldn't melt. Ed stares at him.

"Let me explain it to him-very simply-" he says weakly, because-

What?

_What?_

He-

He-

"Everybody pays-" His own voice sounds like a question. Ed curses himself.

"Stamp duty on their share transactions-"

"I apologise for interrupting-" and Bercow's standing up and Ed's never been so grateful to sit down.

He snatches another look at Cameron under his eyelashes before he can stop himself. Part of him hopes Cameron will be looking. Another part hopes he won't be.

He's not, and that's just-

He-

He-

He _winked-_

He-

Fucking_ Cameron._

* * *

David can't be bothered listening to Bercow-it's nothing particular about the day, he just very rarely can be bothered listening to Bercow and he'll probably be on Miliband's side anyway-and besides, George is jabbing his finger at him furiously in what is clearly supposed to be an imitation of Miliband, which is much more interesting.

It's more _something_, at least.

But unfortunately, it makes it much, much harder not to notice the way Miliband simply cannot stop himself waving those fingers around. Waving them at him.

And they're bloody _long. _Slim. Almost delicate.

David resists the urge to give himself a slap.

It's then that he becomes aware that Bercow's carping has died away and that Miliband's standing again, and that David has essentially spent the last thirty seconds ogling his chief opponent's fingers.

Fuck.

"Let me explain it to him very simply-" and David can't decide whether he should be laughing or not at that nasal, know-it-all, downright _irritating_ tone-

"Everybody pays duty on their share transactions-"

That hand-that hand and those fingers-are going again. _Fuck._

Maybe David should wink again.

"But the hedge funds are _protected-"_ Miliband's leaning so far forward David wonders for a mad moment if he's about to throw himself across the dispatch box.

"We've been _calling _for action on this, he could raise-" Miliband's voice draws itself up into that little indignant splutter of breathlessness that he always gets when he's like this, and somehow that seems to be something that temporarily ends David's capacity for rational thought and that's when he glances up at Miliband again and-

_"Hundreds_ of _millions_ of _pounds_-why won't he _act?"_ and really, Miliband's _partly _to blame with that widening of his eyes, and that over-wondering tone, and that utter-utter-utter _sanctimony-_

David winks at him again.

It's the tiniest of movements, but he catches it, watches the slight surprised jump in response, the way those eyes widen even more. Something jumps in David's chest too, and he allows himself the smallest of grins as he gets to his feet.

(He wants him shouting more, he thinks, and the thought sends a small thrill through him, and Miliband's almost there as it is..)

"We _have _acted on stamp duty-"

Miliband's hands fly up into the air and that thrill contracts gleefully in David's chest.

"We'll _continue_ to act on stamp duty-" He watches Miliband's hands flail more, the way the laughter can't quite cover up the outrage that's sparkling in his eyes, seemingly at the very idea that David can just-just-

"But he sat for 13 years in the Treasury, and he never did anything about it-"

He catches Miliband shake his head, has to bite back a grin at the pitying look Miliband's trying to assume. It doesn't work, that indifferent look on Miliband. He just _cares _too much to pretend he doesn't-it bleeds out of his eyes, breathes out of his pores.

"Now-" He reaches for his glasses. "If he_ wants_ to make sure that he acts on tax avoidance and evasion-"

He can sense Miliband's eyes fixed on his glasses. Maybe it makes him jab them a little more sharply.

Maybe.

"Why doesn't he start with Labour's biggest donor, _Mr John Mills-"_

A chorus of _"Aaahs"_, as though it's been rehearsed. Which, in a way, it has, every bloody week.

"Yes-" He turns to his own backbenchers, taking in the rows of faces, most of the mouths rounded with some yell of their own. "We-we _all _remember this-"

And somehow he's turned and he's looking at Miliband, leaning over the dispatch box, even closer to him. "Who gave his donation in _shares_, in order to _cut_ his _tax bill-"_

_"Aah!"_ rings out around the chamber-George's mouth twitches in languid amusement.

But David's leaning forward, somehow, his stomach pressed against the dispatch box, so that he's as near to Miliband as he can get and it feels so much nearer, like if he concentrated, he could almost feel Miliband breathing.

_"Has he paid back the taxes yet?"_ And he knows Miliband won't answer it, because he _can't _answer it, apart from anything else, but the point is, he made Miliband _think_ about answering it. It's a delighted wriggle in David's chest, but it's more than that, it's, it's-

"I'm _really_ pleased-I'm really pleased-" Miliband's bubbling over, and David can see it. "I'm _really _pleased he wants to talk about _donors-"_ and David's got him, he thinks, breathlessly, watching him.

"Let's talk about _his _donors-" Miliband's finger is jabbing wildly, his voice splitting the air. "Seven-seven million-"

_"Order!"_

Oh, shut up, Bercow.

This time, David doesn't even try to listen to the rebuke. There's something bizarrely fascinating about watching Miliband's tether snap so furiously, as he watches him scramble back up-the way he always tries to be, with those sanctimonious little nods and that serious little pout-just watching all that _shatter-_

"Talk about _his _donors, Mr Speaker-£7m from Lord _Laidlaw_-" Miliband's eyes find his and it's like a glorious shock through David's body. His stomach drops delightfully. His fingers close tighter around his papers.

"A tax exile living in _Monaco-"_ That finger's going. "3-£3m from Michael Hintze, with a company based in _Jersey-"_

Miliband's falling over his words, body twisting about, eyes getting wider and wider. "And Michael Spencer, who gave him _£4m-_"

"Cows?" George half-shouts, taking advantage of Miliband's nasal tone. _"Cows?"_

"Caught up in the LIBOR scandal-"

"Four million cows" William says, drily. "Maybe they were even Jerseys."

David knows he nods at them, knows he's laughing somehow, but he's not sure how. All he knows is that he's watching Miliband and his breathing's heavier, his heartbeat quickening.

_"Same old_ _Torieths_-" and something about Miliband's face, contorted for the briefest of moments, that finger stabbing wildly, the sheer flashing of his eyes, makes David grin, that itch of something in his chest being scratched, the sight of Miliband having finally completely snapped.

It feels like sliding a key into him and turning it slowly, winding him up tighter and tighter until, until he-

"Now-let's give him the-fifth-fifth chance-" Miliband's hand's waving, his eyes darting to David's like a magnet. "Fifth chance-"

There's that finger.

"I know he doethsn't do his homework-"

The cheers rise up even louder from behind David. Glancing down the frontbench, he grins to se Sajid and several of the others all swaying back and forth in slow, pantomime waves at Miliband, all of them mouthing _bye-bye._

"I know he doesn't do his homework-"

Miliband's exactly the type of kid who would have reminded the teacher to _set_ homework, David thinks, and he mutters some variation of this to Nick and William and tries to let their snorts of laughter smother the strange wriggle in his chest at Miliband's words, at the jab of his finger, the odd jump of pleasure as he imagines Miliband using that geeky, pompous, sanctimonious-

"Fifth chance-" There's a few whoops from behind David as Miliband holds his hand up. "The hedge funds are avoiding tax to the tune of _hundreds_ of_ millions_ of _pounds-"_

Miliband's wound up now, that finger going wild, and David finds himself tautening a little, picturing something, seeing Miliband's fury pitch higher and higher, tighter and tighter, until-

"Will he now promithe-"

God, that _lisp._

"At _that _dithspatch box-" Another jab of the finger, big, wide eyes. "To _act _for the National Health Th-Service?"

The way Miliband almost throws himself down in his seat tells David that he's cursing that lisp.

So David gets up more slowly than usual. He leans lazily against the dispatch box, knows that'll be winding Miliband even tighter.

"We had Labour for 13 years-"

Truthfully, David could probably actually answer the question and still come out on top.

"_No _action on stamp duty, _foreigners _not paying stamp duty, _foreigners _not paying capital gains tax-"

But that's not what this is about, David manages to think, even through the irritation rising in his chest, that feeling that he too is being wound, tighter and tighter-

"-_no _bank levy and he _talks_ about _tax exiles-"_

But that's the thing Miliband's never understood and now David tries to force down the odd lurch in his chest at his next words.

He doesn't look at Miliband.

"Andrew Rosenfeld, the man who raises _his _money-"

He doesn't look at Miliband as he jabs his finger at him.

"Was for years a tax exile, living in _Geneva!"_

The shouts behind him reach a fever pitch, outrage twisting in the air. David's eyes have found Miliband's again.

_"That's _what we get-"

Miliband's eyes widen slightly. Looking at him like this, David realises he does look paler than usual, which makes the shadows under his eyes even more noticeable.

But there's the slightest flinch in Miliband's face as David looks at him, and David feels that lurch in his stomach as he looks away.

"But is it any _wonder-"_ David tries to sink into the comfort of the familiar words. "He wants to find one particular issue to raise today-because he can't talk about minimum _wages,_ 'cos his policy is to _cut _them-"

There are cheers.

"He can't talk about _energy prices_ because his policy is to keep them _up_-he can't talk about _universities _because his policy is to _trash _them-"

Laughter bubbles in his throat. It feels harsh, strained.

"He can't name a _single business leader _who supports _Labour-"_

He leans on the dispatch box, feeling all the thoughts narrow and aim into the sharp, sweet point of the climax.

"No wonder the man who wrote _"Things Can Only Get Better"-"_

He lets himself look up, his gaze meeting the Labour frontbenchers'.

"Says it _no longer applies to Labour!"_

* * *

Ed feels oddly shaky as he gets to his feet, even as he tries to smile. He tries to summon his thoughts against the wall of noise from across the Chamber. From this angle, the seats look even higher, the faces even more numerous.

He shakes his head slightly, even as he leans on the dispatch box, in the same way Cameron did.

"So basically, Mr Speaker-" His voice trembles, to his horror.

"Basically, _he's been found_ _out-"_

The laughter swells until it's almost deafening.

"Five chances to answer the question-_no answer coming-"_ Ed can hear his voice shrinking under the sheer wall of noise.

"And-and-and-and let's-and let's close down that tax loophole-"

Ed barely knows what he's saying. Part of him's just gabbling the words out.

"Th-so we can have more doctors, more nurses, more midwives-"

Cameron just glances at him over his glasses with that arched eyebrow and gives him the slightest pitying shake of the head.

The glance away feels like a shove, and maybe it's that that dredges the words up from Ed's chest, sharpens them with spite.

"This is a difference-_this _is a Prime Minister who won't tackle tax avoidance, for the th-simple reason that too many of his friends would get caught in the net-"

Cameron laughs. He _laughs._

"They're the party of Mayfair, hedge funds and Monaco tax avoiders-and under him, you always know-" The words shake in his chest, his fingers gripping the box, his eyes burning. "It's one rule for those at the top, and another rule for everyone else."

He throws himself back into his seat, and tries to stop his lip from trembling.

* * *

David gets up lazily, even as something wrenches in his chest at the sight of Miliband reaching for the rest of his papers and he has to look away.

"Mr Speaker-there's only one person who's been found out this week, and that is the Leader of the Labour Party-"

He barely manages to glance at him, something clenching harder in his chest at the sight, and he suddenly remembers what he'd said to George this morning.

"His _economic _policy's collapsed, his _health _policy's collapsed, his _university _policy has collapsed-"

_"Jesus, really?" he'd said, when George had pointed it out, glancing up with a grin._

_"Yep."_

"The most vital election in a generation is coming-"

_"Just bizarre-"_

_"What is?"_

_David had smirked. "Picturing Miliband with a woman."_

_George had snorted._

"And people can see the choice-"

_"Harsh. Better not let Frances hear you-"_

_"You know what I mean. You can't really picture him and Justine-"_

_"Thanks for that."_

_"But you can't, can you?"_

"A Labour Party that is _anti-_enterprise, _anti_-business, that is falling apart under scrutiny-"

_"No." George had grinned. "Are you saying you can with him and Rosenfeld's wife?"_

"And a Conservative Party turning this country around-"

_David had shut his eyes. "And thanks for that."_

But looking at the woman's photo-bobbed hair, slightly weak smile, perfectly nice, but nothing really to write home about, like some pleasant wallpaper, a bit like Justine, really, but with softer edges, where Justine's all jutting angles and hard lines-had made David frown, an odd sensation contracting in his chest.

"_That _is the choice-"

His voice rises to a shout, his own finger jabbing down, everything in his chest tautening, the yells filling the Chamber reaching the ceiling.

_"Competence_ with us-_chaos _with them!"

* * *

The walk between here and Ed's Commons office has never felt this long, he's convinced, as he hurries along the green benches, keeping his head down.

"Goodnight, sweetheart" comes a bellow from one of the Tory benches, and an outbreak of cackling as Ed feels his cheeks flame.

Ayesha, in the corridor, tries to meet his eyes.

"It wasn't that bad" she says.

Ed just shakes his head and turns away. "Let's get back" he manages to snap tersely, because it's the only way to be sure his voice doesn't tremble.

"Wait, Miliband-" and Ed comes to a halt, because, quite honestly, the person he least wants to-least wants to-

"Miliband." Cameron comes to a halt at his side, with that grin-for fuck's sake, how is he _grinning?_

And he gets to stand there and _grin-_

"Can we-" Cameron tilts his head. "Maybe-I wanted to ask you-"

Ed's not in the mood to notice the slight flush of David's cheeks or to remember the smell of his pillow or notice the slight darting of his eyes, which he's learnt without knowing how means Cameron isn't nearly as confident as he appears. All he's in the mood to think about is the fact that Cameron just said all that at PMQs after-after....

"I'm busy." He thinks he keeps his voice steady. "I'm busy, Cameron. You can contact Rachel later if you want to speak to me."

He rips his gaze away so he doesn't have to see Cameron's face.

"Wonderful manners, Miliband" he hears, and he tells himself that he's only wrapping his arms tighter around himself because he's cold, and ignores that the riposte isn't nearly up to Cameron's usual standard.

* * *

"Get used to that" David tells the little cohort of aides surrounding Miliband as they move hastily en masse down the corridor. "You'll be dealing with it on election night."

George remains tactfully silent as David reaches his side and they turn back towards the others. "So he's in a bad mood?" he inquires carefully, as they fall into step next to Gavin.

"To be fair, he _has_ just been called sweetheart" Gavin points out, with a shrug. _"And_ by Peter Bone."

"Nah, that'd have been _Mrs _Bone. She's far too polite."

"If there's one person who could make her do that, it'd be Miliband." But David's voice holds much less vigour than usual, and George carefully avoids looking at him.

"What was that about?" Nick asks, after David's retreated into his office.

"What was what?"

Nick jerks his head towards the door. _"That."_

George eyes him carefully, knowing this is a moment to tread very carefully. "What do you mean?"

Nick stares at him, folds his arms tightly across his chest. "You know what I mean."

George does, but-

"When does Danny want to talk about the Budget?" he offers pointedly. "We could probably schedule in a meeting before the Quad."

Nick eyes him for a long moment, and George has the odd feeling that he's failed some sort of test he didn't even know he was taking.

"Fine" Nick says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. "That sounds fine."

George knows it's the opposite of fine, or _something_ is, but he doesn't have time to enquire further.

He's got some important business to discuss.

* * *

"Do you think my arse would look better on a woman?"

George promptly chokes on the mouthful of water he's just inhaled. "I beg your pardon?"

Balls is peering over his shoulder. "I was checking it out this morning in the mirror-"

"Do you make a frequent habit of checking out your own arse?"

Balls glares at him. "I'm trying to ask you a serious question here!"

George takes a deep breath and considers drowning himself. "I know. Regrettably, I know."

"Then does it?" Balls appears to be peering over his shoulder again. "I need to know-"

"Balls" George says, as calmly as is possible whilst contemplating one's own death, "We are in a public pool. People may see us. Can we _please_ stop discussing the intricacies of your arse?"

Balls is staring over his shoulder. George turns slowly to see two women, one of them holding a baby, standing stock still in the water and staring at them.

The women stare at George and Ed. George and Ed stare at the women. The baby gurgles delightedly and smacks the water with a chubby little hand, blowing a bubble.

George grabs Balls by the arm. "Right, we're moving."

"You still haven't answered me about my arse-"

"I do not give a single, solitary fuck about your arse, if we weren't in this pool right now, I'd _sit_ on your arse-" George throws a hand up into the air, smacking it down into the water. "Shouldn't have said that."

"Well, that's our careers over" he observes rather mournfully a few moments later, once they've safely decamped to the other end of the swimming pool.

"Oh, shut up" Balls retorts, bobbing away like an angry cork. "We wouldn't be in this situation if you'd just check out someone's arse when they ask you to."

George stares at him despairingly. "Are-are you really not hearing these words?"

"I thought," Balls retorts, after several moments of huffy silence. "We were going to discuss _them."_

"What, about which of their arses we'd most like to examine?"

Balls stares at him. George closes his eyes for a moment. "OK, I might just go ahead and replace that."

"If only you could replace the _image."_

"Look, I talked to Peter last night."

Balls has been in the process, throughout this conversation, of splashing himself with water, dunking his head under. Now, he rears up, spluttering, as the top of his head makes contact with George's chin.

"Ow, _Jesus_-"

_"Peter?"_ Balls almost shouts through a mouthful of water. "Peter as in _Peter _Peter?"

"Yes, Peter as in _Peter _Peter."

"Peter-"

"Peter as in _Peter_ Peter."

"Shut up, Osborne."

"Maybe I should ask Mandelson if I should consult Peter Peter as well-"

"Oh, shut up."

Briefly, George recounts the conversation, with the result that by the time he reaches the end, he and Balls are halfway down the swimming pool again.

"So basically-" Balls says, in between languid strokes. "You're in exactly the same place as you were before."

"Not quite." George glances around. "Peter came up with something. For tomorrow."

Balls raises an eyebrow. George informs him of said plan, immediately congratulating himself on his retelling of the story, imagining Peter's face as he pictures this awed response.

"That may be the shittest plan that I have ever heard."

George mentally pictures Peter suffering a cardiac arrest while the police attempt to handcuff him for threateningly brandishing a feather quill.

"Really?" he retorts, as they turn to swim back. "I'd have thought that that honour would have had to go to deciding not to hold the election that never was-"

_"Brilliant."_

"Knew it'd be you who suggested it-"

"Do you know," Balls remarks, after another few strokes. "The stupidest part of that plan has to be the fact that it requires Peter to willingly ruin a piece of clothing?"

"They're not velvet. He can wash them." George reconsiders. "Anyway, they're _not_, are they?"

Balls shrugs. "I'm trying to picture Peter performing any sort of domestic task."

"Look." George sighs. "The only thing that can go wrong is Peter keeps bringing me or Cameron up and everyone assumes we're gay lovers again-oh, for God's sake, that _cannot _be a coincidence."

The same women edge past them in the next lane. This time, the baby gives them a loud gurgle and a very friendly wave.

Balls snorts. "Maybe it's just you they recognize?"

"Or your woman's arse" George mutters back.

They reach the other side of the pool and stop, dragging in deep gulps of air.

"Looking forward to watching Miliband respond to the Budget, then?"

Balls rolls his eyes, tilting his head back.

"Bit harsh, he could always fall down his own nose." George knows it's bad when Miliband jokes don't raise a laugh.

Balls shakes his head. "I was thinking about the way it is at PMQs...Something I told my son this morning..." He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."

George knows him well enough not to push, so instead, he just shrugs, and the two of them carve their arms silently through the water, the ripples fading away before they can reach anyone.

* * *

Florence beams up at David, from where she's wrapped her little arms around his knees. "Daddy, my tummy wants to _eat _itself."

David picks her up, savouring her warm, wriggling weight. "Hungry?" He pretends to mouth at her ear, while Florence laughs in the loud, delighted way that only little ones can. David notices she's already been kitted out in her little dress, a little white bohemian thing, that Sam must have picked out. "Are you going to eat me, eat me up-"

_"Yeee-eess-"_ Flo half-bellows, making David wince as her hands clap his cheeks, her blue eyes wide with delight.

"OK, we're _hungry_, not _loud-"_

Flo's chubby legs kick joyously as he lowers her, and the faint hum of the sewing machine in the next room comes to a halt. But when David looks up, expecting to see Sam, it's Nancy whose head pops around the door frame.

"Hey, Nance."

"Mum's getting ready" says Nancy succinctly, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth in a way that reminds David of someone with a pleasant jolt.

"Where's El?"

"Playing with Lego." Nancy peers into the stainless steel oven, apparently using it for a mirror. "I was sewing."

"I heard." David flops down on the couch, letting Flo scramble into his lap. "Whose costume?"

"I hate that stupid hat."

"Elwen's, then."

Florence flops against him with her arms up. "Daddy-"

David kisses her head. "Ready for your steak?"

Flo makes a happy high-pitched sound, which David takes for a "yes."

"Not like there's anything _else"_ Nancy points out, pulling at the silver ballet pump she's wearing. "Like, why does Auntie Emily hate chips?"

"Given your track record with them, I'm not sure you can complain" David grins, ignoring his daughter's glare with a kiss on the head as he gently lowers Florence onto the sofa. "Let me go and see how Mummy's getting on."

Sam's fiddling with her earrings when he finds her in their bedroom, brushing her dark hair back impatiently with one hand as she stares into the mirror. He blinks as he takes her in, lips parting slightly as he looks her up and down.

"You look amazing" he tells her quietly, and even though she does and he could never be nervous around her, something untwists in his chest when he catches her smile.

"I made it" she says, indicating the skirt, with a touch of pride, plucking at the purple material, and David takes a moment to wonder again. "Haven't quite got the cut right here , though."

"No one would notice" David assures her, as he sinks onto the bed, pulls off his own socks, glowering momentarily at his feet as another glimpse of that look Miliband had given him earlier flickers suddenly into mind.

Sam beams at him in the mirror. David, staring back at her, feels something not twist, but prickle in his chest uncomfortably.

"You know that thing I said?" she says, and for a breath, David freezes.

"About what I'll do after we leave-" and David breathes a sigh of relief.

"Yeah, of course. The fashion-"

Samantha peers at herself again in the mirror. "I don't know" she says, smoothing her hands over her skirt again. "It just feels-right, when I'm doing it, if you know what I mean."

Of course he knows. Right from the start, he's known. He barely has to look at her skirt to know it's brilliant.

He does, anyway, though, wrapping his arms around her.

* * *

Florence kicks at Nancy's leg under the table. Nancy's hand fastens around her chubby knee, fastening it against the burgundy leather. "Stop it."

Florence beams, then turns around and waves at nobody in particular. Nancy sighs and takes another piece of bread.

She and the others have been given their own table-Uncle Tom's restaurant is small, anyway, but they usually eat upstairs, especially when they're the only ones up here. It's better, because that way, people don't decide to wander up to the table halfway through their meal and start trying to chat away to Dad like they know him or something or just suddenly stare down at their menus like they've never _heard _of food before, as though Nancy didn't just see them trying to tilt their phones towards their table every few seconds. Nancy's sure that somewhere there must be hundreds of photos containing a snatched sliver of the side of her head.

The fact they're the only ones up there doesn't stop Florence waving eagerly around, though.

"Flo" says Nancy, resting her head on one hand-Uncle Tom's restaurant is nice, she supposes, but it's completely boring if you don't have an iPad or anything. Plus, the only lights are old-fashioned lamps fixed in the wall and the seats are dark red leather, like an old pub, and it generally makes the whole thing a bit dark and makes Nancy's head feel heavy. Luckily, Liberty's got Temple Run.

"Who's she waving at?" asks Perry, blowing bubbles in his Coke, reaching over to chuck Florence under the chin. "Who are you waving at? Who are you waving at-"

"Dunno. Who _are _you waving at-" Nancy has to tug Florence down as she tries to scramble upright on the leather couch. "Flo, sit down, or Mum'll make you sit over there-"

"I'm _waving"_ Flo announces happily, beatifically, right as a chair skids across the floor, making them all look up to see Bea stomping towards the table in her combat boots, wearing a denim jacket and a scowl. Nancy likes her outfit, though.

"I got detention" she announces without preamble, throwing herself onto the red couch, before climbing over Nancy's lap to wedge herself between Nancy and Liberty, ending up with Florence half on her knee and digging her elbow into her brother's chest along the way. "Move."

_"You_ move."

"Shut _up."_

Liberty cranes round as Will takes a huffy seat next to Elwen on the other side of the table.

"Why'd you get a detention?"

"For _nothing. _Literally._ Nothing."_ Bea throws her hands up. "I showed where Snowy nipped at my homework. I gave him actual proof and he_ still_ said it was my fault for leaving it on my bed-"

"On your bed?"

"Yeah, exactly." Bea kicks the table leg. "I mean, it's in the _attic. _So then he started setting _rules_ for where we should all be doing homework and he _literally _made me write the whole thing out again when it was one. _Fucking-"_ Bea hisses the word, with a glower towards their parents' table. _"Corner."_

"Sucks" Liberty says succinctly, stirring her child's fruit mocktail. "Typical Snowy, though. Do you remember when he was marrying Lola and we had to chase him through your garden?"

"How'd you get detention if you had to do it again?" Nancy asks, taking a sip from her own.

Bea scowls. "All I said was that if we had to do our homework in the right places, he shouldn't get to mark it sitting in the school car park in the morning with a hangover. That's _all I said!"_

Nancy and Liberty exchange a look.

"Besides, he _completely _looked like he was asleep in his car this morning!"

"You sure he wasn't just reading your essay?" Liberty mutters.

Bea glowers at her. "I _heard_ that."

"At St Paul's-" Liberty fishes a cherry out of her drink. "You'd have just had to bullshit that it was, creative, or debate or something."

"Yeah, well, at Grey Coat, creativity should be enough to bring back _hanging_, in their book." Bea bangs her head onto her arms, then crinkles her nose. _"Ow,_ that _hurt-"_

Nancy rubs her forehead for her. Bea gives her a baleful look from where she's burying her face in her arms on the table. "Once, they gave my whole _class _detention for looking at the _clock_ too many times."

"Looking at the _clock?"_

"Told you. It's like _jail."_

"What is-" Auntie Emily's appeared at their table, holding Bea's favourite fruit mocktail. "What, what held you up?"

"I tried to stage an intervention" says Bea calmly, fixing Auntie Emily with a wide-eyed, innocent gaze. "I did it out of _love."_

* * *

"Bea wouldn't put on anything else" Sarah explains to Sam, casting another glance across the room at her 11-year-old's outfit and sulky look. "Usually, I'd have vetoed the stockings."

Sam glances over at the childrens' table again, takes in the sight of Florence raising a hand to wave at nobody. Sam's about to intervene when Florence seems to lift herself off the couch, but a moment later Nancy guides her down again.

"I had that problem too" Dave remarks with a wink. Sam shoves him gently in the arm. "You only got back from the Palace about ten minutes before we had to go."

"Customary outfit for meeting Her Majesty?" Michael asks with an impressive poker face.

In amongst the laughter, Sam feels Dave's hand squeeze her knee, reassuring and strong. She leans into him, loving the possessive curl in her chest of his arm wrapping around her, the grin he gives her.

It reminds her suddenly of all those years ago, lying on the sun lounger by the pool, Clare asleep next to her on her front, becoming vaguely aware that there was a figure blocking the sunlight.

She'd lifted her sunglasses, letting her book fall onto her chest to find Clare's older brother David standing beside her sun lounger, looking down at her, wearing only shorts and a grin.

"Scooch." Sam had waved a hand at him, ignoring the curl of his lip which she couldn't decide was irritating or endearing or both.

He'd folded his arms, grinned even more. "I'm taking responsibility for you."

Sam had snorted. "Thanks so much."

"You can't just lie by the pool all day." His grin had only deepened, if anything. It had been the same grin, annoyingly, that Sam had been picturing the night before when, after listening to Clare's steady breathing in the bed across the room, she'd let her hand creep between her legs, under her thin summer nightie, her mind playing over and over the tableau of him standing up in the pool the previous day, droplets of water glistening on his strong shoulders, that grin that should have been annoyingly cocky, trying not to breathe too deeply in the Italian night air, heavy with heat.

"That's weird, because it looks like I'm doing just that." When they'd first arrived at the villa, she'd watched him a little warily-she'd known he was doing some job in the Treasury or something, something in politics, but he'd been older than her and Clare. He'd come from a world where you had a flat and a job and a life. She and Clare had just finished school, and a part of them wasn't sure if they were still there or not.

"Play tennis with me?" He'd put his head on one side, blue eyes sparkling. Further down their bundle of sun loungers, Sam had caught sight of Dom raising his head, regarding their interaction with an amused grin. She wasn't sure when she'd stopped being wary of David, but she knew it had been quickly, something to do with his grin and the way he said things, the freckles on his cheeks that made him look younger than he was.

David had put his head on one side, blue eyes sparkling and seeming to grin themselves-his whole bloody_ face_ grinned, Sam can remember thinking, as she'd pushed aside her Le Carre and raised her sunglasses to peer at him, regretting it slightly as she squinted in the sudden assault of sunlight.

"Can't play."

"Nobody _can't play."_

"I can't."

"Prove me wrong, then."

Sam had raised an eyebrow. "And what if I just sit here and read?"

He'd grinned, flopped down onto the sun lounger so she'd had to draw up her feet to avoid him, cocked an eyebrow at her. "I'll have to be heartbroken."

He'd unfolded himself again, Sam taking the opportunity to let her eyes linger on his bare chest as he'd stood up.

"But I'd still think I was right" he'd said, with another grin and a wink.

Sam had allowed herself to grin back at the tone. "You're an arrogant cock."

He'd winked at her.

Sam had waited a moment, before she'd straightened up, slid off the mattress, brushed her hair back with both hands, allowing herself to stretch slightly in front of him, tugging at her bikini strap.

"Don't get your hopes up" she'd told him, giving a little skip as she brushed past him, knowing that and the touch of her arm would make him look even longer at her. "I might just be going to find a quieter place to read."

Now, Sam leans into David, knowing she doesn't need to say anything, doesn't even need to look at him for his arm to tighten around her protectively, and she presses into him a little more, his fingers intertwining with hers', without either of them even having to think about it.

* * *

"When are your SATs?" Bea asks, cutting into her steak, and nearly sending a chunk of it flying at her brother.

"Ow-" Nancy nudges back Bea's elbow, which is accidentally digging into her ribs. "May. After the election." It's starting to feel more and more like _after the election_ is an odd, far-off place, like being eighteen-something that almost doesn't feel real, as though a part of Nancy doesn't quite believe it will ever happen at all.

"God" mutters Bea, voicing her thoughts. "You might not even have a _house."_

Nancy rolls her eyes. It's all very well knowing that, but she doesn't really want to be reminded that she might be revising decimals over a cardboard box in the street somewhere.

A glance at Liberty tells her this reminder isn't exactly welcome news to her, either.

"They can't just throw you guys out" Bea points out, her upturned little nose crinkling. "I mean, with nowhere to go or anything."

"Mr Ed Miliband'd get the flat, though" Nancy points out.

"Over your mum's dead body" Liberty mutters. "Your mum even has your _toys_ in alphabetical order."

"My mum said we might as well leave if he gets in" Bea snorts, making her chips duel each other. "Because he'll take more money off us."

"I thought your mum fancied him?" Liberty grins.

Bea makes a vomiting sound. "She said he was _dashing._ What does that even _mean?"_

"Like _dash"_ says Perry, leaning into the conversation with a mouthful of chips. "Like, fast?"

Nancy rolls her eyes. "You've literally never picked up a book, have you?"

"I'm _dyslexic" _Bea bellows in Nancy's ear, probably loudly enough for the entirety of the lower floor to hear. She rolls her eyes at the sight of her mother drawing a hand very slowly across her throat.

"OK, fine, _God_, you don't have to-" Nancy rubs her ear. "_Burst_ my _eardrum_-_and_ I was talking to Pez-" She trails off at the sight of Flo standing on the couch again, beaming. "Flo, get down."

_"Waving"_ Flo says delightedly. "Like _Mummy."_

"Mummy only does that when she's having her picture taken-"

"People take pictures of _me"_ Flo announces. "I _famous."_

Nancy has no chance to disabuse her sister rather bluntly of this assertion, because that exact moment is when she glances over at the grown-ups' table, only to see that Mum isn't there.

* * *

They'd done the photos when Florence was born, and then nothing else. David had been firm, but Sam had been even firmer.

She's not sure even now how the idea had come about to revisit the hospital-she thinks Dave might have suggested, since they were back in the area and it was a year on, that they come back and thank everyone, which she'd been fine with. She's not sure now whether it was one of their team that told the media where they'd be-the media knew they were there, of course, they'd had to do the holiday photo a few days beforehand-or whether it had just been let slip, which, given the way that the media hadn't overtly tailed them on the holiday, but had probably been around Cornwall a little more than they would usually have been, seemed unlikely-but the fact remained that they knew, leaving the holiday cottage, that there would be cameras there and it would likely make the news.

"The kids can't come in then-" Sam had said, firmly, pressing a protective kiss to Florence's head, who had gurgled happily, squeezing her chubby little leg fondly.

"Well, Florence-"

"Yeah, Flo, but that's different-" Florence was gorgeous, but there hadn't been much chance of her being recognized in the street yet, at least when she wasn't with one of them. "Not Nance or El-"

"I'm hot" Nancy had declared loudly from the back of the car, despite the fact they'd had the windows rolled down, the car smelling of sand and suncream. "I want to get out."

Elwen had set up a wail, and David had leaned over the back of the seat. "Calm down-"

"They're not being filmed" Sam had said. "No way."

David had glanced at her, and then said "We'll have to see if we can find an ice cream van or something-"

"I can do that" Gita had said, distracting Nancy with the sheet of child's stickers she'd been happily tattooing her brother with a few moments before. "I've got an in-built radar for ice cream vans now."

They'd climbed out of the car, Nancy and Elwen padding across the hot tarmac in their little jelly sandals, Gita taking them by a hand each. Sam had kissed them both, with the promise that they'd be out in half an hour, and then they could spend the afternoon on the beach, as they turned back towards the hospital, Florence drumming her little hands on their shoulders and blowing a bubble triumphantly.

A couple of David's aides had tried to suggest which of them could carry Florence into the reception area, where the cameras were waiting, but David had managed to defer them politely, while Sam had cuddled Florence into her chest, and then when she'd reached for David, had gently passed her over.

It had been easy at first-Sam had been used enough to the cameras to ignore them, keeping her eyes on Florence, as David shook one of the nurses' hands. "Hi there-"

"How are you?" Her eyes had already been lingering on Florence, drinking her in, and Sam had felt pride swell in her chest, as Florence's big blue eyes had drifted around, taking everything into her gaze.

"Very well, very nice to see you-" David had been kissing her cheek, eyes already straying back to Florence. "And here we are, one year on-"

The introductions had been fine, David already chatting to Florence, who'd been leaning into his arm, one hand stroking her hair or her cheek every few moments-"And _this _is the man who pulled you out of Mummy's tummy!" Even as Sam had kissed cheeks, recognizing the same faces that she'd seen with her hands knotted around the silver bars of the bed, feeling the faint movements of the baby inside her, her hands wanting to cradle her stomach, she'd kept checking Florence, watching the way she gummed at her thumb, peaceful and quiet, David talking to her gently every few moments even as he brought her over to Sam.

"You've_ grown_, haven't you-"

"Grown a bit, hasn't she-" David was rubbing Florence's back proudly, as she nestled into her father's chest.

"She looks like you, doesn't she-" one of the nurses had said to David, her eyes barely leaving Florence's baby chubby cheeks. "She's gorgeous-"

Sam had already been laughing. "I know-"

"I know, she _does-"_ David had been sitting down on the edge of the desk, pulling Florence closer onto his knee. "Poor thing-"

"I know, gosh-" Sam had been watching Florence carefully, watching her turn her head, for any sign of a change in her expression. "Literally-no, literally, I think they're _identical_ in some ways-"

"We were all very noisy and shouting in the car-" David had murmured, sitting down again and lowering Florence gently into his lap. "And now we're here-"

Florence had been peering round at a vase of flowers, which one of the doctors had pointed out-"She's seen the flowers!"-and a few minutes later, David had taken her over to them, whispering to her, when it had seemed Florence might be tensing slightly. "We've seen the flowers, that's what-"

It had been easier to talk about Florence-she knew their baby so well, inside out. She didn't even have to think about her words, the same way she didn't with Ivan or Nancy or Elwen-she just knew them, breathing them in and out.

"She's very easy, I have to say, she's very good-natured-" She'd lost track of what the others were saying, a little, keeping her eyes on Florence, smiling when Florence's big blue eyes drifted to her.

"Well, I think it's-when it's number four, you, you've, you've, er-you're a bit calmer-"

"You've got a way of doing things-"

"No, she's got a very good sense of humour-" Sam had watched David stroke Florence's hair proudly.

"Has she?"

"Yeah, no, she has, she's a real-a real character-spoilt by her older brother and sister-"

Florence was wriggling round, her hand going out, as David passed her to a nurse to hold, and Sam had moved next to her, peering round when Florence made a whimpering sound-"Who are all these strange people?"-and waiting until she was sure Florence was peaceful before she looked away, as David caught sight of her toenail, smeared with purple glitter-"And also that is a _painted_ toenail, by her sister, not, it's not a black toenail-"

It had been a little later, when they'd been sitting in a room with a couple of other families and Florence had been being handed round that Sam had noticed her blue eyes widening ominously, her lip pouting a little. Sam had leant forward, suddenly on edge, clapping her hands at her, the way Flo's face always brightened at.

"Do you want to do some clapping-"

Florence had blinked at the sudden surfeit of clapping around her, like seals. Sam had stopped, mindful to take her back, when she'd noticed the nurse had been, well-meaning, taking Florence's arms to clap her hands together.

"No-" Sam's voice had been firmer, louder, already, and she'd sought to gentle it with a slight laugh. "She's like "I am not a performing seal-"

The room had broken into laughter but the nurse had let go of Florence's arm and when she'd seemed to relax after a few moments, eyes brightening when she caught sight of David, who'd been examining her toenail again-"Nancy probably charges for that-", Sam had let herself sit back, her eyes still on Florence's face, ready to carry her away from the cameras anytime.

* * *

Sam waits until she gets to the bathroom to press her forehead against the mirror and breathe, her hands curling into fists.

The door opens only a couple of moments later. Sam looks up, expecting to see Dave, but it's Sarah who's followed her.

"Oh" she says stupidly, as Sarah's hand lands on her arm. "Where's-"

"I told him to wait a minute" Sarah says, without having to ask.

Sam tries to thank her, to draw in a long breath, but it just comes out in a little sputter.

Sarah doesn't say anything for a few moments, one hand just rubbing Sam's arm in slow, soothing circles, while Sam gathers herself together. Sarah's unusual quietness is a comfort-Sam hangs onto that, drinking it in. In an odd way, she reflects as they sink down onto the soft couch-trust Emily to insist the toilets were equipped with a _couch-_Sarah's quietness reminds Sam of her at her exact opposite, too-the first time they'd met, at a party after one of those endless Tory hustings in the late '90s, when, in amongst the other partners of prospective MPs and journalists, glancing at each other nervously, competition slipping into the smallest flicker of the eyes, Sarah had managed to swallow what looked like an entire glass of wine in one go and had grinned at Sam defiantly in her blazer and trousers in amongst the cloud of drifting dresses.

Sam's just taken a deep breath when the door flies open again.

This time, it's Emily, black shadows smudged under her eyes, her almost-black hair glimmering in the ambient glow from the covered lamps fixed into the wall. She's a dark stormy blur of movement, the same way she's been since she was a child-a skinny hard-faced little hurricane of eyeliner and fierceness, the air crackling around her like a current.

"What is it?" she says immediately, curling up on the couch next to her big sister, arm already around her shoulders. "Tell me."

Glancing at her younger sister, Sam can't help but almost smile. Something about the darkness of her eyes, glimmering back at Sam's from inside those dark smudges, reminds her of that night, sitting at her bedroom window in between pacing back and forth, her own head aching with the faint echoes of the previous night, watching the night sky turn blue in the early hours, being perched on the window-seat when she saw her mother and stepfather's car pull into the circular driveway, stones crunching the wheels to a halt.

Sam had retreated to her bed, lain there waiting until she'd heard the thud of the oak front door, and then she'd headed out into the corridor to wait until, a little later than she'd expected, her sister had appeared, moving with the telltale caution of a tilting world, one hand almost reaching out to steady herself on the doorknob.

Sam had already been at her side, reaching beneath her arms and half-carrying, half-guiding her sister into her own bedroom rather than Emily's.

Emily had laughed, slumping back on the duvet, eyeliner smudging down one cheek like one of the ghosts of her night out. Sam had just got on with the task of sliding Emily's boots off, peeling down her little sister's fishnet stockings-noting they were stolen from her own wardrobe. Taking in the fishnets, the skirt, the black silver-buckled tank top, Sam was able to surmise Emily hadn't been safely tucked up in bed asleep when the staff decided to raid her dormitory, and she could guess that her sister having eventually been located wandering around the Marlborough grounds, reeking of nighttime escapades, hadn't helped her mother to argue against an expulsion.

"What were you playing at, Em?" was all she'd said, helping her sister out of her clothes, guiding her fingers through the mess of dyed black hair.

Emily had half-pushed herself upright, her barely focused blue eyes somehow finding Sam's for a moment in the darkness, her smudged make-up and smoke-glazed hair a heavy, wonderfully dark whisper of youth. "Being me" she'd whispered, which Sam had heard over and over in her head, as she'd retrieved a warm flannel from her ensuite, cleaned Emily's make-up off, helped her into one of her own nightdresses, and then tucked her up in her own four-poster bed, lying next to her, stroking her hair and forehead gently long after Emily had slipped into heavy, deep-breathed sleep. "I'm playing at being me."

* * *

"Where's Mum?" Elwen asks, still trying to lean over Will's arm to examine the Minecraft game on the iPad Luke's let them borrow, on pain of death should it be returned in any condition other than the one it was lent in.

Nancy shrugs. "Probably gone the loo. _Flo-"_ She pulls Flo down for the umpteenth time.

"Wasn't Ed Miliband at yours' on Saturday?" Bea asks, brow furrowed over Temple Run. "Come _onnn....leap-"_

"Yeah, he stayed over." Nancy spears a chunk of steak. "With his kids."

"Wasn't it weird?"

Nancy shrugs, chewing slowly. "Not really. He's just....kind of..."

Nancy searches for the correct word.

"Shy" she settles on, but not sure it's the right term, somehow.

"Half the girls in my class fancy him" Liberty offers, making Bea snort her drink out of her nose. "Sorry, _what?"_

Liberty shrugs. "Yeah. They think he's fit-"

_"You _thought he was fit."

Liberty blushes prettily, her dark hair making her pink cheeks fetching. "I _said _he had nice _hair-"_

"You _fancy him-"_ Bea nudges her. _"Ed and Liberty, sitting in a tre-"_

"Shut _up-"_

_"K-I-S-S-I-N-G-"_ The boys join in the chorus rowdily, as Liberty glowers at them from under her dark hair.

Nancy can't help but roll her eyes. She supposes Mr Ed Miliband isn't ugly or anything, but trying to put together the idea of _fancying_ him-wanting to _kiss_ him, or any boy-with that, feels like trying to wedge one of Flo's puzzle pieces into the wrong place. It just doesn't fit and sticks out awkwardly in her head when she tries to make it, spoiling the picture.

Fortunately for Liberty, their attention is distracted by Flo once again trying to stand up on the couch.

_"Flo-"_

"What's up with her?" asks Liberty, cheeks still pink. "Why's she keep waving?"

"We _famous"_ Flo declares, popping a chip into her mouth and beaming. "Famous people _wave."_

Oh no.

"We're not _famous, _Flo" Nancy says to her, with a glance at Elwen and a meaningful kick to his foot under the table.

"No, we _are."_ Flo turns to Nancy with two chips sticking out each side of her mouth. "Daddy famous. People take pictures of Daddy-"

Oh God. Nancy feels her cheeks flame even though there's no one near enough to hear them.

"Flo, _no"_ she says, as firmly as possible. "Mum and Dad are famous, but _we're _not famous, you see?"

"We _are."_ Flo pushes out her bottom lip. "We went the _play _and people _waved."_

"That's because Dad was having his picture taken-" Nancy had noticed Flo waving, when they'd gone to see The Railway Children, and they'd been standing with Mum while Dad had his picture taken and everything-and Flo, nestled in Mum's arms, had waved wildly then, at first just at Dad, but then at everyone. And of course, everyone had waved back and Flo had giggled, but Nancy had thought that was just Flo being Flo.

"If you wave at people all the time, they might think you're showing off" Elwen says, one hand on his little sister's shoulder.

"Yeah" Nancy points out, and sister and brother share a glance. "Then they might tease you."

Florence pouts, her big blue eyes narrowing. "I _like _waving."

"I _know_, but-you can't just _wave _at people when they haven't waved at _you-"_ and in the volleys of explanation that pour forth from around the table, the topics of Mr Ed Miliband's visit and their mother's sudden absence are both forgotten.

* * *

Her sister and friend both sit back a little, Emily letting out a long breath when Sam has finished explaining.

Emily's the one who speaks first. "They can't make you do that."

"They can and they have." Sam doesn't try to sugarcoat it. Oddly, the words don't make her feel as defeated as they sound. Maybe because she knows there's no point.

"They've got no right to."

"Lynton says-"

"Fuck Lynton."

Sam arches an eyebrow, but it's not about him, and she knows they all know that.

"Dave wouldn't make you do this" says Emily, almost shimmering with the same outrage Sam is so familiar with, has been her whole life, as she paces back and forth, almost raking her hands through her hair. She can feel the same thing next to her, in the firmness of Sarah's arm around her shoulder, but Sarah, uncharacteristically, stays quiet, eyes flickering between the two sisters.

"No, he wouldn't." Sam knows that. She knows that as surely as she knows her own name. "Nobody could _make _me."

Emily blinks at her. "Then why are you thinking about it?"

Sam opens her mouth and closes it again.

_Who knows what it's like when you go to hospital night after night with a sick child in your arms, knowing that when you get there, there are people who will love that child and care for that child just as like it was their own._

Emily's staring at her and Sam feels her way through the words. "Because people need to know."

Emily just looks at her. Sam can feel the words cracking into the air.

"It's not about the election. It's not about getting votes."

_How dare they suggest I would ever put that at risk for other people's children? How dare they frighten those who rely on the National Health Service?_

"It's about him."

The words hang between them. Emily stares at her, but stops pacing and resumes her seat next to Sam, the outrage still bristling out from her. Sam can almost feel it on her skin.

"Him?" and for a moment, Sam isn't sure which one she means or even if it really matters.

"We don't talk about him" she says, and her voice doesn't break, and then "Not to other people. We don't talk about him to other people. And people-people-"

_People don't tell you before you have a child, how you'll hurt when they hurt. They tell you how much you'll love them, that you won't understand, but they won't tell you how much it'll hurt._

_"Come back" she'd whispered to him, her eyes stinging and swollen, face aching with crying, stroking the tear tracks on Ivan's cheeks, as his eyes had drifted, terrified he wouldn't come back from where he went after his seizures, terrified that those spasming movements would grip his body again. "Ivan" she'd said, and she'd pressed her forehead to his. "Ivan."_

"People don't _know"_ she says, and then "Not enough. Because you can-you can watch us and watch us on a screen and you can look at pictures of him in a wheelchair and do you know what you can think? You can think "Poor kid. Those poor parents." And people think that lets them know, but it _doesn't."_

Her nail is digging viciously into the cushion, pulling at a loose thread as if she's trying to turn the whole thing inside out.

Emily opens her mouth and closes it again, but her hand closes over Sam's sleeve.

"You can't know" and her voice doesn't sound like hers' at all. "It's like your, your _arm_ or your heart beating, it-it never stops. It never ever stops."

Her eyes burn tearlessly.

Emily's fingers tighten.

"I won't let them near the kids" Sam hears herself say, her voice cracking slightly. "They can have me before I'd let them have the kids."

There's another long silence.

In that moment, as Emily leans her head against Sam's shoulder, and Sarah's hand creeps into hers' to squeeze it, all three of them feel oddly as though they've just decided something, even though none of them lets themselves be quite sure what.

* * *

"Bedtime, Nance." Dad shakes her shoulder gently, as Nancy frowns down at what is supposed to be Elwen's hat.

She slides out of the dining room chair, tugging at her pyjama top.

"El's hat coming along?"

"Sort of. Can't get the tip right." Nancy yawns, rubbing her eyes. "Mum suggested a bell, but then I think he'd look like an elf."

Dad snorts. Nancy turns to him as they head up the stairs, leaning against the bannisters. "Is Mum all right?"

Something flickers in Dad's face, but all he says is "Yes, she just needs some rest, darling."

Nancy eyeballs him. "Not upset?"

Dad meets her gaze straight-on. "Not upset" he says quietly, and touches her forehead.

Nancy nods and turns to make her way to the top of the stairs. "Dad" she says as she reaches it, nose crinkling as Liberty's comment occurs to her again, "are there really people who think Mr Ed Miliband is fit?"

Dad chokes. Nancy looks up at him as he splutters furiously, his face going a strange shade of red.

_"What?"_

"Liberty said so. She said girls in her class think he's fit." When Dad stares at her blankly, Nancy shrugs. "You know, good-looking."

"I know what-" Dad does the spluttering thing again. "Liberty's _eleven."_

"Yeah, it's not _her"_ Nancy says, godsisterly loyalty creeping in. "Girls in her _class-"_

"Still-" Dad looks almost purple. Nancy stares at him. "So, do they?"

Dad laughs, but it's slightly less steady than usual. "Maybe you should ask Liberty-she seems to, probably-have more idea than me-"

Nancy snorts. "I already did." She turns to head down the landing to her bedroom. "They're nuts."

"Are they?" Nancy's not quite old enough to recognize the slight hint in her father's voice-something like relief, maybe something else too.

"Yeah." Nancy heads into her bedroom, climbs into bed with a bounce. "Boys aren't good-looking. Not like that."

* * *

Peter scrutinises his trousers one more time and sighs sadly. It appears that sometimes party loyalty may have to prove more of a priority than one's garments.

Glancing up, he's greeted by the sight of Ed's eyes hovering on his face, brow slightly furrowed. Peter hastens to bestow upon him a benign smile.

Ed stares at him a moment longer, confusion creeping into his dark eyes. Peter mentally reprimands the smile for not achieving its' intended purpose.

But Peter hasn't got where he is to be deterred by such small trifles, so instead, he merely lowers his gaze to his phone and transcribes the following message.

_So we're agreed, Mr Osborne. Orange oatcakes?_

* * *

"I still don't think we should have worn suits" David murmurs, tugging at his tie.

George glances at him, trying not to let his gaze roam anywhere near his phone. "You mean because we might get mud flung at us by the one passing cow?"

"Cows would wear a Labour rosette and get in round here."

"You're doing William a great disservice" George drawls, glancing at his phone as casually as possible.

"William's an anomaly."

"It'll be covered up under your coat."

"True" David agrees rather more brightly. "Plus we did nearly get Balls out here last time."

"And Andrea's getting a _very_ positive response on the doorsteps" George says, savouring the words the way he knows David likes, the same way he knows how they'll grin when their eyes catch one another's.

He glances back at his phone. _I think your preoccupation with Corfu might rather be showing, Peter._

"Have you ever actually watched _Emmerdale?"_

David, examining the briefing notes with a furrowed brow, shakes his head. "Never really appealed, somehow."

George glances very slowly back at his phone.

_I rather long for your humour, Georgie. I meant as an affirmative code, should one be necessary._

"Still-" David snorts but the sound's a little more strained than usual. "Can't go as badly as Miliband's little tete-a-tete with Dyer, though-" and that makes George's job a little easier.

"Perhaps you could have asked him for some tips" he suggests, trying not to appear to be eyeing David too closely. "Next time, give him one of those el oh els."

_You mean if we have reason to be worried?_

David snorts, turns away to glance out the window as the security convoy rolls through several more inches of mud than it is accustomed to navigating. "Chance'd be a fine thing."

His voice is much lower, but George takes the chance to watch Dave for a few moments, taking in the odd tightness of his jaw.

He glances back at his phone.

_How delightfully coy. Yes, I believe that is the phrase I would use._

George rolls his eyes.

_I'm beginning to think coyness suits you, Georgie._

George shoves his phone back into his pocket as rapidly as discretion allows and turns to stare out the opposite window. In his reflection, he can't help but notice the faintest tinge of pink in his own cheeks.

* * *

Peter prides himself on knowing his subjects well. And today, when needing to find someone who would be highly irritated by the very existence of David Cameron, that ability came in handy.

"So are we doing this then or what?"

Ed Balls slumps in his seat as he barks out this demand, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at the table as though it personally defeated Norwich City in the last championship.

For his part, Peter had never imagined that a day might come when he would feel grateful for the existence of Ed Balls.

"In good time" he says, giving Balls a thin smile while twirling the pen between his fingers.

"Now-" He leans forward to the laptop on the table, giving all three of them a clear view. "I think it would be best to go over the campaign slogans first, see if we can tie them together with the "Better Than This" theme-"

He turns to Ed, allowing his back to be turned towards Balls, almost but not quite cutting him out of the conversation. "Now, we need to hammer home the idea that people don't feel like Cameron works for them." He uses the surname deliberately, watches Ed's face carefully.

Ed's eyebrow twitches very slightly, but otherwise, he just gives a quick, tight nod.

Peter had expected a more enthusiastic response and is provided with one by Balls, who snorts on cue. "You could post a photograph of that oligarch he and Boris played tennis with. Maybe a couple of tax havens-"

Ed's jaw tenses very slightly.

Peter forces his smile a little thinner. "Indeed" he says, noticing the way that Ed's eyes flicker towards him resentfully. "Though I find it worth noting that they played tennis _for _the oligarch, not _with."_

Balls snorts. "Same difference."

Peter reminds himself that for this to work, it can't just be Balls that Ed reacts to, even as he tries to convince himself that they haven't already got their answer.

And Peter can be as good at lying to himself as he is to anyone else.

* * *

"Have you ever watched this?" George says in an undertone, after they've been instructed by the publicity aides, "And then just walk round the corner towards the cameras."

"Don't say that right now" David advises him, both aware of the cameras clicking a safe distance away, Craig having sent them off with a muttered "It's Yorkshire, be careful."

"Mmm."

"It _is_ Yorkshire."

George waits a moment before adding, "Miliband doesn't hate you, if you're looking for friendly Yorkshiremen."

If George had been waiting for a telltale cue from David, he doesn't get one. Instead, David just grins, rosy cheeks and wavy hair looking almost indecently healthy against the drizzly February morning. "That's debatable."

George waits, then grins at him. "Is it?"

This is actually the perfect time to have a conversation, walking down the lane in full view of everyone. They both know that for the rest of the visit, they'll be surrounded by staff and cameras, with microphones dangling an inch away and this is one chance of hiding in plain sight, with no chance of what they're saying being picked up.

"Pretty much" David says, looking far too at ease. "Plus, he's hardly a Yorkshireman, is he?"

George should be relieved. It should be easy to look at David's casual indifference and tell himself that that's it, they've dodged a bullet, David's only mildly friendly with Miliband, and even the _idea _of anything more is something they'll laugh about one day.

But George sneaks another glance at David out of the corner of his eye, as they round the corner, heading towards the Woolpack. He watches the way David's eyes glide too comfortably about, his grin hitched firmly into place. George knows all too well.

"Well" he says, taking advantage of the last few moments they'll have in peace during the visit. "I suppose having sleepovers with him hardly makes it _less _debatable."

David shrugs, turning to point up at the Woolpack. "Been hanging around with Peter more, have you?" he murmurs out of the corner of his mouth and then, before George can respond, "Look, it's your favourite sign."

George opens his mouth, but David's already looking away from him.

"Knew you were a fan" his friend murmurs, with that grin.

George can feel the colour in his own cheeks, but he glances back at David. He knows David very well.

"You didn't answer my question" is all he says quietly and is rewarded with the faintest flicker of consternation in David's blue eyes before they're walking towards the doors of the pub, the microphones hovering a little too near, ending any real conversation they can have for now.

* * *

"So we need to work to counteract the smoothness of Cameron's image" Peter says, whilst inwardly wondering how in God's name New Labour could have produced these two and seriously contemplating the possible benefits of faking his own death.

He glances at Eddie, hoping. But aside from the slightest tightening of his jaw at Cameron's name, Eddie just stares at the page, his knuckles whitening slightly around his pen.

Balls, on the other hand, has no such reservations.

"What, like the one pretending to care about the NHS in 2010-"

Peter's own head lifts up very slowly.

"That kind of language-" he says, very delicately, letting each word drip into the air with his thinnest, most dangerous smile. "Is not helpful."

Balls snorts. Peter's reminded more strongly than ever why he always thought Balls was a bad influence on Gordon, and allows himself a moment to observe the man before him with quiet, decided dislike.

"Don't see how. We're already more trusted on the NHS than he is-"

Peter hovers over each word very carefully. "Given Cameron's own.....personal experiences of the NHS" he says, letting each word drop into the air, crisp and clear, rippling through the room like a puddle shaken by a stone. "I would recommend that we try not to make that line of attack....personal."

Eddie has stopped writing. Peter carefully avoids looking at him, but he can see, out of the corner of his eye, Ed's gaze fixed firmly on the notepad in a way that Peter just knows is unseeing.

Balls snorts. Peter sees Eddie grip the pen tighter.

"Fine" Balls mutters, and Peter can swear he hears Eddie's teeth grind. "But you can be damn sure _he'll _be making it _personal."_

There's a _shrush _of movement as Ed's chair jumps slightly, and then Balls lets out a loud squawk. _"Ow!"_

"What just happened?"

Balls is glowering at Ed. "You stepped on my fucking _foot!"_

Ed's meeting his gaze. If one didn't know him well, one could almost think his features were contrite, mouth parted in a soft, small O.

But Peter can see his eyes, dark and glittering.

"Thorry" Ed says, managing a credible attempt at seeming it. "Wath an acthident."

Balls seethes. Peter places his pen down very precisely and quietly debates with himself whether or not it would be unseemly to suffer a sudden cardiac arrest at the table.

* * *

Gathered around the table of a filming location, while it might be snagging more votes, isn't a good place to inquire about the relations between the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition.

So George waits until they're gathering outside to watch one of the scenes being filmed, pulling their coats tighter against the drizzly February air, to say, in an undertone, "Bit of a fish out of water though, isn't he?"

"Who?" David stamps his foot to warm himself.

"Miliband." George tries not to look as though he's scrutinising David's expression too closely.

"I suppose so." David blows out his cheeks, rosy in the winter air. "Jesus, it's bloody freezing."

George sighs, wishing David, just occasionally, was less of a performer, before reconsidering those words hastily, especially in relation to Miliband.

"You always liked them" he says, without thinking, before realising that this line of conversation may not be entirely a bad thing.

"Liked what?"

George grins at him, even though he knows David isn't looking at him. "Fish out of water."

David makes a _tch _sound with his mouth. "How'd you work that one out?"

George grins, knowing he needs to tread carefully here. "Well, look. Michael. Steve. Even Sam, they used to call her Violet, she said..."

David snorts. "Couldn't call her that now."

"True." George hesitates. "Me."

David glances at him. George meets his gaze.

David gives him a very small grin. "Perhaps."

George nudges his arm very gently. There's a moment of companionable silence, before George says, quietly, "So-maybe Miliband?"

David sighs. "He's hardly some _stray."_

George shrugs. "Could make a good headline. _Prime Minister Adopts Stray."_

"Really."

"Did wonders for us with Lola."

"Until Freya battered her."

"You know what my point is."

David doesn't look at him, but George can see his cheeks pinkening in the cold air.

"Not a stray" he says. "Just because you want to-" He pauses for barely a breath. "Spend time with him."

David is silent. George looks away, watching the crew manoeuvring the camera equipment.

"You always liked that kind of thing" he says, almost thinking out loud. "People you shouldn't be friends with. The fact it was almost an impossibility made you like it more."

David draws in a breath, then closes his mouth again. George waits, keeping his gaze tactfully away from David, pulling his long coat tighter around him in the cold.

Then, "To be fair, you didn't turn out too badly for a stray."

"Nope."

"Very easy to house-train."

* * *

Peter sighs, pushing his spectacles further up his nose. "Well" he says, flashing a thin smile at both of them. "I think we've nearly covered enough-let's just focus on the mansion tax-"

Another snort from Balls. "Which Cameron will dress up as some fucking anti-aspiration rubbish."

"Actually-" Peter can't resist pointing out, now that Balls seems remarkably determined to toe the party line. "I think it might be a-_beneficial_ move to iron out some of the...._opposition _in our-ah-own party, before we move onto the others."

A flush of colour rises up Balls' cheeks. Peter enjoys the pang of satisfaction. Glancing at Ed, he notices the faintest twitch of a smile at his mouth.

"Anyway-" Peter turns back to the laptop. "The fact our leader's house is the most expensive out of the three main party leaders probably isn't _ideal."_

Now it's Eddie's turn to have a flush of colour creep slowly up his cheeks.

"So we need to refocus that-more on Cameron than Clegg-though it hardly hurts that his place looks like a wedding cake, plus the chateau in France-"

"Well, it's not like Cameron's poor" Balls snorts.

Peter barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I don't think" he says, with the saintly patience he prides himself on having learnt from handling Gordon. "That anyone is suggesting we imply that Cameron's _poor."_

"No, but-" Balls shuffles forward in his seat. "I mean, look at all the fucking alterations they made to it-"

"That might not help with attacking him on the green thing, though-" Peter points out mildly, carefully not looking anywhere near Ed. "And with his wife, it still might-"

"I didn't mean the fucking _solar panels"_ Balls snorts-Peter resists the temptation to ask him if he needs a tissue. "I was talking about stuff-stuff like the fucking _basement extension_ and-"

He's cut off by Peter very delicately tapping his pen on the table.

"That" he says very softly, enunciating each word with careful precision. "Was for Ivan."

Ed's fingers whiten slowly around his pen.

There's a long silence.

"Well-" Balls juts his chin up and out, clearly trying to recover some of his bravado. "Well-I mean, that's a point."

Peter freezes. Very slowly, Ed raises his head.

"And what-" Peter says, each word tripping off his tongue very slowly. "Exactly do you mean by that?"

"Well, look-" Balls lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Look. You know-I'm not saying it didn't hit them fucking hard-what happened-but the fact they could afford all that-the basement extension and the lift and everything-"

Ed is staring very, very hard at Balls.

"I mean, I'm not saying it made it _easier_, but-_shit!"_

Ed's elbow has just slammed into a glass of water that Peter knows very well was a perfectly safe distance away from them all and sent it pouring all over the lap of Ed Balls, leaving an unfortunate stain, and sending him to his feet, swearing.

"Th-sorry" says Ed, sounding about as unsorry as it is possible for a person to sound. "Mutht have thlipped."

Peter struggles manifestly not to punch the air.

"Are you fucking _kidding?"_ Balls flaps pointlessly at his trousers. "I'm fucking _soaked."_

"Maybe he just got caught up in what you were saying" Peter suggests smoothly.

Balls stares at him, mouthing furiously. Peter's eyes roam to Ed's face.

Ed is staring down at his notes, cheeks flushed, dark eyes glittering, but peeking out at his mouth is a small, satisfied smile.

* * *

"Georgie" George hears, when he answers the phone in the car, deliberately not glancing at David who, next to him, is engrossed in his own phone conversation-"Sam, how on earth do I know what Elwen did with the Lego bionic robot-"

"Do not make any-ah-visible reaction, Georgie."

George resists the urge to roll his eyes, but turns slightly away, angling his face towards the glass.

"Orange oatcakes, Georgie. Orange oatcakes."

George keeps his face carefully free of expression. "Can you remind me" he says, keeping his voice neutral, "exactly why we chose that phrase again?"

Peter sighs theatrically. "Because, as you once pointed out to me, dear Georgie, Eddie's fondness for Jaffa Cakes and your dear friend's fondness for oatcakes could hardly be more different, and so the phrase served as rather a useful affirmation of our suspicions."

"I see."

A wicked grin teases at the edge of Peter's voice. "Of course, you imparted that information to me in Corfu, dear boy."

George turns a little more sharply away from David, yanking his collar up to hide the sudden rush of heat in his cheeks.

"I see" he says again, shortly.

There's a moment of silence during which George ponders the exact implications of these words, and then wonders what the hell they're supposed to do next.

He hears Peter's voice again, brighter this time. "On a positive note, my trousers have thankfully remained unsullied."

George rolls his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. "Well, that's the important thing."

"I thought so, too."

There's another moment of silence before, "Oh, dear."

"What?"

"I believe people may have heard that last sentence out of context and obtained rather the wrong impression of me."

George rolls his eyes and lets his head fall against the window again.

* * *

The door opens. Ed jumps, not having heard a knock, peering up from his papers where he's somehow-_somehow_-written David Cameron's name five times over.

Ed scratches his pen furiously through Cameron's name, telling himself that it's only because Cameron's tax plans are so awful.

And looks up to find the object of his irritation in the doorway.

David Cameron winks.

(He bloody _winks.)_

(Typical bloody Cameron.)

"I'm abducting you, Miliband."

Ed blinks. "What?" he manages, once he's shoved the piece of paper safely out of sight underneath a folder.

He becomes aware for the first time of the way Cameron's lounging against the door frame. That the grin he's wearing is one Ed's rarely seen before, or at least, not directed at him.

It's making his stomach do a very pleasant swooping sensation, making him want to grin, even as he blushes.

He reminds himself fiercely that he's meant to be furious with Cameron.

And he is, he reminds himself firmly. He is.

Cameron's smile is knocking him off-balance.

"I'm taking you somewhere."

Something in the curl of Cameron's voice sends an odd curl of heat down Ed's spine, through his stomach, making his body almost shiver.

"Cameron-" He hears himself laughing, incredulously, and could kill himself. "Cameron, I'm _working."_

Cameron raises an eyebrow. "So am I. It's work."

Ed tells himself to tell Cameron to leave. Immediately.

And not keep looking at that casual slouch of his shoulders or that crinkle of his blue eyes or that smug, cocky, confident, fucking _grin._

* * *

David hadn't known he was going to abduct Miliband until he got back to the Commons, really.

He'd known he was going to see him.

Speak to him.

But-

George's words about _strays_ and _impossibilities _keep bumping into James' words about _opposites_ all of a sudden.

It's irritating.

George wasn't a stray. Miliband isn't a _stray._

Well-

But something about the _opposites-_

Thinking about it had quite naturally led his thoughts to arguing with Miliband.

So he'd pulled out his phone back in the Commons, and then stopped dead in the middle of the atrium, realising that actually, for once, he had no idea how to start an argument with Miliband and at the same moment, had remembered the look on Miliband's face the last time he'd seen him.

So he'd headed to Miliband's Commons office through what Miliband would no doubt say was arrogance, but is actually-and not entirely to David's liking-something quite different, and it wasn't until he'd got there that he'd realised that he didn't just want himself and Miliband to sit on opposite sides of a desk from each other.

And then he'd been opening the door and it had been too late to think about it anymore.

Now, David knows he's lounging against the door, the same way he used to when he was younger. When he was twiddling a drumstick between his fingers that he never used, grinning as he watched Fran study her essay, knowing she was fighting not to look at him. The same way he used to grin at Sam, watching her body stretch and arch across that sun lounger, the gloss of her hair, the way her blue eyes danced to his each time, as though she knew she could hold him there for as long as she wanted.

It sends an odd thrill through his chest, as does the faint blush of colour he can see rising in Miliband's cheeks even as he glares at David determinedly, lips almost pouting.

"You really think doing _that'th_ enough?" Miliband's chin juts out at him.

David arches an eyebrow. "I could promise you food?"

"No."

"Money?"

Miliband rolls his eyes.

"Sexual favours?"

Miliband blushes to the roots of his hair. His dark eyes fly to David's, who looks away, heart thudding, even as he tells himself that this is bloody ridiculous, that it was a bloody _joke, _a joke like he might make with any of his friends, like he might-

Miliband's dark eyes are darting around the room like they're looking for a place to hide. He's blushing like the setting sun. His fingers are fumbling frantically with his papers and his mouth seems to be doing the same with his words. "I-I-I-"

"I need to talk to you." The words are only slightly less steady than usual-they shouldn't be less steady at _all._

Miliband meets his eyes for the first time since David said-_that._

"We're talking _here"_ he says, voice a little heavier, more nasal than usual.

"No." David hears himself say the words before he even knows what they mean. "You're different here."

David has no idea how, listening to the words echo awkwardly in the air between them, he suddenly knows they're why he's in here at all.

Miliband stares at him from behind his desk, big, dark eyes holding David's in a long, unwavering gaze. For a moment, David thinks Miliband's just going to tell him to leave.

Then, abruptly, Miliband gets up and, grabbing his coat, marches towards David, and, with a quick, impatient jerk of his head at him, out the door, without another word.

* * *

Ed still can't understand why, in God's name, he's walking with David Cameron towards the Prime Ministerial car.

(Something about the way Cameron had been leaning against that door frame. The way his eyes had flickered as though he was about to give Ed a wink.)

(The way he said-)

Ed looks away from him hastily, even though Cameron isn't looking anywhere near him.

"I thought you thaid thith wath _work_" he says, even as the icy air slaps him in the face.

"It's similar." Cameron gives him that grin over his shoulder. "It's important."

Ed rolls his eyes and then David's fingers close around his wrist. "This way."

His fingers slide down so that for barely a second, their hands are wrapped around each other.

Ed feels a strange, swooping sensation in his chest but he doesn't pull away.

* * *

Now that he has Ed in the car with him, David is rather wracking his brains as to where to ask the driver to take them.

"Well?" Miliband half-turns in his seat with that little pout that makes David want to laugh. "Exactly where are you dragging me off to?"

David just arches an eyebrow, which is the only way he can think of to say that he doesn't know yet.

Ed huffs, folds his arms, turns his face away. David watches him for several moments, enjoying the sight of his scowl, and thanking God he had the sense to dispense with the motorcycle outriders when he's not going anywhere high-profile.

Meanwhile, he wracks his brains. The first date he ever took Sam on was to the restaurant, and somehow, he doesn't think Miliband is in the mood.

(And it doesn't even register, and won't for a while, that he just thought of this as a _date.)_

"Am I not being appropriately chivalrous?" he grins, only for Miliband to aim a furious glare at him.

"All right." David leans back in his seat. "Are you angry?"

Miliband makes an impatient _"tuh"_ sound and looks away. David tries very hard not to laugh.

"It was PMQs, Miliband."

Miliband snorts. "Which you manage to bring to a new low."

David stares at him. _"Really?_ You've practically called me a _murderer_ before now, Miliband."

At that, Ed's head spins round. "I've never thaid that about you."

David arches an eyebrow. "Everything but."

Miliband glowers at him, his mouth working furiously. David's eyes hover on it a second too long. "You-you-"

"I-"

Miliband throws himself round angrily in his seat and David's hand closes on his wrist before he can think twice about it.

They both still but David's hand doesn't open. His finger is brushing one of the sharp bones of Miliband's wrist.

_"You-"_ Miliband spits the word out furiously, but then quietens, still not looking at David.

David doesn't let go of his wrist.

"You know I don't think that." Miliband doesn't look at him.

"Do I?"

_"Yeth."_ Miliband almost looks at him, but not quite.

David waits another moment, then lets go of his wrist. "Good."

"Good!"

He and Miliband are both sitting there with their arms folded, facing away from each other, but David feels his mouth twitch in a small smile, which is when he knows where he's going to take Miliband.

* * *

"I can't believe you thent people to th-shop for you." Ed lets his head flop back against the seat and wonders how on earth he's ended up in this situation.

"Ah, well." Cameron looks entirely too comfortable with the situation, turning around to face Ed, almost pulling his own legs up onto the seat.

Ed rolls his eyes. "That'th typical of you."

Cameron shrugs. "Why?"

_"Why?"_ Ed pulls himself round to face him, wrapping his own arms around his knees. _"Why? _There'th-there'th-"

There are so many reasons why that it's unaccountably difficult for him to lay his hands on just one.

"You jutht-_delegate_ tathkth to people-and don't even _think _about it-"

He trails off at the sight of Cameron chuckling. _"What?!"_

David shakes his head, looking away for a moment, then back.

"Incidentally-" he says, with a grin. "I actually thought you may find it easier not to be photographed shopping alongside your Prime Minister."

Ed rolls his eyes, his cheeks warming at the word _your_, and looks away, scowling. "That'th not the point."

David chuckles again. When Ed looks round, David's pulled his knees up so that his arms can wrap around them in a way that's about as un-Prime Ministerial as it's possible to be. His chin is almost resting on his knees, his cheeks with that rosy hue to them, his eyes looking very, very blue.

"I missed you" is all he says quietly, with that small smile, but his voice makes the hairs prickle on the back of Ed's neck and he looks away, confusion rising in his throat, colour rushing into his cheeks.

"You only th-saw me yesterday" he mutters somehow, eyes drifting away from David's.

David laughs. "Maybe I just require your influence to keep me on the straight and narrow, Miliband."

"You require _th-something"_ Ed hears himself mutter, his cheeks burning even more, but his eyes somehow meeting Cameron's again. Unconsciously, his arms have wrapped around his knees in exactly the same way as David's.

Six months ago, he thinks before he can stop himself. Six months ago, they were-

"How are you like thith?" he breathes, almost without noticing.

"Like what?" David asks softly, in exactly the same tone.

Ed leans forward, their arms wrapped around their knees, their fingers almost touching.

"Thith" he says, ticking a finger back and forth between them. "Like-nothing botherth you. When-it doethn't _get_ to you."

Once, he'd have said "You don't _care."_ But that was once.

David shrugs. "Well, that's the thing about being a Tory" he says, with that grin. "You get used to everyone hating you."

Ed feels his chest clench slightly.

"Well, clearly not" he says, hoping he doesn't sound as bitter as he feels for a moment.

David grins. "I'm flattered, Miliband."

Ed blushes and looks away, telling himself he hates him.

"Anyway" Cameron says, more easily, tilting his head back a little. "You get used to defending your arguments a little more so it affects you less."

Ed shakes his head. "Poor little rich boy" he says, without any venom in the words. His voice is soft and fond. He doesn't let himself think about why.

David smiles back at him. Ed's heartbeat picks up.

"Plus" David says quietly, his blue eyes on Ed's dark ones. "I suppose it doesn't feel as important compared to other things."

Ed remembers, with almost a flinch, earlier, his elbow knocking into that glass, that protective flare, hot and rearing, fierce, seizing him from the inside out.

But he just sits there, him and David looking at each other, chins resting on their knees, feet pressing together, hands inches away, wrapped around their knees, fingers almost reaching out, almost interlinking.

* * *

"What the-"

David beams as he shuts the door behind them, taking in the look of sheer wonder on Ed's face. "Good, isn't it?"

Miliband's turning slowly round and round, mouth open, dark eyes huge. David leans back against the wall and lets himself just enjoy the sight of Miliband, head tilting back to take in the whole hallway with those big, dark eyes. He looks like a kid, somehow. David lets himself enjoy it.

"It looked like a th-submarine-ith that a _th-slide?"_ Miliband stares at the long white slide next to the stairs, with a cushion positioned safely at the bottom.

"Yep." David lets his hand brush Miliband's shoulder, just because he can. "You haven't seen the fireman's pole yet, come on."

His hand closes around Miliband's again, and before he can let himself think about it, he's tugging Miliband after him, and Miliband, gaze still roaming around, doesn't pull away.

"Da-dahhh" David says like a child, as he points at the fireman's pole that climbs up out of the kitchen-he's been down it enough times himself.

Miliband goggles at the pole, then at him. "Who-how are you-how did we get _in _here?"

David grins, on impulse stepping closer to Miliband, so they're a little closer to the pole. "Vampire" he intones, letting his voice growl out of his throat. "We plunder the streets at night to drink the blood of the innocents."

His voice comes out a little huskier than he intended. He's very, very conscious of the warmth of Ed's skin, their closeness, of the prickle of the hairs at the back of his neck. Miliband's pupils are dilated, his breathing slowly quickening.

David leans back a little. "It's a friend's" he explains, a little more breathlessly than usual. "My architect, Alex" and he's a little too relieved when Miliband rolls his eyes and says "Your _architect?"_ with what they can both pretend is his usual amount of vigour.

To assist that pretence, David lets himself wink, feels his heart jump slightly. "You haven't seen the _piece de resistance_ yet."

* * *

"Of courthe there'd be a _pool" _Ed can't help but snort, because of _course._

He hears the word _pool_ come out a little like a sneer, sees Cameron's beam-which had been so _bright_, his eyes dancing-waver, and Ed immediately feels like the worst human being in the world.

"Thorry." It takes him a moment and he has to swallow, but he manages to get it out.

(And it's ridiculous, because really, how does Cameron manage to _do _that?)

(Look like a bloody kicked puppy.)

(It's _Cameron, _for God's sake.)

But then Cameron's face just-

Ed can't describe it.

_Brightens._

His blue eyes widen and those dimples crease his cheeks and that grin-

He almost has to look away but doesn't, grinning helplessly back. "I thought you thaid thith wath work" he says, almost hopelessly, his hands nearly upturning, pleading, _you've got me, you know it._

Cameron's mouth twitches. "Well. It was."

The light in his eyes doesn't dim, but they soften, and his head tilts a little to the side, and for a moment, Ed thinks, Ed thinks-

"I could tell you were angry" Cameron says, and his voice echoes oddly off the enclosed glass walls. "About yesterday."

"Yethterday?" Ed has to drag his thoughts back before he remembers. "Oh. I wath. I am."

Of course, then he remembers he'd been planning to firmly _deny _that to Cameron, and he could kick himself.

(And it should disturb him more that he'd known Cameron would ask, really.)

Somehow, his gaze darts from Cameron's, his body half-angling away from him, and then Cameron's fingers close, warm and strong around Ed's wrist.

Ed stops, his heart thudding, his gaze darting back to Cameron's. Cameron's thumb's brushing his wristbone. Ed becomes aware, dumbly, that they're both still wearing their coats.

"Look at me." Cameron's voice is far too soft for it to be an order.

(Ed already knew that it wasn't an order.)

His eyes find Cameron's.

"I just-" Cameron doesn't look away from him, but his voice catches in his throat, as though he's almost scared not to. "I don't like it when you won't let me look at you sometimes."

The words are still edged with that Etonian curve, each of the consonants and vowels enunciated in exactly the right way, and somehow, that makes Ed gulp harder. Cameron is so close and he's still in his suit and tie and he still looks like the bloody _Prime Minister_, for God's sake-

Ed's moved closer to him. He can hear his own heartbeat, he thinks. Can he-did he answer Cameron or not-

He can hear his own breathing, mingling with Cameron's, rapid and warm, and he's moving closer to him.

Ed's phone buzzes, making them both jump.

They move a little away from each other, Cameron fumbling inside his suit for his own phone automatically.

"Is that a call?" he asks, and Ed, scrabbling for it and peering at the screen, almost flinches at the way Cameron's hand jumps to his tie, the way he's clearly trying to smooth out his voice as much as possible, and all Ed can think is _Please don't, please don't, please don't._

Cameron's hand jumps to his hair. Ed has the mad urge to follow it with his own.

It's then he realises Cameron's staring at him expectantly and with a jump, remembers he hasn't answered.

"Oh" he says, hearing his voice echo stupidly and cursing himself. "No. No. Just a calendar thing-a reminder-"

He pushes the phone back into his pocket, but he's already had the reminder. This is David Cameron and he's Ed Miliband and did they really think they were going to be able to forget that?

Cameron opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Don't you ever wish-" his mouth and voice, cracking into a smile. "We could ever just turn the bloody things off?"

The words are light, but that little crack clenches something in Ed's chest, as he stares at Cameron for another moment.

He can't turn his phone off. But he-

He-

"Don't go."

Ed blinks. He's not sure if he or Cameron is more surprised by the sound of Cameron's voice.

Cameron blinks rapidly several times, and for the briefest second, a multitude of expressions fight for attention across his face, though Ed's one of the only people in the world who would have noticed them all.

"I mean-" Ed can see David trying to hitch the smoothness back into place like a curtain. "I-sorry. I-obviously if you-if you're needed somewhere-it's fine-really-I-I was just-letting you know I'd quite like to-quite want to-ah-see you-"

Ed feels a different smile creep to his own mouth this time, warmth pooling in his chest. He steps closer to Cameron.

"You get very posh when you're nervouth." Ed doesn't know he's going to say the words before they're out there, and a part of him thrills with that, physically feels it, a frisson in his chest.

Cameron's mouth opens and closes. "I-" There's a small embarrassed smile peeking out at his mouth. Ed can see that rosiness slowly suffusing his cheeks.

He grins, feeling the teasing urge rise slowly in his chest as he takes a step closer. "I thought you wanted to th-show me something?"

Ed has no idea where the words come from. But they send another thrill through him and Ed feels something squirm pleasantly in his chest at the sight of that flush of colour creeping up Cameron's cheeks again.

* * *

"Thith could end badly" he warns Cameron a few minutes later, through his own giggles, his hands gripping the bar a little too tightly.

"I'd catch you." Cameron seems to have recovered some of his usual cockiness at least, but his cheeks are still a little rosier than usual and Ed, cocking his head round the bar, feels a sensation akin to his insides turning to melted chocolate at the sight of Cameron's grin and attempt at a slouch.

"How in God's name would you catch me?" The words are betrayed by the surge of giggles in his chest that threaten to overwhelm him. "You're up here-I'd be down _there-"_

Cameron arches an eyebrow. "Ah, maybe that's the whole_ point. _Maybe this is all part of the wicked Tories' evil masterplan-"

"Yeth, well, quite-" Ed hears himself burble, trying to dare himself to swing out and wrap his legs around the pole and each time not quite managing it. Even as another wave of giggles threatens to break his concentration, Ed is forced to conclude that his own words could all too easily prove prophetic.

He's not looking at Cameron, but he can feel Cameron looking at him and after a moment, Cameron sighs and walks round the pole.

"I'm not going to push you" he says, voice a curl of amusement at the way Ed tenses at the touch of Cameron's hands on his shoulders. "I'll be here to catch you."

Ed doesn't bother to point out that he wasn't even considering Cameron pushing him. Instead, he snorts "I'll end up pulling you over."

Cameron cocks an eyebrow. "That'd make a headline."

Ed tilts his head to give him a glare that turns into half a grin. "You're impothible" he says, and it sounds too fond and he doesn't entirely mind it.

Maybe it's that that makes Ed leap quickly, wrapping his arms and legs round the pole monkey-style, and then he's dropping, stomach seeming to shoot up past him delightfully, his feet hitting the mat, face breaking into a grin that almost makes his face ache, Cameron's delighted laughter echoing all around him, and Ed lets it scramble over itself to fill his ears.

When Cameron drops down a second later, the flush of his cheeks and the way he pulls his shirt loose and tugs at his tie and the way he grins with an "Well, that succeeded quite well" with that middle-class, plummy tone and the way his hands jump to his wavy brown hair and manage to make him look like everyone's embarrassing dad and a complete parody of himself at the same time and something else, it softens the sharp edges in and around Ed's chest, makes a small smile peek out at his mouth that would have horrified Ed had he seen it, and that makes him just want to watch David Cameron, keep watching him, each time a second longer.

* * *

David really doesn't think he'll get Miliband in a pool again.

(He's counting it as a victory that he got him down the slide.)

Miliband's reaction doesn't disappoint.

"I-I-" he splutters, staring at David, who strives to keep his face free of expression. "I-I don't have-"

David raises an eyebrow. "Neither do I."

Miliband turns a shade of red that cannot possibly be healthy for a person and David takes pity on him. "Alex keeps spare trunks" he says, with a wink. "They have parties here, all the time. There's a pool house over there."

"But-" Ed splutters, almost. "But-I-"

"You-?" David's voice is gentle.

Miliband's head falls into his hands, almost pleadingly. "We're meant to be at _work."_

"I know." David gives him a grin. "But didn't you ever skive off?"

Miliband's lips tighten very slowly. "Don't look" he says, pointing one finger at David.

David places a hand solemnly over his heart. "I give you my word."

Miliband scowls. _"I mean it."_

Several minutes later, David, already in his trunks, is sitting at the side of the pool, trailing a hand through the water, waiting for Miliband, and wondering how on earth he's managed to get them both into this situation.

God, how did he go from deciding to have lunch with Miliband to _this?_

But the thing is-David catches his own reflection in the water, pulls a face at it, and looks away-he doesn't want to leave.

He hears the click of the door and squeezes his eyes shut, obligingly.

"Am I allowed to look?" he shouts in the direction of the pool house. "Or do you want me to wait until you're in the pool?"

There's a moment's silence before he hears "Hang on a minute."

David rolls his eyes fondly, but keeps his eyes closed. He waits, hearing the soft pad of Miliband's bare feet and casts his mind about for what he could be doing, trying to keep his mind firmly away from what Miliband could be looking like-

There's a gentle push on his shoulder, which is the last thing David registers before the world's tilting crazily forward and David's crashing into the water.

He pops up, spluttering. "Jesus Christ-"

The sound of high, delighted laughter bouncing off the glass enclosure shatters into his ears and he looks round, blinking water out of his eyes, to see Miliband over him, cackling happily.

"What the _fuck_ was that for?" he manages to burst out, half indignant, half oddly wrong-footed by the sheer giggles Miliband's coming out with, his dark eyes bright with mischief.

(And maybe a tiny part of him is trying to keep his eyes off Miliband's chest, even though he's seen it before, for God's sake-)

Miliband shakes his head, still giggling too much to answer. David tries to summon a glare, tries to grasp some righteous indignation, but the fact of the matter is, it's quite difficult. It's quite difficult when Miliband's laughing like that.

"Here-" He sticks a hand out of the water, with a grin. "Here, give me your hand-"

Miliband does that laugh again and retreats.

"Don't you trust me?" David shouts teasingly, as Miliband heads for the steps at the other end.

Miliband gives him an incredulous look. "You have to athk?" he retorts, before he extends a foot cautiously to dip a toe in the water, giving David a moment to let his eyes linger on him, and then rip his gaze from Miliband's trunks before he can get caught.

But Miliband's frowning down at the water, forehead furrowed, as he slowly sinks into the warmth. Something stretches fondly in David's chest at the sight. His eyes linger on Miliband's chest, his slightly soft stomach, and he feels his breath catch.

He tells himself it's just a reaction, firmly, pushing away the shiver of excitement as Miliband leans forward into the water, pulling himself forward in a breaststroke, but, with a grin at David, keeping a safe distance away.

"How come he left you the keyth?" Miliband asks from a few feet away, that mischievous little grin still playing with his mouth. David can't stop _looking _at it. It's doing odd, pleasant things to his insides and his mouth and his-

David's suddenly thankful his lower half's underwater.

Even as he holds himself still, almost holding his breath, he looks up and sees Miliband giving him an odd look from the other side of the pool.

"Oh-" He shakes his head slightly. "He and Sam are quite good mates. They're both involved in interior design, so-"

"Oh." Ed floats on his back, his dark eyes wandering to the glass roof, staring up at the sky and sculpture dangling above them. "I don't really know how our houthe ith designed."

David watches him, lets himself float slowly towards him.

"You know what this is like?" he says, watching Miliband's eyes drift, as though in a dream. "What?"

"Davos. That time we went in 2012, remember?"

Miliband's mouth twitches just slightly. "You mean the time you cackled at me when I fell over?"

David feels his own mouth twitch. "I helped you up first."

"Hmm."

"And kept an eye on you when you were skiing."

Ed grins mischievously. "Weren't you busy trying to keep up with Nick?"

"No one can keep up with Nick on skis."

Miliband laughs softly. David watches him.

"Anyway. I liked watching you. You were like Bambi on ice" he says, recalling the sight of Miliband's legs going every which way as he struggled to stay upright.

Miliband snorts. "That probably....probably contributed to yourrrr-um-enjoyment-"

"Maybe." David's voice is very soft and when Miliband's eyes meet his, the colour rises slowly to his cheeks and he looks away.

* * *

Ed stares up at the sculpture hovering over the pool, consisting of lines criss-crossing each other in all directions. He squints up at it, while he feels Cameron move to float next to him. Their shoulders are almost brushing.

"Close, isn't it?" Cameron remarks, and Ed jumps. "W-what?"

David's grinning when he turns to look at him, and Ed feels himself blush furiously.

"The sculpture" David says, with a grin, as if he was talking about something else.

Ed feels himself blush even more. "Oh-oh, yeth. Of courthe."

David's grin deepens, blue eyes twinkling. Ed wants to look away, feeling stupid and hating it, but somehow, he doesn't.

"I remember one of the first times I saw you, actually" David says, suddenly.

Ed frowns. "Th-saw me?"

"Well. Saw you as an MP." David winks. Which reminds Ed too much of the previous day's PMQs, with a not entirely unpleasant shudder. "I'd seen you before, remember? At White's?"

"Mmm."

"The Emissary From Planet Fuck."

Hearing the last word in Cameron's voice does something very odd and pleasant to Ed's stomach.

"I might have known you'd pick up on that."

But something about Cameron feels oddly familiar, he thinks. He can't pin down the first time they had a conversation or the first time he glanced at him across the House or the Hall. A part of him feels as though Cameron's just always _been _there, in his sight, with that grin and that wink and that-that-

"I knew your brother at university."

Ed blinks. "Did you?"

Cameron, who's floating next to him, lowers his feet a little. "Yeah. Not well, but he was on the same course, remember-he was two years ahead, though. So he'd come and speak to us sometimes."

"Oh."

Cameron, treading water, looks him straight in the eye. "You visited him" he says, and Ed's eyes move back to his slowly. "I remember you, Miliband."

For a moment, Ed thinks he's going to-

He's not sure-

There's an odd jump in his chest. He gulps, staring at Cameron, sensation suddenly prickling all over the back of his neck.

"W-what?" he hears himself squeak, in a way that makes him blush more.

David grins. Ed scowls reflexively.

"You were visiting him" David says with a grin, and Ed's wracking his brain over and over for which visit this could have been, for when he could have caught a glimpse of Cameron years before even knowing his name-

"You had this dark blue jumper on-" David begins a breaststroke and Ed follows him unthinkingly, loving the gentle lap of the water against his shoulders. "And these glasses. And a Rubix Cube in one hand-"

"You th-sound like you're writing a parody of me."

"Maybe you're the only human being that can also function as a parody, Miliband-"

"Oh, th-shut up. Anyway, how did you know it was me?"

David snorts. "Who else has a Rubix Cube, glasses, a lisp, and looks exactly like your brother?"

Ed blushes. "We don't look _exactly _alike."

David laughs. "I remember you because you glared at us, Miliband. And I know your glare."

_"Uth?"_

David laughs again. "Fran and I and a few friends. We were heading to a party or something-" Off Ed's eye roll, he grins. "Not the Bullingdon Club. Just one of the balls or something. We were dressed up, but-lightly, you know, it was the start of summer-"

Ed's still wracking his brains.

"I remember because we were lying on one of the lawns and you were walking with your brother. I knew him, and I saw you with him."

Ed frowns.

"You scowled at us" David grins. "We were lying all over the grass on a blanket, drinking champagne, messing about. And you were walking with him, and then you just stopped and_ glared_ at us." David chuckles. "I thought your brother had sprouted a gawky, sulky twin or something. An angry teenage twin. Who wore jumpers in summer. I waved at you-" and Ed's head snaps up.

"I remember you."

Cameron, next to him, jumps slightly. "You do?"

Ed is staring at him. "Yeah" he says slowly, because he can see him, the same person that was lounging on the lawn in a long white shirt, with shoulder-length brown hair and freckles.

Ed, a little too hot in his jumper, having tried to interrupt David twice and eventually given up, had stared at them as they'd headed across the lawn, watching them for a long moment, watching him with that arched eyebrow, that cocky grin, as he swung the bottle of champagne to his mouth, almost as though he was kissing it.

Ed had felt an odd sensation run through him, a shiver of heat that had seemed to grip his stomach and pull it down into a swoop. The boy who'd been standing up, waving the bottle out of reach of one of the girls, who'd been protesting through giggles, had bent down, pulling her into a long kiss that had made Ed's cheeks burn and he'd told himself he should look away, he shouldn't be watching so intently, but his gaze had hovered there, his steps slowing, and the boy, tossing his head slightly, had gently broken the kiss, scrambling up to hold the bottle away again, and his eyes had met Ed's.

Ed's heart had performed a strange, flipping motion, and he'd felt himself gulp hard, fingers curling around his Rubix Cube tighter, as though it could get in the way of him and this-this strange-almost annoyed-

He hadn't even needed to _ask_ if the guy was a Tory-just looking at him, he seemed to beam out privilege. Something about the way he'd looked-the way he stood so easily, the way he'd assumed the role of centre of attention, the way he'd pulled his girlfriend in so languidly, the way he didn't even seem to question any of it. Public school breathed in and out with his laughter, soaking his pores.

Ed had told himself that that was the only reason he'd scowled, not the odd niggle in his chest at the sight of the boy kissing the girl, or the way his stomach had turned over very pleasantly or the way that cocky grin seemed to be quickening Ed's heart, nestling underneath each beat, hiding until it could creep up behind his eyes later when he was trying to sleep, hot and sticky and making him ache very sweetly.

The boy had taken in Ed's scowl with a raised eyebrow. His eyes had been blue, sparkling in the way of someone who knew the whole world lay in front of him and that he wouldn't even have to reach out for it-it'd lie down and crawl to his feet, beg him to sink his fingers into it and give it a nice, long, stroke.

With another curl of that cocky grin, he'd raised his hand to Ed in a wave and then, as Ed's jaw had dropped, he'd winked.

He'd known it would annoy Ed. Ed didn't know then how he'd known, but he'd known that the other boy knew it would annoy Ed.

Ed had scowled even harder, knowing nothing else to do and, a second too late, turned to follow his brother, having to hurry a little to keep up now, that wink making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back in the summer air, and the boy's laughter curling inside his ears.

Now, he stares at Cameron, and then smacks the water furiously, splashing him.

Cameron bursts out laughing. "What on earth was _that _for?"

"You-_you-"_ Ed isn't even sure why indignation is rearing in his chest. "You were _so-"_

"What?" laughs Cameron, giving him that _grin. _"What was I _so?"_

"You-" Ed can barely speak. "You were so bloody _cocky!"_

Cameron laughs. "You didn't even _speak _to me, how can you know-"

Ed glowers up at him. "Oh, I could _tell."_

Cameron bursts out laughing again, throwing his head back, the chubbiness of his cheeks dented with his dimples. "How very judgemental of you, Miliband."

"Well, it tranthpired I was proved _correct."_

Cameron laughs, if possible, harder. "Miliband. Miliband." His voice softens on the last word, and so do his eyes. Ed licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Anyway, how did you know about my lisp?" he says, fighting an odd desire to cover his mouth. It's the first time he's ever referenced it directly to Cameron. Thinking about it, Ed can't remember the last time he referenced it directly to anyone.

Cameron just shrugs, as though the question isn't odd at all. "I could hear you talking. You were jabbering away at your brother, but he wasn't listening properly. Your hands were going everywhere and you were just chatting away. And you had a Rubix Cube."

Ed blushes. "I thuppothe you thought it was hilariouth."

Cameron laughs, those eyes dancing and, for a moment, Ed thinks he's just going to make one of his remarks. But then Cameron just looks at Ed, head tilted back slightly, and he says, very softly, "You were rather sweet, really."

Ed is suddenly far, far too hot.

He's staring at David Cameron, fumbling for words. "Erm-"

Cameron's eyes are very, very blue. Thank God his chest is mostly underwater, Ed thinks stupidly, and immediately fights not to let his eyes stray to it.

"Cameron" he says, sounding almost unsure of the word. "Cameron."

Cameron stares at him, slowly bringing his forehead forward. Ed stays still as he gets closer and closer, until their foreheads are just brushing.

"Miliband." Cameron's voice is soft, his head tilted to the side, foreheads brushing, voice thoughtful.

Ed struggles for breath. "Yeah?"

Cameron's eyes roam over his face for barely a second.

Then his entire face breaks into a grin, and he ducks Ed under the water, arms fastening around his waist immediately to pull him back to the surface.

_"You-"_ Ed splutters furiously. _"You-you-_you _bathtard!"_

Cameron cackles. "I thought you were all about equality of-"

He doesn't get a chance to finish, because Ed's hands are fastening around David's head and shoulders, trying to force him down into the water

_"Ow-"_ Cameron wrenches away, pulls Ed up so he's almost holding him. "Hey" he says, and Ed almost chokes on indignation.

"Hey_? Hey? _It's hardly _fair-_you're _bigger_, for one-"

Cameron just grins at him, his arms around Ed's back. Ed can feel them both breathing hard, his own hands sliding round, splaying on David's shoulder blades. He can feel the muscles of his back, tensing, strong. David's face, dripping wet, is only inches from his own.

"Cameron" he manages weakly, as they slowly slide their hands away from each other.

They break apart, Ed sliding down gracelessly into the pool. They tread water a few inches away from each other, an unspoken distance between them, every so often a hand or foot almost bridging it.

* * *

"So how long did you go out with Fran?" Miliband asks a few moments later, floating a safe distance away.

David, mind still on the moment Miliband had been staring down at him, eyes wide and wondering, has to blink. "Oh, a couple of years, year and a half."

"Yearth?"

"Mmm." David turns over so that he can float on his back, then on second thoughts, turns it into a butterfly. "We broke up before we left Oxford, though, I think." He gives Ed a curious look. "How did you know Fran was my girlfriend, by the way? I never mentioned it."

Miliband blushes in a way that would do the sun proud. David frowns, then grins.

_"Oh._ So I'm not the only one who likes reading interviews, then..."

Miliband tosses his head. "It'th part of the job."

He's such a nerd.

"So what else did you find out?" David laughs, floating on his back again. "Any other ex-girlfriends you looked up?"

"I hardly _looked her up-"_

_"Miliband-"_

Ed tosses his head again. "I'm thure you didn't th-struggle in that department."

He blushes again, fiercely. David nudges his shoulder. "Touching."

Miliband scowls at him. David laughs, fondly.

"Anyway, what about this girl _you _were dating?"

Ed blinks. "What girl?"

"Rosenfeld's wife." David grins, "You know, she was one of your first girlfriends, wasn't she?"

If Miliband was blushing before, it's nothing compared to what he's doing now.

For a moment, David thinks he's not going to answer. But then, eyes fixed on the surface of the water, Miliband babbles rapidly "Um, yeth. Yeth. We-we-I knew her dad, we, she, we-went out for a bit-"

Miliband burbles himself into silence. David, taking in the flush of his cheeks, takes pity on him.

"You don't like to talk about your love life much, do you?"

Miliband, fumbling with his fingers and treading water, manages only a silent shrug.

David thinks that's all to be said on the subject, and is about to change the topic altogether, when Miliband says suddenly, "Well, it'th-you know, it'th over and done with now, ithn't it? I mean, I-I'm married, the-that was the purpothe of it-it-it'th done." He nods a little at the water, as though trying to convince himself.

David waits for a moment, before kicking his way across another width of the pool.

"I thupothe you had loadth" Ed says, clearly trying to recover some bravado.

David chuckles. "I thought you weren't interested."

"Why would anyone be particularly interethted in your the-" Miliband blushes so deeply David's almost concerned for him, and he wonders if Miliband wouldn't even bring up the word he's stumbling so badly over if he wasn't trying to prove a point. "The-The-thexth life?"

"Because I _have_ one?"

Miliband looks as though he's been slapped.

David feels like the worst person in the world.

"Sorry" he says immediately, and he's swimming over to Ed before he can stop himself. "Sorry, sorry-"

Miliband's staring at the water. David hates himself.

"I'm sorry" he says, reaching Miliband's side. "I'm sorry. That was stupid. It was a joke. That's all."

His hand touches Miliband's shoulder cautiously. He waits for Miliband to pull away, but he doesn't.

"I'm sorry, all right?" and then his arm moves and he's sort of-well-he's sort of-

Hugging him.

Sort of.

It's a confused impression of warmth and wet skin and Miliband's warm, drenched hair, which smells oddly sweet, but when David pulls away, Ed's staring up at him, blinking, and David clears his throat, makes an _um-hmmm_ sound.

"Sorry" he says, a little more abruptly, with a tentative pat to Miliband's shoulder.

Miliband's face breaks into a delighted grin.

David stares at him for a moment, then, as Miliband starts to giggle, looks away.

"You're a real pain, do you know that?" he mutters, trying to sound grumpier than he feels.

Miliband gives him a smug look. "I didn't think you'd fall for it."

"You're a pest" David says, in far too fond a tone that befits a pest.

Miliband gives him that goofy grin.

David splashes him again. Miliband lets out a shrieking sound.

"Anyway-" David's still splashing him.

"Why _did _you fall for it?" Miliband asks suddenly, breathless, holding his hand up against the spray of water.

"What do you mean?"

"Well-it'th _you."_ Miliband gestures between them. "You know-"

He falls silent, but they both hear the unspoken word.

"Well-" David clears his throat. "Maybe I was concerned about you."

Miliband's eyebrow arches. _"Really?"_

David arches his own.

"Maybe you're my Achilles Heel" he says softly. The words, quieter between them than they were meant to be, sound almost like an admission.

They're silent for a moment, watching each other over the deep blue of the water.

"I can guess you're pleased about that" David says, not looking away from him.

Miliband blinks, water droplets clinging to each eyelash. "Maybe" he almost breathes, and it seems to last a long time, watching Miliband's big dark eyes, somehow pulling David's gaze in more than all that deep blue.

* * *

"Tho-" Miliband leans over, teeth tearing at his drumstick. "Where _ith _your friend, anyway? Doeth he just-_own _here or something?"

"Yes, he's an incredibly rich Russian oligarch who doesn't pay tax" says David smoothly.

When Miliband stops chewing and stares at him, askance, David can't help but burst out laughing. "You're too easy sometimes, Miliband."

Miliband raises an irked eyebrow. "It'th believable" he mutters with an eye roll.

David grins. "No. They're just away for a week or so. He and Susanna have both been married before and their kids are with their exes this week. And they're both on business trips."

"You've been here before, though."

David grins. "Hence the clothes borrowing."

Ed glances down at his own oversized shirt, plucks at it self-consciously. "Are you th-sure he won't mind? What if I th-spill th-something on it?"

He takes another, worried, look at the chicken drumstick, and holds it at arm's length. David fights back a laugh.

"Hardly matters. I've done that plenty of times. I'll take them both home and wash them anyway. Alex keeps them in that pool house for a reason, they're spares."

Miliband looks doubtful, but seems to relax a little, taking a handful of the crisps. David distracts himself with a mouthful of his own drumstick, listening to the music playing, something by The Police, but he has to admit, taking Miliband in where he sits perpendicular to David around the kitchen island, Alex's shirt really suits Miliband. Even David, who couldn't tell you what brand a shirt was if there was a gun to his head, can see it.

"Sets off your eyes."

For a moment, David blinks, wondering if those words actually just came out of his mouth. Miliband stops dead, mouth full.

David fixes his eyes on his own plate, heart suddenly beating so hard it hurts.

"Um-thankth."

David curses his own mouth, and shoves another handful of crisps in to keep it quiet.

A few moments later, Miliband says "I thought you were trying to make up for earlier, there."

"For what?"

A grin twitches at Miliband's mouth. "What you said in the pool."

"Oh, for God's sake-"

"Giving me complimentth." Miliband giggles in that way that makes David have to look away, his heartbeat suddenly rioting in his ribs.

"What else are you expecting?" he says, struggling to make the tone dismissive. "Me to tell you what I like best about you?"

Miliband's grin is answer enough.

"Wouldn't have taken you for a narcissist, Miliband."

Miliband, chewing at a drumstick, raises an eyebrow. "I'd have taken _you _for one."

"Of course."

David takes another bite of his own drumstick. When he glances up, Miliband's eyes are still hovering on his face.

"Dear God, Miliband, seriously?"

Miliband gives him a shy smile.

David sighs, telling himself that smile has nothing to do with why he's doing this. "You're-ah-rather well-meaning."

Miliband watches him for a moment, then snorts. "How did _you_ end up with tho many girlfriendth-s?"

David arches an eyebrow. "Maybe I should have taken guidance from you."

Miliband blushes furiously. Their eyes hold each other, Miliband's big and dark over flushed cheeks.

"Well, you are." David speaks a little too quickly, to break the awkward silence. "You are...generally-well-meaning, Miliband."

Miliband grins just a little. "Generally?"

David arches an eyebrow, about to return a remark, but then just gazes at him for a moment.

Miliband, who's taken another mouthful of chicken, stops chewing, staring at David. "What?" he says, half-indistinctly.

"No, it's just-" David hesitates. "We-used to be like this more often."

Miliband carries on chewing but a blush rises further up his cheeks.

"We used to" says David, a little more quickly, before he lifts his own drumstick back to his mouth.

_"What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think you're fucking siding with-"_

_"I-"_

_The phone slamming into the desk. "I thought you were supposed to be all about your fucking principles."_

* * *

"You know-"

They've moved to the big squashy couches. Ed's towelled his hair, but it's still a little wet. Ed's gaze strays lazily outside to the pool, his eyes heavy. David's switched on the electric fire in the wall, flames flickering through the window.

"I know?" Cameron says lazily, having somehow curled up next to him, their feet almost touching.

"Well-" Ed shifts round, his head on a cushion, his mug of tea safely on the table, the last cube of chocolate still melting on his tongue. "I didn't know you-um-knew my ex-girlfriendth."

David grins. "You had more than one?"

Ed shoves him with his foot.

"Anyway, I didn't know about Juliet until George pointed it out to me" David says, fairly, his bare foot touching Ed's.

Ed wiggles his toes. "Well. We're friendly, now. I think-"

David frowns. "You think...?"

Ed shrugs, tugging at the borrowed jogging bottoms slightly. "We-well, we all have dinner thometimeth, tho I thuppose." He frowns, wondering when the last time was that they did that.

"But-"

"But-?"

Ed isn't sure. A few months previously, he'd have said that they were friends without thinking twice about it.

But-he's seen how Cameron is with _his _friends, and-

Ed isn't so sure.

He settles for a shrug.

"So go on-" Cameron takes a sip of his own tea, laying his head back on a cushion. "How many did you have?"

Ed smiles a little. "I'm not Clegg, Cameron."

David arches an eyebrow. "Close to that?"

Ed feels himself blush, but something about the teasing tone feels like being tickled, not wanting it to stop, even as he struggles against it. _"Hardly."_

David grins at him, raising his eyebrows. Ed kicks his foot gently. "I'm not telling you, Cameron" he manages, feeling his cheeks flame.

Cameron grins. Ed wraps his arms around his knees. "I thuppothe-" He considers his words for a few moments, then hears himself say, "I didn't really enjoy it much, to be honetht."

David puts his head on one side and watches him, but he doesn't say anything.

"I mean, it'th-jutht-" Ed struggles to wrap words around the whole strange feeling of it, of being on dates; scrabbling for the right words to say, right questions to ask, to let them talk so he didn't have to, wondering about the Red Sox forums he'd trawl when he got in, hearing them gasp while he was inside them, as he stared somewhere over their heads and counted, wondering how he was supposed to be looking at them, to be feeling, and then how long he was supposed to lie there afterwards, whether he was supposed to offer to stay.

"I-thuppothe-it doesn't fit-" He struggles, resting his chin on top of his knees. "I don't know. I thuppothe-" He shrugs. "No point thinking about it now."

David's brow creases very slightly, but he lets Ed fall silent.

* * *

_"Hey-" Ed had looked up, distracted from staring at his sandwich and wondering if he could be bothered to finish it instead of getting back to work._

_"Don't you know it's rude to walk off in the middle of a conversation, Miliband?"_

_David Cameron had been lowering himself into the chair opposite Ed, with a flick of his hair and a cocky grin._

_Ed had blinked. "I-um-ah-" He'd stared at him. He'd presumed Cameron had had his fun winding him up about the argument he'd overheard in Gordon's office at the sandwich counter._

_Cameron had winked, which had made something jump in Ed's chest. "I quite like meeting fans" he'd said, with another wink._

_Ed had actually dropped his sandwich. "Are you joking?"_

_Cameron had just grinned. "Wee-eelllll-"_

_Ed had shaken his head. "You really are that arrogant, then."_

_Cameron had burst out laughing, and something had leapt in Ed's chest at the sight._

_Cameron had met his eyes with a grin. "So" he'd said, with yet another wink. "Been checking up on me, Miliband?"_

Now, Ed watches David from the other end of the couch. David grins at him. "You had these _huge _glasses, then" he says, reaching down to touch Ed's temple. The tip of his finger makes Ed's skin tingle.

"And you were an arrogant git" Ed manages in return, with a grin.

David returns it. "You must have liked something about me" he murmurs, touching Ed's foot with his own. "Why else did you keep sitting with me?"

Ed feels himself blush.

(Why can't he stop _blushing?)_

"Well." He sits back a little. "Maybe you had th-some ideas I-er-approved of."

David actually cackles. "You really are sanctimonious as all _hell, _Miliband."

Ed purses his lips to stop himself from grinning.

"You tagged along to that concert, though." Cameron cradles his mug between his hands. "When I went with your brother-"

"That-are you talking about that-_Friends Of The World_ thing-"

"Yep." David smiles. "You scowled the entire time we were talking."

Ed scowls again, feeling exactly the same way he had then, taking a sip of too-warm beer from a bottle he knew he wouldn't finish, watching Cameron's head tilt back in that easy laugh, taking a drag off that cigarette-which Ed had had to remind himself fiercely, was a _terrible _habit, no matter how, how-

He'd watched Cameron and David's words bouncing off each other, the way Cameron touched his brother's arm so easily. He'd scowled, taken another gulp of the beer, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the taste, and told himself that he didn't even _care._

"You turned up with your Rubix Cube" David says, and Ed just shakes his head.

"You-" he says, and then just stops. "You" he says, softly, and they stare at each other from opposite ends of the couch, watching the firelight flicker into life across each other's faces.

* * *

"It's odd, I suppose." David's head is lolling against a cushion. They finished their tea a while ago, now. David thinks one or other of them might have dozed off, their talking running into each other, drifting down into drowsiness, then rearing up again as one of them thinks of something else.

"Mmm?" Miliband's curled up like a cat, head on a cushion, next to David. David can see the glow of the firelight reflecting in his dark eyes.

"Well-" He leans back. "Remember, the way we used to talk about things-"

"Argue" Miliband corrects in a half-mumble, and David smiles, because of course Miliband corrects him.

"I don't know-" David tilts his head back, unsure where the words are coming from, what time it is, even why he brought Miliband here, really. The world outside is the other side of the bi-fold doors, but it seems to slide out of touching distance, like a dream David can only partly remember having.

"Imagine if we'd just met" he says, and the words are meant to be light, but they come out sadder, sweeter. "You know. In a-I don't know. Imagine if we hadn't been politicians. Imagine if we'd just _met."_

Miliband's eyes are dark on his now. David meets his gaze.

"Sam would say this is a liminal space" he mutters.

Miliband's eyes widen slightly.

"Imagine" David says, softly.

Miliband watches him for a long moment. "Wouldn't have worked" he says, just as quietly. "We'd-we wouldn't _not _be politicianth."

David tilts his head. "Funny" he says softly.

"What?"

David's head's resting against the back of the couch, watching Miliband quietly. "I'd have thought you'd have said _you _couldn't have not been a politician."

Miliband's brow furrows. "Why?"

David manages a faint smile. "Because, according to you, I have approximately no principles whatsoever."

Miliband, very slowly, lifts his head, and stares at David, fire flickering in those brown eyes. "I never thaid that" he says, softly.

David just arches an eyebrow in reply.

Miliband stares at him for another moment, then says slowly, "I know you have printhipleth, Cameron."

David doesn't look away.

Miliband's mouth twitches into a half-smile. "I think you pay attention to the wrong oneth, a lot of the time."

David stares at him for a moment, then bursts out laughing. He doesn't stop for a very, very long time.

When he does, it's to see Miliband still watching him, half-laughing. "What?"

David stares at him for a few moments. "Just you" he says, with a grin. "You."

Miliband stares back. "Sometimes, I jutht-" He stares at David and David's breath catches, for a moment, before Miliband shakes his head.

"What'th a liminal space?" he asks quietly, after another few moments, leaning back against his cushion.

"What?"

"You thaid it a few momenth ago."

"Oh." David leans back too. "Sam talks about them. They're places that feel unreal. Like when you're awake in the middle of the night. Or when you're, I don't know, in a school and no one else is there."

Miliband's head's tilted to the side.

"It's because they're bridges in between two states" David explains, holding onto Sam's explanation of it. "They're the times and places in between, when something's, you know, becoming something else. They're the place in between before something changes."

His eyes find Miliband's. Miliband's lips are slightly parted, staring at him.

David looks away, heart beating slow, strong in his chest.

"You know-" Miliband's voice is slow, too. "Even if we hadn't been politicianth, we'd thtill have had different printhiples, Cameron."

David casts him a look from under his eyelashes. "I know" he breathes. "But maybe that doesn't mean we wouldn't have met."

Miliband stares at him.

"It didn't here" David points out quietly, heart beating hard.

Miliband stares at him longer under his own long eyelashes, his expression unreadable. "Thometimeth I jutht don't understand you" he says, but the words don't hurt. They ache softly between them.

"Sometimes, I just don't understand _you."_ David says it in exactly the same tone.

Miliband stares at him with that unreadable look again. Then, slowly, pulling his knees up, he says "Do you know there'th thith theory called the multiverse?"

David's brow furrows. "Vaguely, yes. I've heard of it."

Ed's eyes meet his across his knees. "It says that there'th an infinite series of universes. That play out every possible th-scenario that you can contheive of."

David blinks. "That could be crowded."

Miliband's mouth twitches slightly. "So there'd be one where you'd win. One where I'd win. One where we weren't in politicth at all."

"One where we didn't meet?" David immediately wishes he hadn't asked.

Miliband's expression doesn't change, but there's something there, somehow, like a flinch. "According to the theory, yes."

David opens his mouth, then closes it again, then looks away. "I'm not sure," he confesses, heart banging as he stares down at his jogging bottoms, finger plucking at the knee, "I can imagine that."

He can't look up for several moments, and when he does, Miliband is giving him that long stare from those dark eyes again. Then,

"No" Miliband admits softly. "Neither can I."

They stare at each other, then both look away, their breathing quickening slightly.

David stares at the fire, the sofa, the pool through the glass. He stares at his knees and then at awkward, irritating, sanctimonious, geeky little Miliband.

"Do you believe it?" he asks quietly. "The multiverse theory?"

Miliband glances up at him. "I don't think so" he says. "But-then again-"

His eyes find David's, as he says, the words quiet, an admission all of their own. "Th-sometimes, I'd like to. But then, sometimes-"

David doesn't say anything. He just leans his head against the couch and watches Miliband's eyes and the firelight and idly wonders if another version of them is doing this same thing right now, in one of Miliband's multiverses, and if he wishes they were them or not.

* * *

David's not sure how long he dozes off for. But when he wakes up, it's slowly and gradually, warm and cosy on the couch, greying afternoon light creeping across the room. He can hear the faint hum of the fire, the sound of rush-hour traffic somewhere in the distance.

Miliband's asleep next to him, dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks, lips full, almost parted but not quite. David shifts round peaceably to watch him. He smiles, eyes roaming over Miliband's face, measuring the length of those eyelashes.

They've ended up sleeping slightly curled towards each other, their hands brushing. Their heads have dipped closer together as they've slept, and David is suddenly very aware of his heartbeat, of just how close Miliband is. But it's a pleasant sort of awareness, sensation prickling very gently at his skin, a slow smile creeping to his mouth as his little finger interlinks with Miliband's.

He watches Miliband, takes him in. The way that little crease between his brow has finally relaxed in sleep. The way his lips part slightly, as if he's still shaping an argument to himself. He's so close he can almost feel him breathing. He can picture those eyes beneath Miliband's lashes. He knows Miliband's face all too well. He's been studying it for years. It's his opposition.

Though that's what Miliband is. His opposition. His Miliband.

David's heartbeat is almost audible. His breath catches in his chest. Their foreheads are almost pressing together.

Slowly, he reaches out, daring himself. He hesitates, then his hand touches Miliband's cheek. Just once, just for a moment.

Miliband's asleep, and so David won't do anything. He can't do anything. But he leans in very slightly, very slowly.

If Miliband wasn't asleep-

Their noses are almost touching. David just looks at him, his breath stuttering in time with his heartbeat. If Miliband wasn't asleep-

He could just lean in.

Tilt his head.

Miliband's mouth looks soft and warm, and David could tilt his head, lean in and-

Just softly touch their mouths together, very, very-

What.

What.

_What._

David has to fight with every inch of his restraint not to rear back from Miliband as though he could burn him.

Move back.

Slowly. Slowly.

Oh hell, oh God, _ohGodohGodohGod-_

David wriggles away to the other end of the couch, trying to breathe slowly, calm down, calm down, how, _howhowhow-_

Jesus-

_Jesus._

What was he-

What's he _doing?_

This was-it wasn't like-

This wasn't falling asleep on a bed.

This wasn't bumping into him in a cupboard.

It wasn't Paris or playfighting or looking through photographs.

This-

He was awake. He was looking at him.

He wanted-

He wanted to-

This-

_This-_

David frantically scrabbles for something, anything to explain what would have just happened.

What he thought about-

What, if Miliband had been awake-

Looking at him-

His head tilting towards David's.

What he might have-

Oh God.

He remembers George's words from earlier.

Oh God.

James', last weekend.

Shit.

_Shit._

No, no, oh God, oh God, he _can't,_ _it_ can't, this _has_ to be a mistake, a _confusion_, a, a-

David stares at Miliband, wild-eyed, then looks away.

He brought Miliband here.

He brought him here, he brought him here, and they swam and they had lunch and he made Miliband laugh and they've fallen asleep together, and he wanted, he wanted, he wants-

He wants-

Oh no, oh no, oh, fucking hell-

This can't be happening.

This cannot be-

This _cannot be happening._

But it's _been _happening.

Oh God.

It's been happening for ages.

Oh God-

David didn't-

Oh God.

He stares at Miliband, fast asleep, blissfully oblivious.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

David pushes his face into his hands, hard enough that lights burst behind his eyelids, as though they can smother for a moment, the sure, sure feeling that's lodging its' way into his chest, sitting there very calmly and comfortably, a big answer to everything, as though it's asking politely why on earth David didn't give it more attention before.

Him and Miliband.

Oh, hell's _teeth._

* * *

_ Playlist _

_Eyes On Fire-Blue Foundation-"And I'm not scared/Of your stolen power/I see right through you any hour..."-_

_Mean Girls-Best Coast-"I sat and talked with you about things that I couldn't live without/And you told me that I wasn't happy/Yet you picked me up from off the ground/We ran around that awful town/I told you things I'd never told anyone..I know you're telling everyone the things I said and that I'm dumb/But I know you like no one else does, remember?..No, I'm not perfect yet/But at least I don't pretend to be the world's best friend/I know you won't admit it/But I wish that you would quit it"_

_The Painting-Rhian Sheehan _

_ Waves-Mattia Cupelli _

_Bikes-Lucy Rose-"We're going round and round and up and down/Turning something inside out/We're driving from the backseat/Holding on too tightly/The colours they merge they scream and shout"_

_Jump In-High Places-"If you never take the first step/You cannot go too far/I'm sure you know that you strike me as a smart kid/And you've got big plans and dreams and big big goals/So get a move on/Jump in/...If we never take the first step/We cannot go too far"_

_Not Enough-Carousel-_ _"Look what we found tonight/And right now/I'm thinking what I wanna do, what you wanna do/This is not enough/I can't get enough/This is not enough/When I fall you can pick me"_

_Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic-The Police-"Though I've tried before to tell her/Of the feelings I have for her in my heart/Every time that I come near her/I just lose my nerve/As I've done from the start...Every little thing she does is magic/Everything she do just turns me on"-this is the song playing in the kitchen when David and Ed are eating._

_Bette Davis Eyes-Kim Carnes-"She'll turn the music on you/You won't have to think twice...And she'll tease you, she'll unease you/All the better just to please you"_

_You Already Know-Bombay Bicycle Club and Kathryn Williams-"The moment we forgot we were just good friends/I moved my arm, her face went red again...Looking out the glass though we sit together/We both know we could be someone better..You already know/You already know"_

_Don't Delete The Kisses-Wolf Alice-_ _""I'd like to get to know you/I'd like to take you out/We'd go to The Hell Mary/And afterwards make out...And then I'm trapped, overthinking/And yeah, probably self-doubt/You tell me to get over it and to take you out...A few days pass since I last saw you and you have taken over my mind/I'm telling jokes you made that made me laugh/Pretending that they're mine...I'm losing self-control and it's you, it really is/One thousand times/I look at your picture and I smile/How awful is that? I'm like a teenage girl/I might as well write all over my notebook that you "rock my world!"/But you do, you really do/You've turned me upside-down"_

_She-Dodie Clarke-"Am I allowed to look at her like that?/Could it be wrong, when she's just so nice to look at?/She smells like lemongrass and sleep/She tastes like apple juice and peach/You would find her in a Polaroid picture/And she means everything to me"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The house David and Ed visit is real and belongs to David's architect, Alex Michaelis. You can see the house and the rooms mentioned inside, particularly the swimming pool, fireman's pole and slide, here:https://bit.ly/3bo83Qs  
https://bit.ly/2QGLlLq  
https://bit.ly/2wxnwP6  
He helped design David's London home:https://bit.ly/3dqIXlF  
Liminal spaces and the multiverse theory Ed mentions:https://bit.ly/2xhS1J9  
https://bit.ly/2UspI2s  
The Newsnight interview: https://bit.ly/2Uht8q2  
The PMQs shown:https://bit.ly/2QEn0FN  
https://bit.ly/2UyOP3K  
The restaurant Frances and Justine go to is Moro, which Ed and Justine had gone to:https://bit.ly/3boA4Hy  
https://bit.ly/2Je60SJ  
https://bit.ly/3dqGKqe  
Dave, Sam and the others did genuinely go to Kitty Fisher's-it's a restaurant owned by Emily's husband Tom:https://bit.ly/3gvNfsB  
https://bit.ly/2QEQXpd  
The upstairs:https://bit.ly/2QHhmTk  
https://bit.ly/33Izy4p  
Frances' sister Kate was in a serious car accident-Frances was in a riding one on holiday with Justine:https://bit.ly/2Udrm9i  
Dom Loehnis is a close friend of David's:https://bit.ly/33M0oc6  
http://dailym.ai/2WBTKU9  
David and George's visit to Emmerdale:https://bit.ly/39hoU5K  
https://bit.ly/2UyXAuv  
https://on.ft.com/2WET4xl  
Sam's flashback with Florence at the hospital:https://bit.ly/3dwKIOr  
https://bit.ly/33GGYW1  
https://bit.ly/2JhNoRL  
https://bit.ly/3bnhGP5  
https://bit.ly/2y0ahqA  
Fran was David's girlfriend at Oxford-him crying at his wedding:http://dailym.ai/2QJis0W  
https://bit.ly/2WEz7qn  
http://dailym.ai/33I6kTb  
Bea and Nancy's school giving detention for looking at the clock:http://dailym.ai/2WDYfxn  
Ed being known as "The Emissary From Planet Fuck":https://bit.ly/2Uxmgn5  
David and Boris playing tennis for a Russian donor:https://bbc.in/2UfIMSx  
Ed B and Joel being Norwich City fans:https://bit.ly/2y5M5mS  
The Camerons at The Railway Children in January 2015:  
https://bit.ly/3bkTEEv  
Bea's outfit:http://dailym.ai/2WEkpQ9  
Flo's dress (or similar):https://bit.ly/3bodAqc  
Sam dressing the kids in Boden:https://bit.ly/2wyNPEI  
http://dailym.ai/2UzR7iW  
Bea having an attic bedroom:http://dailym.ai/2xi6dBM  
George and Michael's dogs being "married":https://bit.ly/2Ug3H86  
Ed B supporting the "election that never was":https://bit.ly/33M7ixN  
Sam alphabetising the kids' toys:https://bit.ly/2Ut45z2  
David loving oatcakes:https://bit.ly/2Ja0jVQ  
Ed's encounter with Danny Dyer:https://bit.ly/3aggHQx  
Freya was sent away after attacking the other pets:https://bit.ly/2UyvWxJ  
Sam's nickname being "shrinking violet":http://dailym.ai/2WDfEpV  
Ed not knowing how his house was decorated:https://bit.ly/2UeVwJj  
Sam loving interior design:https://bit.ly/2xkqpmE  
David and Ed at Davos in 2012:https://bbc.in/2wpb0kX  
Nick working as a ski instructor:http://dailym.ai/3bjUTDZ  
https://bit.ly/2UejqEz  
Ed's ex-girlfriend Juliet married Andrew Rosenfeld, after he had an affair with her, who later died:http://dailym.ai/2y0fNti  
http://dailym.ai/3aie1ls  
https://bit.ly/2xh5yAx  
Ed in the glasses he wore:https://bit.ly/2WEkFib  
David's 2006 house refurbishment to make it more environmentally friendly:https://bbc.in/2y5NXMp  
https://bit.ly/3ahy2c7  
https://bit.ly/2y0pPKV  
The basement was extended for Ivan's medical facilities:https://bit.ly/3bodNK0  
https://bit.ly/2Ui4Xrw  
David talking about the NHS (which Sam remembers):https://bbc.in/3bpD85Y  
https://bit.ly/2QEmCqY  
https://bit.ly/39hy56r  
Ivan's death giving them more perspective meaning David and Sam were less affected by negative political fallout:https://bit.ly/3ahFjZj  
https://bit.ly/3drfPut  
https://bit.ly/2JdlSou


	20. A Sampling Of Sexualities, A Denting Of Denials And A Culmination Of Conflicts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In which David is Absolutely Not Panicking and PMQs should not be continued in one's private office."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is total and utter fiction. Yes, real-life events are used as a backdrop around it, but the story is completely and utterly fictional and is not intended to be in any way a truthful depiction of anything or anyone. It is not intended to be a factual depiction of anyone personally or of any events. It is complete fiction.  
If you want to send me an ask about the fic, tell me what you like about it, or just chat, find me at my [Tumblr](https://hallowgirl.tumblr.com/ask%22) .  
The quote references in this chapter refer to more of Tony and Gordon's weird relationship, David Laws' coming out, Alastair's friendship with ultra-Tory Alan Clark, SmearGate, George's frantic lengths to get his hands on Dorneywood and the Cameron childrens' experiences of their father being Prime Minister.  
TW: mentions of someone being outed against their will and memories of era-specific homophobia.  
If you want to read any of the articles but can't, send me an ask or a message and I'll find a way for you to :)  
Leave a comment, kudos, etc.

_We were like a couple who loved each other, arguing whose career should come first. While there was a lot at stake, there was also a lot underpinning our relationship. There is no doubt though, that he (Gordon Brown) felt a sense of shock and betrayal. He never expected me to put myself forward. He thought he was the superior politician....He was also a brilliant sounding board. He could instantly see the force of a point, give you six new angles on it, and occasionally make you see something in a wholly different light. I often compare him to Derry (Irvine) in that way. I would always learn from a discussion and come away mentally refreshed, stimulated and enthusiastic. The conversations were long, but there were very few wasted moments. Our minds moved fast and at that point in sync. When others were present, we felt the pace and power diminish, until, a bit like lovers desperate to get to lovemaking but disturbed by old friends dropping round, we would try to bustle them out, steering them doorwards with a hearty slap on the back.-A Journey: My Political Life, Tony Blair_

_There were several reasons for Blair's timidity at this crucial moment. He had just leapfrogged over Brown, but Blair was the junior partner for most of the decade beforehand. The two first met when they came into Parliament together in Labour's nadir year of 1983 and shared a windowless room dominated by towering heaps of Brown's papers and books. Neil Kinnock, under whose patronage they both rose, regarded them as **"soulmates."** The Newcastle MP Nick Brown correctly identified them as **"the two outstanding personalities of the 1983 intake."** The politically more experienced Scotsman was regarded, not least by himself, as the future Labour leader and Blair was looked on as his impressive but junior brother. **"There was no question which of the virtually inseparable couple was the senior partner"** says Kinnock's deputy, Roy Hattersley. For most of that time, Brown was psychologically dominant. **"You have to remember that for many years Blair was number two to Brown"** says Barry Cox. **"Tony was always talking about Brown as the great thinker, the great political strategist, and he always assumed that he would be number 2 to Brown."** Only in the two years before Smith's unexpected death did Blair achieve equal status with Brown. So even at the point when he moved ahead, he approached the other man with a mixture of admiration, dependency and fear. He worried that he would not succeed in making the Labour Party electable without the other man's intellectual firepower. **"I love Gordon"** he told Brown's younger brother, Andrew. **"He's the best mind the Labour Party has ever had."** There was also some brotherly guilt. Even after the 1997 victory which made him a landslide Prime Minister, Blair remained **"very defensive and sensitive"** about how he had become leader. He even felt it necessary to explain himself to one of his Cabinet Secretaries. To Sir Richard Wilson, Blair said: **"He had his chance when Neil Kinnock stood down. Gordon should have gone for the leadership then. Why shouldn't I have stood when John Smith died?"**_

_While Brown exhibited an intellectual superiority which often awed Blair, the Scotsman was internally riven with self-doubt. Charlie Falconer would tell Blair that Brown was **"not as intellectually confident as he likes to appear."** Cherie, a woman who came top of almost every exam she took, was not intimidated by the Scotsman's brain. Her husband was. Blair had a mild inferiority complex which persisted into government. He would say: **Gordon has a much more developed political philosophy than me."** Blair's view, according to Nick Ryden, was that **"a deal had to be done to put them on a firm footing."** Barry Cox agrees: "**Why did he give so much power to Brown? He needed a partner. He'd never run anything. He thought he couldn't do it on his own. It seemed a perfectly sensible deal at the time."**-The End Of The Party: The Rise And Fall Of New Labour, Andrew Rawnsley_

_Fiona said **"Is Tony aware how devious Peter can be?"** I remembered John Smith's description, during some shenanigan or other, when he said Peter was so devious there was a danger that one day he would disappear up his own backside...I remembered John's old line about Peter being so devious that one day he would wake up and find he had disappeared up his own backside. When I told Peter, he laughed his head off, but I still didn't really know what he'd been up to.-"14th May 1994"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_If it had not been for the two Goulds, Bryan and Philip, I am sure I would not have been able to carry it off. Never did I have more reason to be grateful for their support than on the first Saturday of the campaign, when I was suddenly confronted with the personal cost of my more prominent political role. The News of the World, Britain's highest-circulation Sunday paper, was planning to use its front page the next day to tell the country about my private life. I had never cloaked this in secrecy: I simply regarded my life outside politics as having no relevance to my public role. It didn't preoccupy me, and I did not see why it should concern anyone else. The News of the World chose not only to target me, but to make personal allegations about Roy Hattersley and the Liberal Party leader, David Steel, as well._

_I had been with my partner at the time for nearly ten years. He had also briefly been involved with a woman friend, with whom he had fathered a wonderful son-to whom not only his mother, but the two of us were devoted. What angered me was that the newspaper had decided to publicise this as well: identities, details. photographs and all. On Alastair Campbell's advice, I telephoned the editor, David Montgomery, and told him that if he really wanted to **"reveal all"** about me, he could go ahead, but including the name of the three-year-old boy involved, or his mother, would be an utterly unjustified violation of their rights to privacy. Montgomery was cold, monosyllabic, and seemingly could not have cared less. He shrugged off my request, and went ahead. Alastair, who was by my side throughout, shared my disgust. I was told later that the News of the World **"bombshell" **had been discussed with the Conservative Party's high command. The Tories apparently saw this as a legitimate way of taking me out of the campaign. If so, it failed. I was fortunate that the pace and demands of the election left me little time to brood on what had happened. The rest of the media, in any case, ignored the News of the World's prurience. But it couldn't help but affect the way I felt about and responded to other media intrusions into my private life. It made me more determined than ever not to make concessions to those who are interested in the irrelevances of the bedroom over the Cabinet Room. This was nearly twenty-five years ago. Thankfully, the world has moved on, and with it, journalistic standards....I thought back to moments when the press pack had blown a story out of all proportion just because it involved me. I was still bewildered by the overreaction that followed a discussion on the BBC's Newsnight between Matthew Parris and Jeremy Paxman, during which Matthew referred to my private life before being cut off by Jeremy. In response to this supposed "outing"-which had in fact already been accomplished by the News Of The World more than a decade previously-the BBC decided to ban any reference to the exchange on any of its programmes. My initial irritation at the intrusion was soon overtaken by the realisation that the BBC's heavy-handed response had made a mountain out of a molehill.-The Third Man: Life At The Heart Of New Labour, Peter Mandelson_

_Given we regularly used to appear on the same interview programmes, and both had kids who liked coming to the studio with us, George (Osborne) and I got to meet each other's children. One Sunday morning, I had to do an interview with John Piennar on Radio 5 Live after we'd both appeared on The Andrew Marr Show together. George kindly offered to take my son up to the post-show breakfast, while I went and did my interview. Once I was finished on Piennar, I was chatting to the other guests in the studio with the microphones off, and I casually said: **"I've got to go because I've left the Chancellor babysitting my son",** which they all found funny... In some ways, it's a shame that-obsessives who follow Parliament TV aside-this is a side of politics that the public never see. All they know is George Osborne and me snapping at each other on the Marr programme. They wouldn't know that our respective kids would be hanging out backstage, and that we'd all go for breakfast afterwards.-Speaking Out: Lessons In Life And Politics, Ed Balls_

_Mary (Matalin) said on the way out she was so pleased I had sent over the note and gone there because they had been pressing for this kind of approach for ages. She was a real bundle, as you'd expect from someone hitched up with James Carville (Democrat strategist). I was fascinated how that all worked. I just could not imagine living with someone from the other party. She said it just about worked, but they were able to separate out different parts of their lives and they just got used to having good arguments...Mary Matalin called and said Jim Wilkinson would be fine, that he was one of those people who **"walks through walls."** She said James sent his regards and was relieved that the Brits had finally kicked them into shape!...Then over to see Mary Matalin to discuss the Sun and BBC interviews we were hoping (Dick) Cheney would do, and how best to project message from them. She was an interesting character, had a rich voice, an accent I couldn't place on the class scale. She was attractive in a very unclassical kind of way and could be very funny, e.g. about what life was like in the **"secure undisclosed location"** they go to in times of crisis. I so couldn't get my head around how she, committed Republican working for one of the real hate figures of the Democrats, could live with James Carville, a committed Democrat even more driven and obsessive about politics than her. But she was adamant it worked. Of all of them, I felt she was the one who most shared my understanding of the difference between strategy and tactics.-"Wednesday 24th October 2001-Saturday 27th October 2001-Wednesday 7th November 2001"-The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Four: The Burden Of Power: Countdown To Iraq: 2001-2003, Alastair Campbell_

_You can only report what the Guardian has said, not what our own work has revealed, the voice in my ear tells me. **"Are you absolutely sure?"** I reply. Or words to that effect, but possibly less polite and slightly more direct. When told that he is, indeed, totally sure, I write my silent verdict on the back of my notes in large block capitals. It involves several F-words and a T-word, too. I stand up and shout: **"I am not bloody well paid to report second-hand journalism! Someone else can tell the world what the Guardian has found because we were too bloody useless to do it ourselves!"** A while later, the decision changes and I run round one outlet after another with the news of the Tory donors with Swiss bank accounts. Before I can get near a camera, Jon grabs my notes, pointing out that if I pick them up I might easily accidentally display my abusive message for the entire world to see on screen. Instead he briefly pins it above his desk to entertain the troops. It isn't there long because he soon realises there is a risk of some visitor taking a picture of it and posting it to Twitter.-"Wednesday 11th February 2015"Election Notebook: The Inside Story Of The Battle Over Britain's Future And My Personal Battle To Report It, Nick Robinson_

_Nick Clegg was right. The Prime Minister was not yet ready to accede on the election debates. In early February, David Cameron said that he wanted a **"quiet word"** with Nick Clegg at the end of one of their regular bilaterals. The Prime Minister again set out his view that the election debates were only of help to parties such as UKIP, the Greens and the SNP. He said he wanted to offer the Liberal Democrat leader a deal. The Conservatives would take the blame for pulling the plug on the election debates if Nick Clegg then followed up and also said the debates were a waste of time. Various other blandishments were offered, but Nick Clegg made clear that the debates should go ahead._

_**"I told him: "It's both ugly and impressive to see what you people will do to stay in power.""** David Cameron shrugged: **"Yep. Yep. You're right, Nick. We'll do whatever it takes to stay in power.""**-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government, 2010-2015, David Laws_

_David Cameron seemed a little on edge. We were alone in his study in Number 10, very shortly after the formation of the coalition, and he wanted to ask me something that had clearly been preying on his mind. ** "This is terribly awkward"** he admitted. **"The thing is....George has for so long had his eye on Dorneywood...He's very close to me....Would you mind if he used Dorneywood instead of you?"** He then proposed that I share the Foreign Secretary's traditional grace-and-favour countryside retreat, Chevening, rather than Dorneywood, which was ordinarily used by the number two in government._

_I was a bit taken aback. I had thought he wanted to ask me something important. I had never even heard of these places. I knew of Chequers, the Prime Minister's country pad, but that was about it. It hadn't really occurred to me that I might get a grace-and-favour retreat in the countryside to use at weekends, still less that there was any great distinction between one or the other. David Cameron's plea on behalf of the Chancellor suggested that George Osborne had been measuring up the curtains for years. So with that, I accepted the new arrangement and found myself sharing Chevening-a grand mansion in the Kent countryside near Sevenoaks-for the next five years with the Foreign Secretary, first William Hague and later Philip Hammond. Not at the same time, I hasten to add: that would have been taking coalition cooperation a little too far. We simply stayed there on different weekends. By the end of the parliament, not least because Miriam didn't take to the somewhat overbearing atmosphere of such a palatial building, we limited our stay to one or two nights every month or so.-Politics: Between The Extremes, Nick Clegg_

_Alan Clark (maverick Conservative politician, diarist and friend of AC) phoned. **"Blair is the John Moore (former Tory Cabinet Minister, tipped for prime minister but who faded) of the Labour Party."** I said you don't believe it. He said, **I know, but that is the best line we can go on.** He was clear the Tories would want to stop TB getting the job if they could....Nicholas (Soames) (Conservative minister, friend of AC) was there, said he'd tried to get Alan Clark to come along but he was probably getting his leg over somewhere, then lo and behold there he was. My friendship with Soames and Clark had always fascinated Richard and appalled the Tories, but what I like about them both is that they are funny, larger than life and they believe politics is about having fun as well as being serious business. Alan said there was a whiff of auto destruct around the place. Couldn't see anyway back for (John) Major now that **"your boy"** is stealing the show...Alan and Jane (Clark) arrived in one of his Bentleys, which could barely squeeze through the two lines of parked cars outside. They came to the door, Alan leaving the car parked outside with the engine running and he says **"Where does a chap park his charabanc round these parts?"** He was wearing tight beige trousers the likes of which I don't think the street had ever seen before and a toff's jacket. I said I wouldn't leave the keys in the car like that. He wandered off to find a parking space and came back for a rather embarrassed introduction to Melvyn but they both mellowed after a while. At one point Fiona mentioned there was a bit of crab in the starter and he went into major melodrama, rushing to the door shouting, **"Crab, crab, I can't eat crab"**, then throwing up very loudly in the front garden...Got home to a message to call Alan Clark. **"Congratulations. It's going to be a bloody rout. If we carry on like this, we will be lucky to get a hundred seats. I have never known morale so bad. You guys are just running rings round us day after day. There is no other way to describe it."** I told him we were doing our main poster launch in Kent and was there any chance we could use the grounds of his castle? I said I wanted a big field. He laughed away and said **"Why not? I love black humour."** He really felt Major had been stupid to back Hamilton and Smith because they were so clearly indefensible.-"Friday 14th May 1994-Wednesday 12th October 1994-Saturday 13th May 1995-Saturday 23rd March 1997", The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume One: Prelude To Power: 1994-1997, Alastair Campbell_

_On Friday 28 May (2010), I drove back down from London to my Yeovil constituency. I had a day full of engagements, as well as two scheduled advice centres for constituents. On the way down to Somerset, my mind was buzzing with thoughts about how to handle my upcoming review of departmental budgets. I was due to see the editor and chief reporter of one of the local newspapers, the Western Gazette, in my constituency office, at around 11 a.m. _

_About fifteen minutes before this meeting, I was contacted by the Treasury press office. They said that they had been approached by the Daily Telegraph with a story about my private life and my parliamentary expenses. They were forwarding it to me, they said, and would need a response. For all my life, I had chosen to keep my sexuality private, from my family, friends and colleagues. But I was in a relationship, with another man, and I had chosen to keep this secret. Given the way the parliamentary allowances system operated, it would have been hugely in my financial interest to be open about this relationship, but I had never wanted to reveal this aspect of my life. There seemed no good moment to come out, and there seemed many good reasons to put off difficult and uncomfortable conversations. In trying to keep my relationship a secret, I put myself in a position where I could be seen to be in breach of a recent rule which meant that MPs could no longer pay rent to family or **"partners";** a rule that had not existed when I first entered the Commons. But I had not considered us to be **"partners", **and as the effect of my actions was to reduce my claims upon the taxpayer, I did not consider it at the time to be wrong. But now I was faced with either denying that I was in a relationship, which would not be true, or admitting that I was, in which case I might be under huge pressure to resign._

_Not only did I have these considerations to deal with, but I realised that within twenty-four hours I would have to tell all my family, my friends and my close colleagues something of huge sensitivity about myself that I had chosen to hide for forty-five years.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_I knew that I could just about deal with revelations about my private life, and I could account for my decisions about my parliamentary allowances. What I could not cope with was dealing with both issues in one go. And as I was now the person charged with making potentially painful cuts in public spending, I knew that I could not have the authority to do this while awaiting the results of an inquiry by the parliamentary ombudsman, to whom I would refer myself, which usually lasted many months. Two minutes after I'd absorbed this news, the editor and chief reporter of the Western Gazette turned up to interview me in my offices about my **"exciting and challenging new role in the heart of government."** For forty-five minutes, I did my best to retain my composure and answer the questions. I knew that by the time the interview came to be printed in this weekly publication, most of the contents of the discussion would be out of date and irrelevant. The story about me would be a very different one._

_After that was a horrible thirty-six hours-breaking the news to James (Lundie, his partner), my mother, my family, and my closest friends; endless phone calls with Paddy Ashdown and Nick Clegg, both of whom were magnificently supportive; discussions with my local constituency staff and constituency chairman; and finally, taking the very personal decision to resign from the job that I cherished. Jane Ashdown was kind enough to look after me at the Ashdowns' house in Norton sub Hamdon-my car tucked around the side of the house, out of sight of press view. _

_Nick Clegg, Paddy Ashdown and the Prime Minister were all very supportive and tried to persuade me to stay. But you expect that from friends and colleagues. When you are a politician in this type of circumstance, you owe it to everyone else to accept the responsibility to determine, yourself, whether to stay or go. I was sure that it was in my personal and family interest for me to resign, and I never doubted that this was in the government's best interest too. By the end of Friday, I was determined on resignation. On Saturday, Nick Clegg and Paddy Ashdown made further attempts to change my mind mind, but my view was now settled. Poor Nick and Miriam Clegg were supposed to be enjoying a relaxing weekend in Paris with their family-their first break for many months. Nick had to get back on the train and come back to London. It was decided that my resignation should be on camera, and not just be a statement to the press._

_On Saturday afternoon, 29 May, I left Somerset in my car. My constituency chairman, the formidable and loyal Cathy Bakewell, drove. Nick Clegg's then press chief, Jonny Oates, joined us to field media calls. As we made the three-hour car journey to London, I received many kind text messages from colleagues, urging me to continue. I was particularly touched to receive messages from Conservatives such as my next-door MP, the Cabinet office minister Oliver Letwin. Halfway to London, we suddenly realised that if I was going to resign, I had to let the Prime Minister know, and not only Nick Clegg. We pulled in to a service station off the A303, just after Stonehenge, and from there I made the call. David Cameron was at Chequers. It was a short conversation and I made clear that my decision was not reversible. I had joined the government in the Cabinet Room Of No. 10. I left it on a mobile phone outside a petrol station in Wiltshire.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_George is on the phone when he arrives (at Chequers). "**I've got a problem"** he whispers, continuing his conversation. David and I have a walk round the lavender-infested terrace waiting for him to finish. When he finally does, it is bad news. Just two weeks into the government, David Laws is going to have to resign over his expenses. This is quick, by anyone's standards. And it is a blow to George, who was working well with Laws on his first budget, which is just weeks away.-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_We stopped in Kennington, near Paddy Ashdown's hosue. There we were met by a car and driver from the government car service. As Chief Secretary, I had just signed off on a deeply unpopular (with the drivers!) cut of one third in the budget for this service. I had also rejected the chauffeur-driven Jaguar used by my predecessors as Chief Secretary. I must have been rather unpopular with the drivers, who relied on this spending for their livelihoods, but if my driver this day felt any sense of pleasure, he didn't show it. Jonny Oates and I were driven across the river towards Westminster. As we entered the Treasury courtyard, we were met by a private secretary from my office and Sean Kemp, a Liberal Democrat press officer, who was hugely supportive and perhaps a little emotional. As it was a Saturday, the Treasury was empty. We went up to my office on the second floor, and I was left for ten minutes to practise my resignation statement, which I had written by hand on two sheets of A4 paper. Jonny insisted on me reading through the resignation statement in front of him, to test my resilience. Then Sean came in: **"They're ready for you now."** On my desk, I left a short note of good wishes for my Liberal Democrat successor. I also left a gift given to my by my local constituency party just after the general election, when I had taken on the role of Chief Secretary. It was a knife, with a gold Liberal Democrat election rosette on it. **"It is a reminder that when you are cutting, you must cut with care and while remembering what principles our party stands for"** I was told when it was presented to me._

_I read out my resignation statement in a large, modern, characterless room on the ground floor of the Treasury. There was only a television camera, with a crew of two people hovering behind it. We said nothing to each other, and we did it in one take. It did not take long to read the few paragraphs, and I completed it without stumbling, but while looking exhausted and emotionally drained. Then I was led back to the Treasury courtyard, where I thanked Jonny Oates and Sean Kemp for their support. The private secretary who was with us gave me a brief hug, and whispered, **"Don't worry, you'll be back."** The black government car service vehicle I had arrived in thirty minutes before was no longer in the Treasury courtyard. Instead, a taxi was waiting for me. There could hardly be a clearer signal that my resignation had now taken effect. I got into the back of the cab and we drove out of the Treasury. I had been in government for just eighteen days. Now the coalition I had helped form would continue without me.-Coalition: The Inside Story Of The Conservative-Liberal Democrat Coalition Government: 2010-2015, David Laws_

_David has a ferocious work ethic, but part of what keeps him balanced, and able to make good decisions, is his ability to switch off. He will go for a run or spend time with the children. At Chequers, he often plays tennis-with a friend, if one is around (they are supposed to lose graciously) or if not, with his ball machine, nicknamed (by the press, originally) **"the Clegger."** There is the possibility of a swim in the indoor pool-a gift from President Nixon. I don't love swimming, I say on one occasion when Nancy is trying to persuade me into the water. "**Mum got over that stage a while ago"** she says critically. I say I don't have my swimsuit and she points to a rather tired-looking one-piece hanging in the changing rooms. **"You can use that one-it was left here."**-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_But there was more to Osborne's success than policy. His predecessors had never evolved a way of dealing with Brown's personal force. He bludgeoned them in the Commons with rhetoric and a raw presence that sometimes radiated actual physical menace. When even Michael Howard confesses to being cowed, a heavyweight is at work. Osborne avoided their fate by deploying his ability to analyse other personalities and identify their vulnerabilities. He worked out that Brown found weakness provocative, angered easily and lacked courage beneath all that surface pugnacity. Osborne's approach was to evince absolutely no sign of fear, even when he felt it, and then match Brown's aggression. After all, the worst the Chancellor could do was scream and scowl-this was Westminster in 2006, not the duelling age-and every so often he would forfeit his composure and dignity. On one occasion, Brown was so irked by Osborne that he hurled his order paper at him across the dispatch box. Osborne, noticing that it was covered in Brown's handwritten notes, passed it on to Staite, who then showed it to the press. Enterprising reporters hired a graphologist to study Brown's scrawl and published the verdict, which Osborne gleefully quoted at the Chancellor at future engagements in the Commons. The note's author apparently suffered from ** "unreliable and poor judgement"**, lacked **"control of their emotions"**, and was liable to be **"evasive."** Even aside from the jokey gambits, Osborne was the Chancellor's parliamentary equal...._

_It helped that Osborne genuinely despised Brown. Ministers and their opposite numbers often enjoy convivial relations, or at least regular direct contact, away from the camp biliousness of the Commons or the television studio. Nothing like that was true of this pair. The proximate cause of the enmity is often thought to be a telephone conversation about voting arrangements in which the Chancellor ranted at Osborne before abruptly hanging up, but Osborne had rather weightier grievances than that. Brown was trailed by a gang of acolytes whose dark facility with plots and anonymous briefings only later became public knowledge. In the early years of Osborne's shadow chancellorship, some of them allegedly spread unfounded rumours about him and his past. Some of the scurrilous stories that found their way to Osborne's ear-usually via (Rohan) Silva, who received tip-offs from lobby journalists-would provoke the fury of even the meekest and most uncomplaining soul. While it was rooted in real and ugly experience, the sheer vigour of Osborne's contempt for Brown shocked some who observed it at close quarters. In the office, he occasionally referred to the Chancellor as a "**bastard"** and delighted in impersonating him as a lurching monster. He bristled at any praise he encountered for Brown-and there was plenty of that in the years leading up to the crash-insisting that he was a phoney who cloaked brutal machine politics and moral cowardice in pious Presbyterian bromides. This private scorn slipped into public sight during an interview with the journalist Mary Ann Sieghart on the fringe circuit of the 2006 conference. When she suggested that Osborne's adolescent fixation with historical facts and events was **"faintly autistic"**, he replied, to the slightly confected outrage of many, **"We're not getting on to Gordon Brown just yet."** Like his references to the **"guild"**, it was a typical Osborne quip: ostensibly comedic but true to his underlying thoughts...Osborne's disdain for Brown might have clouded his judgement. **"A boot stamping on Gordon Brown's face** is how one insider described Osborne's vision for the campaign.-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Earlier and more vociferously than any prominent Tory, Osborne had despised Brown and his acolytes. While others were braver in challenging his profligacy during the boom years, nobody was more alert to the way in which he (or at least elements of his following) did politics. Osborne's devoted study of the internal workings of the Labour Party had acquainted him with their facility with hostile briefings and paranoid plotting. He never fell for the easy myth that Brownites and Blairites were equally cuplable for the hostilities between them. He sneered at the fragrant profiles of Brown as a Church of Scotland innocent determined to do the right thing, and wondered aloud when a whiff of the noxious culture around him would reach the public. In April (2009), it finally did. On the evening of the 9th, thousands of Westminster villagers were intrigued by an entry posted on the popular Guido Fawkes website, run by the libertarian entrepreneur and investigative blogger Paul Staines. It showed a photo of Damian McBride, perhaps Brown's most tenacious aide, with a cross-hair target super-imposed on his face under the headline: **"He who lives by the smear..."** Staines was about to break a story that would claim McBride's career and wound Brown's moral authority. He had acquired emails sent three months earlier by McBride (or **"McPoison"**, as Mandelson knew him) to Derek Draper, a former Labour apparatchik, suggesting scurrilous stories to publish about senior Tories on a new blog that was to be called Red Rag. They included innuendo about Cameron's sexual past, tittle-tattle about Osborne's behaviour as a young man and insinuations about his wife._

_Osborne's anger was tempered by his utter lack of surprise. He had, after all, been the target of smears allegedly emanating from Brownites since becoming shadow Chancellor. Cameron, who was less worldly about these things, raged incandescently. **"I'm proud there isn't a McBride in here"** he would say in front of his team of advisers for months afterwards. McBride resigned and, though there was no suggestion that Brown himself knew of the skulduggery, the Prime Minister eventually offered contrition after a week of mealy-mouthed equivocation. He even sent Osborne a handwritten letter, which the Tory has kept. It addresses him as **"Geoge."** As the note contains an apology from perhaps the least apologetic politician of his era, Osborne's friends say he regards it as an **"extraordinary artefact."**-George Osborne: The Austerity Chancellor, Janan Ganesh_

_Over the weekend, there is a kerfuffle about the courtesy country houses. Following tradition, William, as Foreign Secretary, has been given the grand, Grade I-listed Chevening, which is suitable for entertaining foreign dignitaries. But the question is who gets Dorneywood-Nick or George? It has in the past been home to both deputy prime ministers and chancellors. George has his eye on the house, not least because it is only half an hour from Chequers, the prime minister's country retreat, and thus a good way of keeping in touch with David over the weekends. But Nick wants a house too, and as Deputy Prime Minister he is, in theory, a senior. William hums-normally a sign that he has a view about something that he may or may not choose to reveal. George decides to take matters into his own hands and heads to Dorneywood first thing on Saturday morning to claim the place as his own. In the end, it is decided that Nick and William are to share Chevening.-_ _The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_Half an hour or so later, George and Andy reappear, exhausted from their copious spinning. They have done their best, but it has not been as easy to sell as a win. "**Give me the ****hard stuff"** Andy says, reaching for the spirits. George has been picked on by his old bete noire, Peter Mandelson. His briefing to a gathering of journalists was interrupted. **"Look who's over there"** George imitates Mandy. **"It's my little friend Georgie....poor Georgie...spinning his little web, but he has nothing to spin with, 'cos his old pal Dave didn't do very well."**-The Gatekeeper: Life At The Heart Of No. 10, Kate Fall_

_George Osborne knew he would have to work fast. As the car sped away from Chequers, he hit the phones, making all the necessary arrangements at breakneck speed, hoping he was not too late. In the rough and tumble of forming Government, it had completely slipped his mind. Indeed the question had only occurred to him when he was asked by one of the staff at the PM's country residence: **I suppose you'll be having Dorneywood, sir?"** That struck the Chancellor as a good idea: the eighteenth-century house in Buckinghamshire given to the nation by Lord Cortauld-Thomson in 1947, and more recently famous as the venue for John Prescott's croquet matches, would be the perfect retreat in the difficult months and years ahead...The rolling conversations were held in a series of locations-the Cabinet Room, Chequers, the PM's study, though not the Downing Street flat which was undergoing a £64,000 refit (more than half of it paid for by the Camerons themselves.) One visitor to Chequers who had been hosted by both Brown and Cameron at the rural retreat noted the contrast: **"Gordon would greet you in a full carriage-built suit then go round the children's table asking them what they were reading. Dave wore jeans and a casual shirt and looked as if he'd lived there all his life."**_

_The Osbornes were no less at home in Dorneywood, the grace-and-favour Georgian mansion in Buckinghamshire: guests at the weekend would find themselves recruited to impromptu shows scripted and directed by the Chancellor's children, complete with costumes and props. On Sunday morning walks in the surrounding woodland, he would take calls from the PM, agreeing the lines-to-take on the stories in the weekend press.-In It Together: The Inside Story Of The Coalition Government, Matthew D'Ancona_

_GB (Gordon Brown) felt that Cameron was trying to present himself as a bit of a liberal, but with the view of moving back to the right if they won, and he felt his right wing would let him away with it for a while...TB (Tony Blair) said the public are more likely to go for a traditional Tory Party than a traditional Labour Party. He thought Cameron was making a mistake in appearing to soften on law and order, and go big on the environment. Philip (Gould) and I said that he had to understand this was not about policy at this stage, it was about rebranding, and he was doing it perfectly well by his own lights._

_Ed M (Ed Miliband) said Cameron was recognising the country was more progressive than the last time they had been in power, and he was trying to get the Tories to adapt. TB said yes, culturally there has been change, but don't underestimate how much they can still get from a traditional agenda.-"Monday 16th January 2006"The Alastair Campbell Diaries: Volume Six: From Blair To Brown: 2005-2007, Alastair Campbell_

_Surely ten years as prime minister and fifteen years as party leader would be enough. Plus, Sam wouldn't have stood for it. She had been amazing, but only because she knew it would come to an end at some point, and we would get some of our old lives back. Yet it was dawning on me how difficult it must be being the daughter or son of a prime minister, and how it would become even harder as they grew older._

_For now, Nancy was very well-adjusted. In fact, she had suddenly become quite interested in politics. I was on the phone one breakfast time when she asked me who I was talking to. I said it was the Chinese premier. **"Well, tell him to free Ai Weiwei and to stop eating endangered species"** she replied, quick as a flash._

_Nine-year-old Elwen was also wise beyond his years, though he once came home rather morose, and said **"I think people only talk to me because I'm the son of the prime minister."** I felt bad that my job made things hard for him, but after a day he was back to his normal happy self. The youngest member of the family was only just coming to terms with the strangeness of her family situation. Samantha's mother visited the flat one Monday night, and Flo rushed up to tell her, **"Grannie, Grannie-don't tell anyone, but my dad's the prime minister."** We found out that she had been going around to everyone she met telling them her little secret. Yes, two terms would be quite enough for all of us.-For The Record, David Cameron_

* * *

_She opens her mouth to say something, but in the end only grunts her revulsion. She thinks she's out of words to describe her hatred for Effy._

_It would worry her if she cared."-The Exorcists, brocanteur (Skins fanfiction)_

_"O my enemy_

_Do I terrify?"_

_-"Lady Lazarus", Sylvia Plath_

_Finally, Coley said, each word spaced out, "There have been a whole bunch of times I thought you were gonna try to kiss me. Yesterday at the rodeo, even."_

_We waited some more. The tailgate squeaked twice._

_She said, "But you never have."_

_"I can't" I said, just barely letting the words out. "I never can do it." I watched Coley's boots swing out and back over the ground, the heel of one of them just flicking a clump of sagebrush, flicking water from it._

_"I'm not like that, Cam. You should already know that I'm not."_

_"Okay" I said. "I didn't think that you were."_

_"I'm not" she said, and breathed in big. "But then what's weird is that sometimes I think if you kissed me, I wouldn't stop you."-The Miseducation Of Cameron Post, Emily M. Danforth_

_Manny: She said she fell in love with you during your first fight._

_Jay:...What?!_

_Manny: She said she finally met her match._

_-Modern Family, _ _s2ep16, "Two Monkeys And A Panda"_

* * *

"And it's The Falklands, is the correct answer-"

Michael punches the air in triumph. "Yes! _Yes!"_

"Michael-" Sarah glances about them, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back into his seat. "Michael. Sit _down."_

"Decorum in victory may prove an unreasonable expectation, Sarah-"

_"You-_" Sarah hisses. "Are going to get us thrown _out."_

"I think that'd be a record" Sam remarks, grabbing Michael's other wrist.

"I've never been thrown out before-"

"No, but-you're still on a warning over that disagreement over whether or not Constance Markievicz should supersede Nancy Astor-"

"Which Mum wouldn't be happy about" Sam muses, pulling their teamsheet towards them. "Or Nancy, for that matter."

"We're already on two strikes" Sarah reminds them all through gritted teeth. "We could end up facing an eviction."

"Rubbish. For the trifling offence of expressing a mere bit of enthusiasm for the feat of correctly remembering the completion of Brunel's first bridge-"

"If there could be _quiet _at the back-"

Sarah gives Michael a kick under the table. "_Told _you you should have shut up."

"Well, who would have thought you could get put on probation for a school quiz?" Michael mutters resentfully, with a furious polish of his glasses.

"Dave-" Sam turns to him, nudges him gently in the ribs. _"Dave."_

David, who's been staring unseeingly into space for the last few moments, jumps in surprise. "Oh-bloody-sorry, I was miles away" he manages, only slightly quieter than usual, not mentioning that his thoughts were straying back to that couch and this afternoon and probing over and over at that moment with Miliband.

But even as he tries to join in the scrabbling over last-minute points, he's distracted-he knows that him not bothering to argue about the time taken to put names on the papers will be a dead giveaway, if nothing else.

Because.....

He's not gay.

That's the first thing David's been grasping onto, firmly, and has been sinking his fingers into, ever since he'd spent an hour on the couch, staring at Miliband, repeating six words over and over that, several months ago, would have sent him into hysterics: _I don't want to kiss him, I don't want to kiss him, I don't want to kiss him._

* * *

"We're hoping for Grey Coat" Jonathan's telling him a few minutes later, once last-minute disputes have been resolved-arms folded, Michael is still sulking slightly over what has been deemed a "rather too vociferous form of celebration".

"How'd she do in the exam?"

"Pretty well, actually. She didn't seem to have any major-major concerns afterwards-"

"Yeah, Nancy seemed all right with it-"

"You put it second, didn't you?"

"Yeah, Lady Margaret first-"

"Right, right-we thought we'd put our eggs in the Grey Coat basket, so to speak-"

"I'm already worrying about where to send him next" David hears a few feet away, where Sam's talking. "I still haven't got my head around _one_ of them being that old, yet-"

"I know-" Sam takes another sip from her own glass. "It really flies, doesn't it-I still remember, seems like yesterday was Nancy's first day, to be honest with you-"

"How's Flo settling in? It took a couple of weeks for Astrid-"

David tries desperately to sink into the familiarity of the conversation of school choices, on when they'll find out for Nancy, but all he can think, over and over is-I-I'm not-I'm-I-

And then that's only _part _of it, because it's _Miliband, _for God's sake, _Miliband_, and he, he-

He'd managed to do a fairly good job of acting normal, he'd thought earlier, when Miliband had finally woken up-and that's another thing because now he's dwelling on the extent of Miliband's _nap times_, and whether he should get more sleep, as though he's his bloody _mother,_ as if things weren't already bloody complicated enough.

And it's been quite an effort all afternoon not to think of how Miliband had been, all sleep-rumpled hair and big, dark eyes, blinking-

David had managed to keep a reasonably safe distance away from him on the couch-he'd even managed to crack some line about that being the average voter's response to Miliband's manifesto, which he's sure Miliband would have been able to tell was nowhere near his usual standard.

They'd managed to travel back to the Commons without much incident-still talking, but quietly, a little further away from each other. Originally, David had thought perhaps he should avoid touching him at all, but then he'd worried that that would look even more ostentatiously odd, so had settled for a pat on the shoulder as Miliband had left the car-

(Is that what he usually does?)

(It must be. Or something similar.)

(Something.)

(And then that had been something _else _to worry over.)

Either way, David had managed to wait until he was safely ensconced in his own office, before he could bury his face in his hands and panic.

He wasn't gay.

David had actually laughed out loud at that one. Because he's _not._

He's not-quite genuinely-and he's pretty sure he'd never probed his memories with nearly the same desperate vigour in Cabinet meetings as he was doing now-he's not _gay._

He's never even _thought_ that he might be gay.

Maybe it was a one-off feeling, he'd tried to convince himself desperately, which might have worked if he hadn't immediately remembered _Paris _and _photographs_, and David had been forced to conclude that overall, there'd been rather a lot of _one-offs_ for anyone to have.

So-so-does-does that mean-

What _does _it mean?

David had laughed again as this thoughts had positively _reared _back from the idea that actually, on any level, he might be-be-

Be _attracted_ to-

Oh, God.

David hasn't really got much further in his thought processes since then, and indeed, they're the two words his mind keeps grabbing onto and yanking out to wave before his eyes every few moments.

"So, where are you thinking for Elwen?" Jonathan asks, and David has to blink himself back into the conversation.

"Well-" He hesitates. "We didn't want to go private for any of them, but we're thinking of St Paul's Juniors'-"

Jonathan sucks his teeth. "Yep, similar story. I mean, we'll look at Holland Park, but-"

"We're thinking of sending Will there" Sarah points out, joining the conversation, and it allows David to, for a few moments at a time, convince himself that he's managed to put the word _gay_ and the name _Miliband_ and most especially anything that could possibly _link _the words _gay _and _Miliband,_ out of his head.

* * *

"What are they talking about?" Will asks, knocking Bea's shoulder as she presses her nose against the glass.

"How to sell you." She gives him a sharp elbow in the ribs.

"Shut it, Beatrice." Mum gives the seat a swat without even turning round. She's staring at Dad, who even now, is walking round to get in the car, the men with cameras backing away now, especially when Bea sticks her tongue out at them.

"What were they talking about?" asks Will, settling back into his seat as Dad gets into the front, adjusting his glasses a little, as though they've jolted him.

"Oh, only about the different schools I used to work on" Dad says, as if he's just stopped to pick up a letter. "I feel rather sorry for them, actually-it's pretty cold."

Bea snorts. "Why?" She sinks back into her seat, plucking uncomfortably at her stupid school jumper.

"Oh, they'll probably be out there for hours" Dad muses cheerfully, revving the engine. "Waiting in the weather. Of course, it's the path they've chosen, so _que sera sera."_

Bea rolls her eyes. Mum catches her gaze in the mirror. "And no punching anyone at school if they say anything about it.

Bea shrugs.

Mum gives her another, longer look in the mirror. "Beatrice, _I mean it."_

* * *

Nancy catches them _again._

She nudges Lola next to her, who's nibbling an entirely peeled cucumber and a hunk of cheese with relish-Lola abhors meat. Nancy can barely fathom this mindset, but she's willing to tolerate it, especially since Lola has become her Best School Friend ever since Bea left, earning her an upgrade.

"Why do they keep looking?" Nancy glances over at the tables where she's just dumped her own only half-cleared plate, longing for the day next week when they'll finish for half-term and she can switch back to packed lunches. (Flo's already on them-Mum had rolled her eyes when Nancy and Elwen had raised the issue angrily one breakfast time, pointing out that they'd both demanded to go on school dinners at the start of the year. Neither of them had bothered to explain that Lola and Felix had been on school dinners then, too, and how were _they_ to know that they'd both go and get switched to packed lunches after the Christmas holidays without giving them a chance to tell Nancy and Elwen beforehand, thereby scuppering any chance of coordinating their lunchtime seating arrangements?)

Now, Lola shrugs, glancing over at the small gathering of Class Ones, who are all staring at Nancy and Lola, eyes wide. Nancy blinks at them.

One of them waves, daringly, before they all hastily look away at once.

"That's weird" Lola concedes, crunching into her lunch, then, _"Geez!"_

Nancy looks round to see Astrid, Lola's little sister, standing less than an inch away from Lola's chair, face craned over her shoulder.

"God, Astri" Lola mutters, as Astrid pulls a blonde pigtail into her mouth, chewing it thoughtfully. "And stop doing that, Mum said it'll give you germs."

Astrid just looks at her quietly. Nancy feels a pang of guilt-last year, when Bea had been in Year Six, she'd read with Astrid a few times when they'd gone to do Buddy Reading with the Receptions, and had complained so much about Astrid's hair-chewing that eventually Lola had told her to shut up, and a shoving match had ensued. (Bea and Lola still won't speak to each other, which made things difficult at Nancy's birthday outing last month, to say the least, when they'd had to make sure they sat at opposite ends of the row in the theatre and Pizza Express-Nancy had elected to see The Railway Children again, on the basis that she got to take her friends backstage, which made her outing stand out a little.)

"What is it?" Lola asks now, tapping Astrid's nose.

Astrid just leans round her to peer at Nancy, giggles, and darts off.

Nancy frowns at Lola. "What was that about?"

Lola shrugs. "Dunno. It's Astri, though, isn't it-she was born nuts."

She takes another bite, then shrieks. "God, there's a hair on it!"

As Nancy glances round the school dining hall, listening to Lola immediately console herself-"No, it's one of mine, it's one of mine"-and immediately notices another table of Class Ones, who Astrid's now sitting with, glancing away. A couple of Class Twos at the next table immediately do the same thing, shoving their hands over their mouths with wide eyes.

"Why's it only the Infants?" Nancy mutters to Lola, but receives no reply. "Has everyone gone mental or something?"

She turns round to see Lola holding her cucumber out in front of her, engaging it in conversation. "Now, it couldn't have been my hair and it can't be your hair, so it-"

Nancy sighs and looks away, resigning herself.

* * *

Flo is very, very pleased with herself.

"Has your daddy met Taylor Swift?" whispers Margot from her class, poking Flo's cheek cautiously, the skipping rope lying forgotten at their feet.

Flo considers for a long moment. "He might do" she finally answers. "Famous people come and have dinner with us" she explains, to a chorus of little gasps.

"Does he know any footballers?" Raphaella asks, who seems to have a ball attached to her feet.

Florence has to scrunch her face up and think about that. _"Some_" she eventually settles on, thinking it's _probably _true, so it's not _really _a lie, and then she remembers. "Mr Lin-ker came and played football."

Raphaella gawps at her. Astrid comes running over with a couple of the big Class One girls. The others from Florence's class suck at their fingers, a little awed.

"Tell them, too" Astrid says, pointing at them, cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Tell what?" says one of the girls, who Florence thinks is called Cecily, staring at Flo, who beams back at her.

Astrid turns to them, lowering her voice to a very loud whisper. "Guess what Flo's daddy does?"

* * *

After walking down through the stone archway into the long playground and being stared at by several more Infants, Nancy decides she's had it.

"El" she says, seizing her younger brother by the shoulder in a manner that would make Bea proud, and marching him away a little, Felix and Will following at his side, while Elwen protests and squirms furiously, casting an anguished look back at the other boys behind them.

"Look, this is important" Nancy sighs impatiently, Lola eyeing her own brother at her side, Felix pulling at his earlobe with a glance at Will, their sisters' enmity being an obstacle they're able to successfully navigate. (Will has a tendency to stand by, tugging at his hair silently in the throes of various agonised looks whenever his sister is in the middle of loudly taking anyone to task.)

"Have people been talking about you?"

Elwen blinks, clearly having readied himself to mount a defence against some sisterly accusation. "No."

"Not just talking" Lola says, arms folded in her fur-muffed coat, cheeks pink in the cold air. "Like, anything weird."

"Looking at you" Nancy explains, hugging herself tighter and stamping her feet for warmth. "You know, staring. Pointing."

Elwen furrows his brow. "I mean, I s'pose. When we were over by the Infants earlier. But, I don't know, I just kind of thought they were looking at all of us."

Nancy draws her bottom lip between her teeth, drums her fingers together. "Dunno. Just. A lot of people have been looking. At us."

They all glance about at the rest of the playground, but fail to catch anyone staring.

Nancy lowers her voice, with a meaningful glance at Elwen. "Do you think-you know, something happened with Dad?"

Elwen glances at her, then at Will. Unconsciously, the three children step a little closer together.

"Someone'd have told us" Elwen says, sounding a little less certain than his words. "You know. Someone'd have come and got us."

"Yeah" says Will, voice a little quieter, considering the situation with his head tilted to one side. "They'd have come and got you."

Nancy's almost positive this is true, but it doesn't do much to assuage her confusion.

"I guess" she says, turning to scan the rest of the playground, eyes lingering on the gates that lead to the Infants.

"Yeah" says Lola, who's been following the last few exchanges with a slightly bemused look. "It'll be fine."

Nancy and Elwen's eyes meet for barely a flicker, darting to take in Will, too. All three of them know Lola and Felix are just trying to be nice, but it's not the same for them. They can't understand the same way.

"Shall we tell Flo?" Elwen asks, turning to peer at the Infants playground through the gates, scanning it for a sign of their little sister. It takes a few moments to find her, cheeks flushed, shrieking with laughter, ponytail bouncing as she chases Ava from her class.

"Nah" Nancy says, watching through the gates as Flo ducks and waves, cheeks dimpled and rosy with giggles. "Flo's fine."

* * *

It's not until Nancy heads down to Flo's classroom that afternoon for Buddy Reading that the penny drops.

All of the Reception class faces turn to look at them, which is pretty normal, but when they spot Nancy, their eyes widen happily, and they stay looking, a couple of them whispering to each other behind their hands. One of them sucks at a finger contemplatively, another leans over the back of her chair and has to be pulled back by the teaching assistant. Nancy manages to spot Flo, whispering away to the little girl next to her.

Usually, Miss Karim tries to alternate, so Nancy doesn't always end up sitting with Flo, but today, Miss Karim guides her over there quite quickly, redirecting May and Theodora away. "I thought you might want to read with Nancy today, Flo-"

Flo dimples up at her beatifically.

"Flo's been quite excitable today, haven't you?" Miss Karim explains, with a gentle pat to Florence's head.

Flo decides to illustrate this point by bouncing rapidly in her seat.

"Right." Nancy puts an arm around Florence's shoulders. Florence snuggles into her sister's side and Nancy chucks her under the chin.

"So we thought she might feel a little bit calmer being with you today, Nancy-"

Nancy reflects grimly that this is probably wishful thinking, but knows better than to bother trying to explain that.

"You want _The Lorax_ again?" she says, flicking through the pages of the book Flo's selected-it's one of the ones Dad used to read to her when she was tiny, and still reads to Flo. "_I am The Lorax_-

"_I speak trew-thr-through the trees-_" Flo burbles her way through the line, stabbing the page with her finger, but glances around, giggling.

"Flo-" Nancy guides her hand back to the page, but Flo squirms in her seat, cheeks creased with mirth.

Nancy stares at her. "What is it?"

But before her little sister can answer, Nancy's interrupted by a small, determined hand tugging at her sleeve.

A small boy is staring up at her, with big dark eyes under a floppy fringe. "Is your daddy Pri-Minster?"

Oh God.

Nancy stares at him, then at Joseph from her class over his head, who gives her a bemused look in return.

"Flo said" says the little boy, pointing at Florence in answer to Nancy's unspoken question.

Nancy almost spins in her seat to see Florence beaming up at her, pink and wriggling and pleased with herself.

_"Flo!"_ Nancy wants to sink into the desk. "What does he mean, you-you told him-"

Flo giggles happily, almost stuffing her hands in her mouth in glee. Ava-the same kid Flo was chasing at lunchtime-sitting across the table presses her foot up against Nancy's shin until Nancy looks at her.

She nods solemnly. "Flo says your daddy's friends with the _Queen."_

Oh. My. God.

Nancy turns to Florence, her cheeks burning. "Florence" she says, struggling to keep her voice steady. "Florence, what have you been _telling people?"_

Flo beams in delight, wriggling innocently in her seat. "Just about Daddy."

"_What _about Dad?"

Flo giggles happily. "That Daddy's Prime _Min-ster_ and he's in charge of the whole country and we get to eat lunch with the _Queen-"_

Nancy, for a moment, seriously considers climbing into her schoolbag and refusing to get out until she reaches the age of sixteen and can legally change her name.

Oh God.

Florence beams up at her, oblivious to Nancy's frantic considerations of identity theft. The entire table is looking at them, an array of small faces upturned.

Nancy allows her head to slump forward onto the table, wishing she could disappear _into _it. _"Flo."_

* * *

"Mum! Mum! _Mum!"_

_"What?"_ Sam throws a hand over her heart in shock as Nancy half-slams the door open with a face like thunder. Behind her, Elwen is wearing a matching expression, a hand firmly on Flo's arm, while Bea whips round, distracted from her ten-minute soliloquy over the injustice of her phone being taken off her the second she scrambled into the car.

"Mum, _tell _her-" Elwen's half-caught between Will's legs and his own seatbelt.

"Tell who what-"

"Flo!"

Florence purses her lips defiantly, big blue eyes sparkling.

"Yes, _Flo-"_ Nancy nearly gets a swipe in the face from Bea as she tries to strap herself in.

"Tell Flo-"

Nancy's voice builds up to what's almost a screech. "Florence has been telling everyone about _Dad-"_

"About _Dad-"_

"Florence has been going round telling _everyone at school_ that her father's the Prime Minister!"

Bea bursts out laughing, apparently finding a temporary reprieve from her grief over the iPhone. Sarah turns away, shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

Sam blinks, then lets her head fall onto the steering wheel. _"Flo"_ she groans, taking in her four-year-old's wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. _"Why?"_

"She's told _everyone_" Elwen bursts out, as though worried that point might not have been made sufficiently clear, half-kicking the back of Sam's seat. "Literally, _the whole school knows."_

"Not _evey-one-"_ Florence chips in, her little forehead creasing, perplexed at being maligned in such a manner.

_"Practically."_ Elwen groans, throwing his head back against the seat. "Literally, _the whole school knows."_

"_All _the Infants."

"And half of them have brothers or sisters in the Juniors" Will points out fairly. "So, yeah."

_"Everyone_ was pointing at us, Mum" Nancy mutters, letting her forehead rest against the window, her cheeks burning. "Seriously. _Everyone."_

"Oh, bloody-" Sam leans her head against the wheel again-this _would _happen on the afternoon they're all driving up to Chequers. Sarah gives her a sympathetic squeeze of the knee.

Flo is still looking from one to the other, bewildered by the uproar she's created. "We _famous."_

"We're.....not......_famous"_ grinds out Nancy through her teeth, with the air of one who has imparted this information many, many times.

"Flo, you can't go round-" Elwen mutters through his fingers, which he's now hiding behind. "You just _can't_, OK?"

"_Why?"_

"Because it's _bragging"_ Nancy bursts out, turning round to give her little sister her full attention. "People will think you're _bragging."_

Florence blinks up at them, confusion filling her big, blue eyes. "What's _bragging?"_

With a groan, Sam lets her head fall onto the wheel again.

* * *

"I'm always surprised by how big this place is" George remarks, glancing around the living room. "But then I suppose you are _"intensely relaxed about the filthy rich-""_

"Your memory is flattering, Georgie." Peter takes a lazy sip of his tea, leaning back in his armchair.

George arches an eyebrow, and Peter ruminates that he really doesn't know how attractive that is. (Reinaldo knows how attractive Peter finds it, though, which he uses as a relentless source of amusement, the cruel thing.)

Either way, George is prettier than most boys, and at times, appear to be fully aware of that fact and at other times, so unaware that Peter might like it even more.

"Anyway" Peter adds smoothly, taking another sip. "Where are you supposed to be tonight?"

"Dorneywood" George admits, examining his long pale fingers. "Frances and the kids went up this afternoon-I'm driving up tonight."

"I see. Don't go playing croquet, will you?"

George smirks in a way Peter reflects ruefully would be rather devastating to his sensibilities had Peter been a young politico trying to cut his teeth now. "I don't think that's a game my kids are particularly fond of, somehow."

Peter laughs softly. "And will Mr Cameron and his brood be joining you?"

"No." George's dimple peeks out. "They're entertaining at Chequers this weekend. We'd have gone, but I've got to be back in London early Sunday anyway, and we thought we should have some time with the kids."

"What in London is calling?"

"Marr."

"Ah." Peter glances over the rim of his cup. "And much as I relish the pleasure of your company, Georgie, I think I can be fairly certain this is not _merely_ a social call, hmm?"

George smirks again. "I'm touched, Peter."

"You're rather too charming for your own good, dear boy."

George winks. Peter reflects that if George wasn't happily married with children, a wink like that could be dangerous.

"But I have to disappoint you" George remarks, with a grin. "It's about yesterday."

Peter gives him an almost silent "Ah" as George takes a sip of his own tea. For a moment, there's silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the fire.

"Well-what are we going to do?" George says, with those dark eyes widening almost plaintively. "I mean-do we even know for sure?"

Peter sighs. "Georgie, I've known Eddie for longer than I've known you. To see him defend a Tory opponent is rather an unusual occurrence, to say the least."

George frowns slightly. "He always liked Dave, though. Used to come and want a chat about Tory climate policy back when your lot were in-"

"And doesn't _that _just tell the whole story?"

George frowns at him. "What do you mean?" And when Peter merely arches a knowing eyebrow at him, he does a double-take. "Wait-"

He holds up a hand. "You're saying-perhaps-they've felt that way for _years?"_

Peter treads carefully. "It's possible."

George shakes his head slowly. "Dave's totally devoted to Sam. I mean, he still is-"

Another moment of silence passes before Peter remarks, delicately, "I notice you don't opine that Eddie is similarly devoted to his....lovely wife?"

George gives him a long look under his eyelashes. Peter lets himself smirk very slightly.

"Point taken. But, really-" George says suddenly, leaning forward. "Why would you think he's always-they've always-"

Peter shrugs. "Well-there were occasions."

_"You should have heard Miliband" Alastair mutters over the phone. "Sometimes he's got plenty of sense and sometimes he's got no bloody-"_

_"Senior or junior?"_

_"Junior."_

_"And which way did he lean today?"_

_"The former" Alastair admits, grudgingly-he's been less fond of Eddie since he became an MP, and aligned himself ever more firmly with Gordon. "They were talking about Cameron."_

_Peter allows himself a small smile. "Ah" he says quietly, remembering the strange, dazed look Ed had when looking at those pictures of Cameron's little sojourn to the Arctic. "And what was Eddie's view?"_

_Alastair snorts. "You know bloody well."_

_Peter smiles even more broadly. "Ah" he says again, even more quietly, shaking his head and wondering just how argumentatively Eddie had put his points to Cameron earlier._

Now, George rests his chin on his hand, and stares into the fire contemplatively.

"But-the thing is-" He clears his throat. "David does love Sam. I mean, he _is_ in love with her."

"I never doubted it."

George sighs and meets his gaze. "I mean..he's attracted to her" he says quietly, which with that gaze on Peter's own and that word in that voice, makes Peter a little overheated, which it wouldn't do to let Georgie see. "Not just in love with her...emotionally."

"I know" he says quietly, when he can trust himself to speak. "But-one can be attracted-genuinely attracted-to more than one person at the same time."

George smiles archly in a way that Peter could swear is calculated to quicken his pulse. Georgie has learnt well, he thinks, even as he enjoys the sight.

"I suppose you can still have your fantasies." George smiles at him. "Even if you're head over heels in love with someone."

_Oh, dear boy, _Peter thinks. _You have no idea._

(Though he suspects George probably does.)

"But-" and suddenly, George is serious again. "We're not just talking about-" He almost stumbles over the words, but not quite. "Some fantasy, some..._crush._ You're saying-they could-could-could really-genuinely-"

Peter takes his time over the words. "It's happened before" he says, carefully. "Without decreasing....feelings for one or the other."

"Yeah, but that's-that's the thing-" George struggles around the words. "David's-David's not...gay."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Come now, Georgie."

He relishes the tinge of pink in George's cheeks at those words.

"You're a metropolitan Conservative" he teases very gently. "You must know there are more explanations than that alone." He wouldn't be surprised if George had more than intimate knowledge of certain aspects of that, but he'll let Georgie keep his counsel on that one.

"I mean-could it-just happen? A one-off...attraction? Relationship? Even if you're...completely straight the rest of the time?"

Peter can't help but notice that George's cheeks are slowly bypassing pink and crimsoning.

"Like I said" he says quietly. "It's happened before. You can be quite in love with one person, and then fall for another quite unexpectedly. I happen to believe that that doesn't necessarily-weaken-feelings for your current partner."

George stares at him, dark eyes glimmering in the firelight. "How did you know?" he says, abruptly clearing his throat a little.

_Oh._ Interesting.

George blushes suddenly, quickly. "Sorry. That's your business."

"Quite all right." Peter gives him an amused smile, crosses his legs. "I always knew, I suppose."

"Really?"

"Mmm. Ever since I was rather young, when you reach that age when you become-aware of that sort of thing-I just knew." Peter takes another sip of his tea. "Of course, I wasn't open about it, then. It was an _entirely _different time."

"God, yeah-" George winces. Peter smiles at the words. Georgie's got one of those peculiarly anachronistic faces that can sometimes look delightfully odd, with his rosebud mouth quirked around a "hey" or a "yeah".

"I mean, when _I _was young, it wasn't talked about much-I can't imagine-" He looks away, swallows hard.

"Well-" Peter smiles. "The very _act _was illegal until I was 13."

George blushes again. Peter smiles.

"How did you-by the way?" George says, almost a mumble. "I mean-tell-"

Peter smiles. "Well. It wasn't entirely in a manner of my choosing, Georgie, if you remember."

George falls silent. They remain that way for a few moments.

Then, as George takes a sip of tea, Peter remarks, as though it's only just occurred to him, "David changed his mind on Section 28, didn't he?"

George blinks, then nods. "Yeah. I think he-yes."

Peter shakes his head. "No matter. Just-people evolve, Georgie."

George nods, then looks away, then into the fire. His mouth opens and closes. "I-"

He glances back at Peter, holding his gaze in the flickering firelight. "I think I came round on Section 28 more quickly than David" he says quietly, and then looks away, and Peter thinks that that's probably the closest they'll come tonight to an acknowledgement of whatever George has experience of.

"What about Ed?" George says, a few moments later. "I mean-he's never-I've never heard anything-"

"But his relationship with Justine isn't quite the same as David and Samantha's, is it?" Peter observes.

George meets his eyes. _"You _know that as well as I do."

Peter arches an eyebrow.

"You know-" George takes a long sip of tea. "We all _know _why they got married."

Peter sighs.

_"Congratulations" he says to Eddie, with a thin smile. "I heard they were in order."_

_Ed blinks owlishly. "Oh-oh-did you hear about the-"_

_Peter gives him a politely puzzled look. "I meant to you and Justine, Eddie?"_

_"Me and-" Ed's face creases in confusion, before clearing suddenly. "Oh-the wedding! Yeth-I-well-am-yeth, thank you." He turns back to his papers. "It-we-well, we thought-I suppose it's the right time." He looks up at Peter with what is a smile, but is somehow dimmer than a smile should be. "You know-thith way, it fits between work."_

_Peter feels an unpleasant shudder almost creep down his spine._

_"Well, you must be looking forward to the day-"_ _he suggests, taking in Eddie's confused chewing of the corner of his mouth._

_Ed blinks again, then glances up, seeming to have forgotten Peter's there. "Oh. Oh-well-it'th going to be small, but yeth, yeth, sure-" He tries for a smile, a great gappy thing that only makes its' way up one side of his face. "Ah-it'th-it'th just a prothess, really-"_

Now, Peter sighs. "While I won't argue with you on that" he says, quietly, "I'm not sure any of Ed's other girlfriends-ahh-held his sway, either."

"Well, he doesn't seem to have had many."

"Mmm. He once walked out on a young lady mid-_amore_, after she disclosed that she hadn't been to university when he asked her."

"Not in the middle of-I hope?"

Peter smiles. "Thankfully, things hadn't had the opportunity to progress." He pauses. "Sometimes, I wonder if that's why he asked her at all."

George's eyes hold his and a slight crease appears in his brow. "I still can't believe we're talking about this" he mutters, and glances into the fire, then back at Peter. "I mean, it's, it's, it's-"

He lets himself fall silent then, staring at Peter. Peter sighs, carefully lets the now empty cup rest back in its' saucer. "Well....a lot of things in life _are_, dear boy."

* * *

"Because they'll think you're showing _off"_ Nancy tells Florence for what must be at least the nineteenth time as she idles behind Dad in the queue, Florence examining the new hairbands she's been allowed to pick out, pink with glee. "You can't talk about Dad being-"

Nancy glances around to make sure no one's near enough to hear. "About Dad being Prime Minister, OK?"

Florence chews at her toy rabbit's ear. "But now they _know"_ she says earnestly, blinking up at Nancy winsomely. "They _KNOW!"_

She shouts out this last word joyfully, jumping up, little hands waving in the air, making Nancy flinch, Chris the bodyguard nearly jump out of his skin, and Dad clap a hand to his heart, wincing. "Jesus, Flo-"

"That the bad J word" Florence reminds him, winding herself around his leg.

"Yes, I know it's the bad J word-" Dad tries to guide her up his leg with one hand, still gathering his money up, whilst trying to give Florence a one-armed hug. "I shouldn't have said it, should I-"

_"NOOOOOOOO-"_ Dad winces again as Florence half-shrieks this, pressing her nose to her father's with a big grin and cuddling into his chest.

"They know, _now" _Florence informs Nancy over their father's shoulder, big blue eyes peering over his coat. "They _know-"_

Nancy sighs. "Then you just can't talk about Dad's job again, OK?" she says firmly. "Just say Daddy does something in politics, if anyone asks."

Florence screws up her face in confusion. Nancy sighs. "It's a job to do with what Daddy does."

"Pol-tic-ics-" Florence sounds out the letters uncertainly, as the chords of _Wonderwall_ begin playing softly over the speakers, as Dad spins her round gently. "Pol-cic-cics-"

"Poli-tics,-_pol-i-tics-"_ Nancy trails off in the middle of sounding out the word as she realises that Dad hasn't stopped spinning Flo round and is now trying to do something that is supposed to resemble dancing in the aisle.

Nancy considers just climbing into one of the giant fridges and staying there.

"Dad" she mutters, stepping away, frantically trying to calculate just how many people from school are likely to be anywhere near Chequers on a Saturday morning. "_Dad. Stop."_

Something far worse happens, then. Dad starts singing.

_"Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you-"_

Oh God.

Nancy considers just dropping down in one of the aisles and begging one of the guards to put her out of her misery. Then she worries they might not be able to live with the guilt.

_"By now, you should have somehow realised what you gotta do-"_ Florence, who is too young to understand that she shouldn't be encouraging him, burbles along with Dad happily, as he lifts her above his head, though she doesn't even know the words properly. _"I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do-"_

Dad cannot sing.

Nancy wills her feet to move, to march her out of the shop and never turn back. But all she can do is stand still and stare in silent horror at the monstrosity unfolding before her.

_"I said maaaaaaayyyyybbbeeeee-"_ Dad turns and winks at her. "Aren't you going to sing, Nance?"

That's it. Nancy spins round, yanking the hood of her coat up over her head and praying that no one's filming this as she retreats round the corner, deciding that she'll let the bodyguards take the risk of catching her up, and that right now, an assassin crouching on the steps might be the lesser of two evils.

* * *

David puts the song on again in the car.

Nancy, on his left, rolls her eyes and turns to press her head against the window, with a muffled groan of embarrassment. Florence, tucked into his other side, beams and kicks her legs in delight, her little hands clapping together.

_"And all the roads that lead you there are winding-" _David reaches over and jabs his elder daughter's cheek very gently, chucking her under the chin. _"And all the lights that light the way are blinding-"_

Nancy turns her face away, but David can see a small smile peeking out at her mouth in her reflection in the window.

Something about the sight of her little smile, the one he used to gently trace when she was a baby, watching it wobble into sight across her chubby cheeks as she pedalled her little hands through the air at him, aches in David's chest. His head is still aching a little too, with the extra glasses of red wine he'd forced himself to drink last night, with the aim of making his thoughts just muzzy enough that he couldn't dwell on anything before he fell into a heavier than usual sleep, especially not anything that crept even close to the words Ed, Miliband, or Ed Miliband.

Sitting here, Florence snuggled into his side, watching Nancy quietly, something seems to pull very tight in David's chest, and he lets his hand touch hers' gently, savouring the solid warmth of her, the way he had when it had been a long week and they'd had a bad night with Ivan and he used to carry baby Nancy round the cottage, nose buried in her soft, downy head, breathing in her scent, anchoring himself in the real world with warm, tiny kisses to her little forehead, murmuring the words, maybe to this song, into her ear, rocking her in time with his steps.

_Because maybe, _plays thinly through the car. _You're gonna be the one that saves me-_

Those nights, carrying Nancy, her little face would turn towards him, nestled in, a little smile crooking her mouth, denting her dimples into her cheeks, sometimes a soft, happy sound curling up in her throat as he felt her relax against him, her little body a warm, trusting weight, kissing her head, breathing her in, and seeing her little smile deepen, tugging something that felt like the sun out in his chest. He'd have tucked her between his ribs, if he could, held his hands around her under his heartbeat.

Nancy cocks her head towards him now, with that same little smile, and pretends to shove at his arm as he drapes it around her shoulders, words wreathing out of her mouth in a half-giggle. _"And after all-"_

_"You're my wonderwallll-" _Their voices crash into each other, and David hugs them both into his chest, his heart beating hard, wishing he could pull them all between the beats and cradle them there. _"Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me, and after all, you're my wonderwall...."_

* * *

Peter can't count the number of times he's been in this room.

He lets his eyes wander around, takes another sip of his tea. Wonders if he's done the right thing, inviting Alastair later.

Then he thinks of how Alastair looked on Tuesday, and his resolve hardens.

The door opens. Peter's heart rate doesn't quicken quite the way it used to, but he still feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Just slightly.

The man steps into the room with that grin. (Once, it was easy. Now, there are too many teeth to it.) His silvering hair clings to his temples. But he smiles.

"Comfortable there, Peter?"

Peter meets his eyes-blue and sparkling, but paler somehow than they used to be.

"It's perfectly fine" he says, before adding, "Thank you, Tony."

* * *

"So-" Tony still sits the same way, next to Peter, their legs touching, almost too close for comfort. "I thought I was rather _persona non grata _to Labour these days?"

Tony's too easy. Tony was always too easy with things like this.

"Not with-ah-their lot" Peter says carefully. "As I'm sure you're well aware."

"Of course." Tony gives a flash of those teeth again. "You saw your old friend last night, you told me."

Peter can feel the heat in his face at the teasing look in Tony's eyes. But then that was always one of Tony's favourite things, teasing out people's weakest spots, and doing so in just such a way that you're never sure if you should mind or not.

"We actually discussed you" Peter says. "You'll be pleased to know, I'm sure."

Tony flashes that smile. "Of course."

"You and Gordon."

Only someone as close as Peter would have seen that slight flinch in Tony's face, the one that, no matter how much time passes, he can never quite escape. Like Gordon himself. A permanent flinch in Tony's smile.

They'd only brought up Gordon briefly, actually-Peter's well aware of Gordon's and Georgie's fierce and mutual dislike-but the principle remains the same.

"Ah." Tony does that smile, that tiniest of glances away. As though reminding himself how he's supposed to feel about this. "And what was there to say that hasn't been written?"

Peter shrugs very slightly. "You tell me" is all he says, holding Tony's gaze. "I seem to recall you bringing it up to Cameron the other week."

"Well-" Tony volunteers a small grin. "I thought that he would rather enjoy the comparison."

"Between Gordon and Eddie? Or Cameron and you?" Peter smiles. "Or rather, both?"

"I see that hasn't faded, then?"

Peter shakes his head with another, grimmer smile.

"Ah." Tony smiles slightly, shifts an inch closer. "I see."

Peter waits. Tony just smiles, waiting too. For one of them to speak.

"You agree you and Gordon are rather similar, then?"

That flinch again. "Look." Tony spreads his hands. "Me and Gordon were on the same side-"

"Which might, " Peter points out delicate, "have made things worse."

Tony regards him for a second. Then, slowly, cautiously, "Perhaps."

There's a short silence before Peter says "Not that-when did you last speak to Gordon, as it happens?"

Something shutters very slightly in Tony's eyes. "I-ah-I think I got his Christmas card, couple of months back-"

Peter feels that flinch in his own chest. He can see them suddenly, himself and Tony, hunched over a couch in a room like this one, in a time like this one. Two other people hunkered with them.

"Gordon is Gordon" Tony says, with a smile that's too bright.

Peter watches him for a moment, before Tony cocks his head and says "You're worried, aren't you?"

Peter lifts his head, looks Tony straight in the eye. _"We were like lovers, desperate to get to lovemaking"_ he recites, tasting the words on his tongue and savouring the flavour.

The slightest tinge of colour appears in Tony's cheeks, and his brow furrows. "P-Peter-"

"That's what you said" Peter says smoothly, enjoying the moment of discomfort. "In your book. About Gordon."

Tony blinks, the tinge of colour becoming a flush. "What-" He gives that bemused little smile, shake of the head. "What are you getting at?"

Peter leans forward and, looking Tony in the eye, listens to himself begin to explain a new finding to Tony Blair for what must be the umpteenth time in his life, feels himself sink into the role he sometimes breathes in his sleep.

* * *

"Did you decide what you were going to do about it?" Sarah says quietly, as their daughters splash in the pool a few feet away.

Sam, dangling her feet in the water, doesn't pretend not to know what she's talking about. "I don't know, but if we do it, I want to choose who. And how."

Sarah nods, both of them silent for a few moments. "What did Dave say about it?"

Sam sighs, hearing faintly the _thwack-thwack_ of the racquets and balls from the indoor tennis court, where David, Michael and Mark will be running around with the boys-Nancy had joined in for a bit, before deciding the inflatable slides the kids had badgered them into blowing up that morning, now positioned at the side of the pool, were a more desirable prospect.

"That it's up to me." She hesitates. "I think-if it was the other way round, he'd do it." She says it slowly, but then it's Dave. He'd do anything for her.

She can still hear the tennis balls bouncing against the walls, the occasional shout from one or other of the men, Jack's giggles rising high over the older boys' voices.

"I can't do it" she'd said, that summer in Italy, after sending yet another ball wildly away from the court. "Told you I was rubbish."

"No, no, you're not-"

They'd both turned their heads to watch the latest ball, bouncing merrily along, roll slowly into the pool.

"OK, that could have gone better" Dave had conceded.

Sam had rolled her eyes, as Carl helpfully lobbed the ball towards them. "You _know _I'm terrible at this."

"OK." Dave had stepped towards the net, twirling his racquet between his fingers. "Maybe you proved me wrong."

Sam had raised an eyebrow. "When was the last time you said _that?"_

Dave had cocked his head. "What d'you mean?"

Sam had leant over the net too. "You and Tania argued for twenty-three minutes solid at dinner last night. Clare counted."

David had laughed. "Tania's my sister."

"And I'm not?"

Sam had meant the words to come out light, teasing, but they'd come out a little quieter. Dave had arched an eyebrow slightly.

"Not quite" he'd said, with that cocky, boyish grin, eyes softening a little.

Now, Sam sits up, wraps her hair in a bun for when she'll head into the pool herself-Florence, armbands smacking the water, shoots off the end of the slide into the water, delighted squeals shattering through the air.

"Dave recovered pretty quickly from last night, didn't he?"

Sam glances up at Sarah. "Yeah. Never has hangovers. But then he doesn't usually drink that much."

She'd known, from the way Dave had been gulping that wine, rather than savouring it the way he usually does, what he was doing. But then, even without it, she could have known. Known from the way he'd talked very slightly faster, his eyes a little too bright, that he was stiffening his thoughts away from something. She'd known the same way she'd known that day with Emily in the restaurant, watching her father's hand curl slowly into the tablecloth.

The way she'd known a few years ago, storming up and down the bedroom in Tarbuck Lodge, as hard as a sleeping Nancy, cradled against her shoulder, would allow, that same look, of wanting to wriggle out of his own skin, creeping across William's face, and she'd spun round at the timid knock on the door, glare thrown at Rachel's stricken look under her cloud of auburn hair, _Don't you fucking come near my children, _the words snapped out white-hot, lips pressed in fierce, soft kisses to Nancy's peacefully slumbering little head, breathing in the warm, sweet, baby scent of her daughter.

Now, her thoughts hover around the something, an echo like the purple-edged clouds gathering above the glass-walled pool enclosure looming where Dave's put it just out of reach of himself.

* * *

"It's not _funny"_ Nancy says, severely, as Rosie bursts out laughing for the fifth time. "Literally, _the whole school_ knows."

"Yeah, well, what'd you expect-" Bea slides into the water next to her, both of them ducking at the spray from Florence's descent down the slide. "You went and asked _Lola _for advice."

Nancy rolls her eyes. "I don't want to have to make you sit at different ends of the table at my next birthday."

Bea rolls her eyes, ducking under the water and making a grab for Nancy's legs to yank her under.

When they resurface, spluttering and gasping, Rosie's shaking her head. "It's not _that _big of a deal" she says, splashing past them. "I mean, who _cares _if they know who your dad is?"

Nancy and Bea exchange a long look.

"Either way" says Eliza, who, as the eldest, has commandeered one of the lounge-beds, where she's stretched out in a bikini, despite the grey-purple February sky and the glass roof preventing any possibility of a tan, though the heat of the air around the pool is curling the ends of her blonde hair a little. "Everyone'll have forgotten about it in, like, three days" she says, with well-meaning, almost-thirteen-year-old world-weariness. "Like, there's no point stressing over it."

The younger girls eye her, stretched out on the mattress, with a restrained kind of admiration-while they splash about in the pool, Eliza, resplendent on her lounge-bed, seems to belong to another world entirely, one that the three younger girls might reach out to touch, but rear back from at the last moment, almost but not quite ready for it.

But Nancy sighs, and her and Bea exchange another glance. Nancy likes Rosie and Eliza a lot, and they, like Bea and Liberty, seem to have been around as long as she can remember, but there are some things they, like Lola, just can't get.

Plus, it's not the same for Eliza and Rosie-they're at a private school, where half the kids have parents whose names you've heard of at least once. Their mum does interviews sometimes, but it's not the same thing. If you said Eliza and Rosie's mum's name to anyone in Nancy's class, no one would look around once.

If you said Nancy or Bea's dad's names-

Bea meets Nancy's gaze and rolls her eyes. Nancy feels a grin twitch at her own mouth.

One of her first memories is of her hands sinking into the soft carpet of the stairs of Bea's house, pulling herself up on her little hands and knees, on legs not yet confident enough to walk under their own steam, Bea's face, glee creased into apple cheeks, green eyes dancing, chubby hand closing around Nancy's own.

As the boys come clattering into the pool-house, Nancy's hands grip Bea's shoulders, and Bea's scrabble for hers', and they pull each other under the water. They float beneath the surface, sounds from the rest of the world suddenly a bubble outside of them, the silence of the underwater world meaning she can hear her own heartbeat, Nancy's eyes squeezing shut, feeling Bea's fingers gripping her shoulders and her own fastened into Bea's, watching Bea's eyes sparkling, even though Nancy's are shut.

* * *

When Alastair walks into the room, Peter gets the opportunity to appreciate that his friend looks better, at least. His eyes are brighter, but clearer, the mania of a few days previously calmed, the shadows underneath faded.

Peter and Tony exchange a fleeting glance and Peter is reassured of their earlier decision.

Tony had shaken his head slowly, back and forth, when Peter had finished what he flatters himself was a rather concise explanation.

"Peter-" He'd laughed, after staring at him for a long moment, an array of emotions crossing his face. "Peter-I-are you sure you-are you sure you know what you're looking for-I mean-"

"Trust me" Peter says, mildly. "I'm sure."

"Yes, but-" Tony tries the appealing look, head on one side, that Peter might once have fallen for. "I mean-Peter, there've been times before, haven't there-"

"This isn't just me" Peter reminds him gently. "This is Georgie-"

Tony rolls his eyes. "Who, you have to admit, you do have rather a blind spot with."

Peter feels himself blush, remembering Reinaldo's kiss to his neck the previous night, with a mischievous "Have you finished undressing him with your eyes, yet?"

"And not just him" he reminds Tony. "Balls."

Tony blinks.

"Ed Balls."

"I should have made that mistake more often." Tony had winked.

Peter had sighed. "Tom. Bob. Rachel-Neil's Rachel-"

"All right, all right, I-" Tony had held up a hand, and abruptly got up, pacing back and forth, one hand running through his hair, the way Peter's seen him do too many times to count. He looks a bit like Cameron when he does that, or maybe Cameron looks a bit like him.

"I mean-" Tony had let out one of his little laughs. "I mean-are you cer-this is _David_ _Cameron_ we're talking about"

Peter had raised one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Odder things have happened in politics."

Tony had made an incredulous half-choking sound. "Not very many, to be quite bloody frank with you!"

"Come, now" Peter had argued. "What about Major and Currie?"

"Oh, for-" Tony had seemed to gather his breath. "_Firstly_, they were in the same party. Secondly, they were-they were-"

Peter had savoured the decidedly unusual sight of Tony struggling for words.

"You can say it" he'd reassured him smoothly. "It causes no harm."

Tony had still lowered his voice. "They were-they _were _a man and a woman."

"Ah."

Tony had given him that Tony raised-eyebrow look. "Don't give me that, you just told me I could say it."

Peter sighs.

"It shouldn't matter, but it does."

"I'm not naive, Tony." Peter steeples his fingers. "I'm sure that would prove an aggravating factor should any.. _details _of this ever emerge."

Tony had made another spluttering sound. "You mean-you-right. Right."

He'd paced for a couple more moments, clearly deep in thought, before he'd turned back to Peter. "So they're actually-"

He'd gestured helplessly.

Peter had looked back at him politely. "They're actually-?"

Tony had laughed, but slightly bitterly. "Don't. Not right now."

Peter knows when to take pity. "Not" he'd said, softly. "As far as I know. Yet."

Tony had stopped dead. "So-what, this is all, this is all-conjecture?"

Peter had folded his hands into his lap. "Every story starts as conjecture, Tony."

Tony had rolled his eyes, opening his mouth.

"Would I have told you if it was merely conjecture?"

Tony had stared at him for another moment, looked away, paced, before spinning round to face him again. "What does Ali say about it?"

Peter had laughed. "Alastair doesn't know. And-"

Tony had spun round again, one of those little laughs of his wreathing his own mouth. "Oh, no. No, no, no-I am not going to be the one to tell Ali this-this particular little nugget of-"

"As I was saying," Peter had mused quietly. "I didn't think it would be-ah-in any of our best interests-were Alastair to find out. Yet. If ever, in fact."

"Well, what does he _think's _happening?"

Peter had shrugged. "I think he presumes they're just a little closer than he might like." After a moment's silence, he'd added, slyly, "What you have to remember about Alastair-there is a small part of him that's still a working-class Yorkshire boy."

That had raised a small chuckle, before Tony had said, glancing up quickly, "Then why does he think he's coming here?"

"Oh, he doesn't _think"_ Peter had reassured him. "He _knows."_

Tony had blinked. Peter had relished the sight for a few moments, before saying "We're both asking you to perform the same task, you might find. Just-what I just explained to you might provide you with an extra impetus to do so, so to speak."

Tony's lip had curled slightly, into that crooked half-grin, his teeth a little too white. "And what exactly is that?"

Now, they sit on the couch, Tony in the middle-always Tony in the middle-in a way that feels far too familiar.

"Look" says Alastair, whose delicate turn of phrase is never affected by a breakdown. "You need to shut the fuck up about Miliband being pathetic."

"Yes, we're trying to deceive the electorate into believing that he isn't" Peter adds helpfully.

"You are not fucking helping." Alastair glowers at him over Tony's shoulder. "We're fighting this fucking uphill as it is."

Tony sighs, lets himself relax back against the couch, both of his friends turning to look at him. Peter muses over that for a moment-that even now, they all turn to look at him.

"Look" Tony says, holding his hands up in that way that's never changed, even with his silvering hair and the extra lines under his eyes. "Peter was telling me-"

Peter tenses very slightly. Tony allows his eyes to flicker to Peter's, and then gives him a very quick wink.

"That you might have a task for me?" Tony turns back to Alastair sunnily, while Peter tries not to have a heart attack.

Alastair stabs the paper with his finger. "Yeah, stop saying Miliband's a fucking no-hoper."

"Even though he is" Peter adds, mildly.

Alastair rolls his eyes. "For fuck's _sake-"_

"But honestly-" Peter continues, in the same soft tone. "Do you ever wonder when we decided deceiving people was the way to go?"

There's a moment of silence, during which Alastair drops his pen, before snorting so hard that Peter has to check to be sure he hasn't turned into a pig. _"You?"_

Peter shrugs.

_"You? You're _arguing for an end to deception?" Alastair stares at him, jaw still hanging open. "You're hanging up your fucking Prince's cloak-you contort yourself into so many fucking directions, I'm surprised we haven't fucking lost you up your own fucking arse!"

Tony snorts.

Peter sighs, John's old comments washing over him. "I was merely wondering-do you think when we started out, we thought it was going to be like this?"

There's another, longer, moment of silence.

Then Alastair, speaking a little too loudly, says "Well, if we want to get back into power, we're going to have to go down certain fucking routes, aren't we? And they're routes you basically fucking _wrote_, if you remember, so we'd better use them or we'll be fucking staying out."

He stabs the paper with a little more emphasis, but it takes the three of them a moment to look back at it.

"Anyway" Alastair says, after a momentary pause. "If you say something good about Specs, that'd be great but we need something else, too."

Alastair glances at Peter, who says "I discussed this with you earlier-how it might also be helpful-regarding, ah-those discussions."

Tony manages to do a credible job of looking as though he has no idea what on earth this task might be.

Alastair sighs, then exhales. "You know who Specs looks up to. You know who he'd listen to."

Tony gives a convincing widening of the eyes, as though he's a student in plays at Oxford again, before he made any of the choices that led them all here.

"You know-" He laughs, a little taut. "I'm pretty sure-it's rather difficult to keep Gordon away from a campaign entirely of his own volition-"

"I'm not talking about him campaigning." Alastair leans forward. "I'm talking about him-having a word. With Miliband."

Tony looks convincingly bemused. Peter wonders if he himself would be able to tell if Tony was lying, if he didn't already know.

Alastair sighs. "Look. I know Miliband's fucking determined. But it'll take a hell of a lot more than him believing enough people will fall head-over-heels for his airy-fucking-fairy utopia to get his skinny little arse into Number 10. And him hanging around with Cameron isn't helping him fucking any." Alastair fixes Tony with a long, level stare. "Gordon can remind him of that."

Tony smiles sunnily. "What, because he hates David?"

Peter can almost hear Alastair grit his teeth. Tony's going to make him say it.

"Because Gordon's more familiar-with how being too fucking _hung up on _your opponent can cloud your judgement."

Tony laughs. "I don't think Gordon was in very much danger of being hung up on Cam-"

"I wasn't talking about Cameron."

That flinch again. Peter looks away, tells himself it doesn't hurt, hums a little in his throat. He remembers his own words earlier, and smiles wryly.

They sit there for a moment in silence, the three of them where there used to be four.

* * *

"I must say," Michael must-says, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "I do wish the media could see this. Might do a lot to help eviscerate that chillaxing label."

David manages a grunt and a grin, but he has to strain even for that, if he's entirely honest with himself.

He's planned the evening out to himself-he'll do half an hour of work with Michael on some of Jo's edits for the manifesto, then they'll join the kids in the pool for a couple of hours. Then, once the kids are in bed, he'll have a couple of glasses of wine with the others. All of this combined should mean that when he does get into bed, he'll fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Which leaves him considerably less time to spend dwelling on Miliband.

David pushes the name away firmly, then finds it staring up at him, a scrawl of one of Jo's handwritten notes.

It taunts him.

"Are you quite all right?" David looks up to see Michael peering at him, forehead creased.

David shakes his head. "Yeah. No, I'm fine" he manages, shaking his head a little. "Sorry. Just thinking about the tax credits-"

It's a few minutes later that Michael glances over at the pool-house, visible through the long window, and remarks, thoughtfully, "How come I didn't know Allie at Oxford, either?"

"Not surprised." David manages to look up with at least a flicker of his usual trademark grin. "You didn't know me. Managed to know Boris, though-"

"Everyone managed to know Boris." Michael chuckles for a moment, then says, scribbling a quick note on one of the pages, "All the same, I somehow managed to rather avoid your lot, didn't I?"

David chuckles. "Probably good for your political career."

"Mmm." Michael's silent for a moment, during which time David ponders how he actually met Michael, back when Michael was a journalist, an editor at the _Times_, known throughout the Tory Party, and what he might have made of him then-Scottish, though his accent's long since vanished, deceptively serious-seeming with wickedly glittering eyes, bespectacled-had they met at Oxford-

Which takes him on to think about how it turned out he first saw Miliband at Oxford and there he is _again._

David presses his forehead a little firmer against his fist.

He'd sat at the side of the pool earlier, glancing at his phone again and again, daring himself to Google the word.

Then he'd told himself he was being ridiculous, and that all his previous-_inclinations_ meant that he _clearly _wasn't-

He'd dared himself into Googling another word earlier, standing dripping by the shower, and then closed the tab before he could read any of it.

For God's sake, what's _happening _to him?

Earlier, he'd even found himself glancing around, frantically, at his bodyguards. They were men, weren't they? And most of them were nice-looking enough. No-one could say they were ugly.

And George. And Michael. They were men. They've sat in saunas together, swam together, they've even bloody shared a _bed _on occasion, when they've collapsed after a late-night speechwriting session, arms flung over their heads, legs occasionally kicking each other.

And Tom and James-see, he argues with James, too, it's not just Miliband-and Dom, and all of his other friends are all men, they're all, attractive, clever, funny-

And David's never felt _anything._

And that has to prove it, doesn't it?

He doesn't _feel_ anything.

He's not....

He's not-

_Like that._

Not that there's anything _wrong _with being like that, but he's _not. _He never has been.

But then, he doesn't feel like that about every woman he sees either. Allie or Venetia or Liz or Gabby-he might love them, but not the way he loves Sam, and he's never wondered if that could mean he's not perfectly _straight._

Until-

But he can't just-

You don't just become _like that _overnight.

David lets out a barely audible groan.

Michael's hand falls on his wrist. "David, are you sure you're all right?"

David has to fight with himself not to jump away from him as though he's burning hot.

It's ridiculous.

This is _Michael, _for God's sake-Michael, whose arms he's cried in before, who's cried on his shoulder, who he's shared beds and, for God's sake, even bloody _showers _with, and he's never-_never-_felt like that. Like he wanted to-

For a moment, David considers. Maybe he's-maybe-God, do _other _people get this? This weird-_questioning_-do other people-maybe every bloody man gets this at some point and nobody fucking speaks about it-

Maybe he could ask. Bring it up in a roundabout way-

Maybe-

David shakes his head, resisting the urge to slap himself. "Nah. Fine. Just mulling over this referendum pledge-"

What the _fuck_ was he thinking there? _Oh, and by the way, Michael, have you ever considered snogging another man? Maybe shoving your hand down his pants, let's be completely honest here, taking him to bed for the night? While still totally fancying your wife, of course? That ever crossed your mind? Now, what do you think of the pledge on the National Living Wage?_

Taking him to be-

Jesus, don't even go there.

"Yes-" Michael pushes his glasses further up his nose. "I have some-some concerns about that."

David sighs. "Well, we'll need something to keep the Awkward Squad happy. Not to mention our lot going purple."

Michael meets his eyes. "It could cause a serious split in the party."

David hesitates. There was a time, when they first met, when he was as Eurosceptic as Michael.

"Look" he says, leaning back. "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it. Nick'll probably make us drop it in coalition negotiations, anyway."

* * *

"David mentioned" Michael says, putting his book down and turning to Sarah that night, "a referendum."

Sarah puts down her own book, leans back against the pillow. "What, this week?"

"No" Michael says, pretending to take the joke seriously, as always. "After the election. You'd vote Remain."

Sarah turns a page, eyeing, with some suspicion, Michael's red box, which sits in the corner of the Chequers bedroom, just visible from the huge four-poster, calmly watching their conversation unfold. "Probably" she says, already knowing there's more to the question than this. "I mean, Ben lives in Spain, my parents live in Italy-"

She doesn't even need to ask Michael. "And you'd be Leave."

Michael pushes his glasses further up his nose. "David might not."

Sarah looks at him then, puts her book down, and rolls over. She wraps her arms around him, rests her head on his chest.

"It won't come to that" she says, her voice barely above a whisper, feeling his heart beat hard against her. "It won't."

* * *

David has not fallen asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

Or rather, he has. And then he's woken up again.

He's tried every conceivable method of getting back to sleep. It had worked perfectly, at first-he'd managed to fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep for about four hours.

At which point, he'd woken as abruptly as if someone had shaken him, staring up at the canopy, with an image of Miliband curled up on that couch behind his eyes, and his heart beating very, very fast.

He lies on his back, wide awake, shooting occasional glances at Sam, curled up asleep next to him, until, with a groan, he throws back the covers and slides out of bed, the question niggling away.

* * *

It takes him a while to even choose where to sit with the laptop.

Oh, for God's sake.

He eventually chooses one of the living rooms, sits down, and forces himself to open Google.

His stomach's twisting.

He-he can't-

He types in _What are-_then deletes it.

This is stupid, he tells himself fiercely.

He sighs, leans his forehead on one hand, then types it in, almost pouting at the screen.

_Can you suddenly become gay?_

42,000,000 results. At least. Brilliant.

David shakes his head. Gay means only attracted to men. He's not. He knows that.

_Can you suddenly become bisexual?_

Another bunch of websites, mainly forums and some problem pages, and David tells himself he's not desperate enough for either of them.

So what does he-

_Can you be bisexual and not know it?_

Another bunch of results, some of which seem to be aimed at teenagers, and David just closes the page for a while.

What the hell's he thinking?

It's not just-the-whole-Miliband being male issue-though that's a bloody _big _issue, and that's the mildest way possible to put it.

It's-it's bloody _Miliband._

But-he can't-he isn't-

The Stonewall website doesn't really tell David anything he didn't already know, apart from the fact that there is actually a line about taking _"a while to work out what makes them feel comfortable"_, as if the site is openly _mocking _him.

This does not make him comfortable.

Nothing about this is bloody comfortable.

Dear God, he's sitting here, researching _sexuality_ in the middle of the night, like a bloody _teenager._

_"You reckon he's a poof?"_ _Simon had whacked David with a towel as he'd turned round._

_"Ow!" David had grabbed the towel back, sent Simon off with a smack to the shoulder. "Who?"_

_"New beak. A few of the others were reckoning he was."_

_"How can you tell?"_

_"Long hair. Bit-" Simon had dangled a hand limply._

_David had shrugged. "Really? Him?"_

_Simon had shrugged in return. "Don't know. Never met an actual one."_

_"That's all you know."_

_Simon had stared at him a second too long, before David had burst out laughing._

_"Bastard." Simon had slugged him with the towel again. "I'd have been worrying about you checking out my fucking arse next time."_

_"Should write "Queer Bait" on it."_

_"Shut up, or I'll be thinking you really are a poof."_

_The scars just under David's arms had tingled, even as his laughter had echoed too harshly off the changing room walls._

For a moment, David's hand almost reaches for them, then darts away. He could have sworn they were tingling.

He throws the laptop shut, and resists the temptation to slam his own head down on top of it.

For God's _sake._

Abruptly, he stands up, pushing the laptop away and heads for the tennis court. If he can't bloody sleep, he might as well be doing _something._

But even The bloody Clegger-George is still ridiculously proud of having coined that nickname-isn't doing its' job. David grits his teeth, slamming each ball with his racquet as hard as possible, relishing the brief contact, the rush of an ache in his arms each time.

He is not gay.

He is not bisexual.

He is not what any of those bloody websites-

_What makes them feel comfortable-_

Yeah, well, that might be all very well for a fucking_ teenager _who's got all the years in the world to figure this out for the first time, but not for someone like him, who's in his forties and married and in love, with four lovely kids, and who doesn't bloody want to-

David hits the next ball so hard he almost spins himself round.

And not for someone like him, who's thinking about-he almost laughs out loud-bloody, irritating, sanctimonious, _Ed fucking Miliband, _who he's meant to be trying to crush into tiny Labourfied smithereens in a matter of weeks, and who he's meant to be regarding with a mixture of pity and disdain _now._

And-and he really _does _laugh out loud at this thought-what the hell would_ Miliband_ do, if he knew about all this?

What the hell _does_ he feel?

What does _Miliband-_

And this is bloody ridiculous, because of course, Miliband doesn't feel fucking _anything._

Not like _that._

Of course he doesn't, because all these, all these-stupid-bloody _feelings-_

They have to be in David's head.

They have to-

But-but what-

What if-

He doesn't, David tells himself very firmly. He doesn't.

But, even as he hits ball after ball, teeth grinding together, his thoughts probe at it. Like a tongue to a wobbly tooth, daring itself to touch, over and over.

What if-

What if-

David hits a serve wide and snarls in frustration.

He lets his racquet fall to his side, reaches for the control, turns off the machine for a moment. He leans against the net, panting, head on his elbows on one of the posts.

What if-

He tries to imagine-

His thoughts dart forward, then dart back.

Just-his hand touching Miliband's chin-

David almost physically leaps back from the thought, before forcing himself back, forcing himself to imagine it-

Properly-

OK-

Just. Just to _prove-_

Miliband's forehead, touching his. The way they had been in that pool.

No, Jesus-

David cannot deal with the image of a half-half-_naked _Miliband right now.

The couch. That's better.

Miliband curled up on that couch, with those big, dark eyes.

Staring up at him.

That scent of his shampoo that David can just catch, when they're close to each other, when they're arguing sometimes-Miliband, with that bloody pout, that little pitying shake of the head, those fingers-

Oh God.

David feels suddenly light-headed.

His nose touching Miliband's suddenly, right as Miliband's in the middle of one of those stupid, overly-long points, with too many statistics, which he's nodding away to himself over, and then his eyes widening as David's fingers tighten in that dark hair with that bloody grey streak-

Oh God-

Would they-

Miliband's words-all of those bloody words, that he never seems to run out of, dear God-fading into a shocked little gasp against David's mouth, their lips just touching-Jesus, they'd be soft, would they be soft, he doesn't know, what does Miliband's mouth usually look like, oh God, that's _all_ he needs, to look at it _more,_ Christ-their mouths pressing a little closer before Miliband can catch his breath, Miliband's fingers brushing his cheek before he can stop himself, his eyes closing-

David feels his whole stomach sway very pleasantly, a bubbling of excitement deepening inside him, swelling between his-

Miliband's tongue-Miliband's warm, wet tongue on his own, feeling that sigh into his mouth-

Oh God.

Oh God, don't say he's thought about this _before-_

And Miliband's tongue, stroking across-into his-

Miliband's tongue in his mouth, David's groan vibrating in his throat, into the kiss, Miliband's fingers tightening in his hair, his tongue moving more surely, the way he gets when he's arguing, oh _Christ-_

Something jerks, tightens, and David's suddenly so hard he can't catch his breath.

Oh fuck.

Oh _fuck-_

David scrabbles for the button for the control, rams the machine back on as high as it will go, scrabbles for his racquet. He's hitting out before he's even halfway back across the court, slamming his racquet into the ball so hard it hurts, and he keeps doing it, harder and harder, until a spasm of pain wrenches his hand.

_"Fuck!"_ He waves his hand furiously, almost grateful for the ache of pain, for the tears suddenly stinging at his eyes.

"Dave?"

He turns round, his good hand already scrabbling for the remote control, pressing the button so that the noise stops abruptly, the last couple of balls dropping to the floor with soft thuds, louder than usual in the sudden silence. Sam's behind him.

"What are you doing?"

She's standing there in her robe, hand reaching for his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" is all she says, her other hand reaching for his sore one, touching it gently.

David stares at her.

She looks back at him, her hand already cradling his, her soft fingers soothing the ache.

Which is when, very suddenly, and quite embarrassingly, David bursts into tears.

* * *

"Are you sure you're OK?" Harriet asks an hour or so later, in the same concerned tone she used to use when he'd turn up in her office with shadows under his eyes from working late on a speech.

Ed, shifting awkwardly, on the wooden chair, nods. It's better to work-to get his head into something else, so that he's not sitting here, thinking about-

He bites his lip, shakes his head firmly.

"Yeah, I'm fine" he says, in an undertone. He doesn't like getting up early at the best of time- it's given the whole day an odd, slightly surreal quality, almost an edge of deja-vu.

"We're going to get them to intercut it with some of those clips of you with the kids in Brighton" Bob had told him, with a quick pat on the shoulder, before the family they were meeting with were shown into their own kitchen, and that had just made Ed's stomach squeeze unpleasantly as he remembered standing at the foot of that slide, staring at Daniel, forcing himself to clap his hands together and shape his lips into a smile, as though coming down a slide successfully was on a par with the Eighth Wonder of the World, eyes sliding away from Sam, sniffling doubtfully at the top, and then feeling that familiar blankness looking at him, of _What now? What am I supposed to-what do you want-_

One of the cameramen, perhaps simply wanting a better shot, perhaps half-taking pity on him, had called out to him. _Pick him up again._

Ed had doubtfully bent down, fastening his arms around Daniel, shifting his weight awkwardly, making the sort of noises other dads seemed to make when they were wrestling with their kids, watching them roll down hills or race each other round swingsets.

_That's it-_and there'd been a series of camera flashes again.

It had only been a moment but now he's sitting in a kitchen with a dad, who's got a blond-haired little boy nestled happily against him as though he wouldn't be anywhere else, even as Ed asks questions like_ And who picks up the kids after school?, _feeling as though the words don't quite fit in his mouth, which adds to the vague feeling of everything being slightly unreal, even the country-style kitchen they're sitting in, all wood panels and glass-fronted bookshelves and crayon marks ground into the table. Ed didn't know people had kitchens like this.

Except for Cameron, obviously.

"Did you take your two weeks?" he asks the man next to him, who's constantly glancing at the small, wriggling child, who's now been moved to the lap of his grandmother for ease, as though it's been handed to him by God Himself.

The man's face lights up, as though Ed's just asked him about a recent round-the-world trip he's been dying to expand on. Ed stares at him, trying not to look at the child, for fear of being expected to wave at it or smile and not smiling enough or of making it cry, in some way.

"Oh, I took my two weeks" he says, almost glancing back at the child automatically-Ed can guess Cameron would do the same.

"Yeah-but it felt pretty short?" he says, trying to get the conversation back onto the main purpose of it, which is the paternity leave plans, while folding his own hands slightly stiffly in his lap, unsure if he should wave at the child, who's peering over at him or not.

"It felt _very_ short" the man-Ed's trying to remember his name-says emphatically, and Ed's immediately reminded of those two weeks after Sam was born, sitting at home, watching him sleep, wondering if this was really what he was meant to do, dredging himself for some of the elements of fascination that all the other parents seemed to go gooey-eyed over, because all Sam seemed to do, like any other baby, was lie there and sleep, cry, suck, and be changed, and while Ed had been satisfied all those functions were in good working order and he didn't plan to damage them, he hadn't been able to muster much enthusiasm for watching him. It felt rather like being expected to exclaim over a sack of potatoes.

But he was supposed to take it, and he was supposed to enjoy it, and as Justine had pointed out, her voice a little taut, she would have to be at home a lot longer than he would, and she'd looked almost distraught at the prospect, knotting her hands into her maternity smock. He'd remembered the odd look he'd got at one of those summits, a couple of weeks after Daniel had been born, when they'd asked if he'd not taken paternity leave, and Ed had furrowed his brow, not really knowing what to answer.

Cameron had always looked bloody thrilled when he was about to take paternity leave, sometimes practically hopping in those photos of him with whichever new baby it was, his lips pressing themselves all over the baby's little face or head as if he wanted to eat them up.

And God, that reminds him-some stupid documentary's airing tonight, or an episode of it, and Bob had nudged him before they even got into the house this morning, saying, _Got some bits of you saying what you talk about Cameron. Just your kids, that kind of stuff. Should add a bit of colour._

Ed can barely remember what he said, something about _both have young kids _and _compare notes._ He can remember when, though-it was last year, after the State Opening, when he and Cameron were back in the stage where they could laugh with each other again, after Syria-and Ed drags his thoughts away from that-but even then, it could be difficult, feeling their way, which was odd, because things with Cameron, whatever they might be, were never usually difficult at all.

But he'd felt ridiculously happy they could still talk to each other, which he'd told himself was stupid, anyway.

And he's thinking about Cameron again.

* * *

"The _hypocrisy_ here-when I came to office, there were bankers paying _lower tax rates _than the people who cleaned for them-_foreigners _didn't pay capital gains tax, _rich people_ didn't pay stamp duty on the homes they bought-" George draws his finger in a straight line. "We have tackled _all _of those things-it was David _Cameron_ who put tax avoidance at the top of the G8 agenda-l-_Labour_ was the tax avoiders' _friend-"_

George is fairly certain Ed Miliband would be choking on his tea in righteous indignation right now, which makes him enjoy what he's saying all the more.

"We have _tackled _that, it was _wrong_, and _we _have put it right."

"So do you now _support _what Ed Miliband was saying this week-" Marr's easy once you get used to him. "About-erm-British dependent territories being put on a blacklist?"

Jesus wept. Miliband makes it too easy for people.

"Well-first of all, we have insisted these overseas territories, er-automatically exchange tax information with us-"

Since George can almost recite the answer in his sleep, he lets his thoughts roam to what the hell he's going to say at the post-show breakfast.

"But as the-if you want a kind of-if you want a _microcosm _of why the Labour leader is unfit to be Prime Minister, you look at his announcement."

And of course, this is what he's really here for, and having had Miliband buzzing in the back of his thoughts all week, it's making him feel even less kindly disposed towards him or his stupid spending plans than usual.

"He says he wants to put on some _blacklist_ countries that don't have a central register." George raises his hands. "Now, Britain _is _having a central register, because David Cameron and myself wanted Britain to have one. Countries like-"

"We're talking about-" Marr talks across him. "Places like the British Virgin Islands-"

"No, I'll tell you what we're talking about-"

"And Guernsey and so on-"

"The pol-the countries that would be hit by Ed Miliband's policy, would be the United States of _America_, _France,_ and _Germany."_ George ticks them off one by one. "So the _new _British Prime Minister-"

God forbid.

"Would turn up in _Washington _and say-"

It is very, very difficult not to lapse into the nasal imitation of Miliband he usually does at PMQs, and even then, George isn't sure that he manages not to entirely.

_""I'm blacklisting your country"-_he'd then go to _Brussels-"_

And George can picture him actually_ trying_ it, for all that, which he thinks ruefully as his and Marr's words crash into each other. Miliband seems to genuinely _believe _some of this stuff, which is weird, because the man is, by no means, stupid.

"He sai-he said-he-"

"State-dependent territories would be blacklisted if they are tax havens-"

George resists the urge to snort, because he's got no doubt that Miliband would long to shut down every country in the _world_ that didn't comply with his personal rules on tax, and would probably regard it as a kindness to do so.

"I think he makes it up as he goes along" he can't help but chip in, before moving onto "And if you actually look at what he's saying, he's saying he wants to _blacklist _almost _every _country of the OECD-"

Sort of like Miliband and David seem to be, really.

"-because they don't have these central registers-Britain _is _leading by example, it _is _having these central registers, it is _insisting _that it's overseas territories-"

"Sure-"

"Transparently share information with us-"

Which he's got no hope of David or Miliband bloody doing.

"But the _Labour_ leader-"

Seems to be wrapping David around his little finger, and seems, which in any other context would be causing George any number of great joys, to be being wrapped back.

And neither of them are even bloody _thinking_ about what could happen.

"Is simply not fit for office, because he _does not think through _the _consequences-"_

And he certainly isn't bloody doing it right now. Only problem is, neither's Dave.

"Of his _anti-_business, _anti-_enterprise, and _anti-_our partners abroad policies."

With that, George settles a little, letting his thoughts drift to the prepared outline of his next answer as Marr launches into "So if you're so _tough_ on the hedge fund managers-", and then remembers the post-show breakfast he's got to follow.

And then inwardly groans at the person whose post-match analysis he'll be relying on.

And what reception he's likely to get.

* * *

"Get _fucked."_ Balls bellows the last word loudly enough to draw half the faces in the room towards them.

George narrowly resists the temptation to bury his head in his hands and wonder if this could possibly get any more bizarre.

At the next table, their daughters' faces are turned towards them. Maddy's crinkles in a knowing smirk. Balls rolls his eyes, reaches into his pocket, and chucks over a pound coin all without looking at her once, which Maddy catches quite adroitly.

"Swear Jar" he explains without prompting. George shrugs, with a glance at Liberty. "Or Yvette will castrate me."

George shrugs again, far too used to threats of marriage castration. "Anyway" he remarks, spearing another forkful of omelette. "That was quite an overreaction."

Balls snorts, stabbing another chunk of sausage. "That was not an overreaction. There is no fucking response to this which could count as a bloody _overreaction."_

George sighs, glances around the BBC breakfast buffet that all guests are invited to afterwards.

Balls shakes his head. "I can't believe it" he mutters, for the umpteenth time, through a mouthful of Scotch pancake. "I can't fucking believe we're talking about this."

George blinks. "What did you think we were talking about all_ week?"_ he manages, taking a long drink of juice.

Balls glares at him. "It was like a game, then."

"A _game?"_

_"_You know, it was like a-a fucking _dream, _or something-"

"Like your plans for deficit reduction?"

Balls stares at him incredulously. "Seriously? _Now?"_

"Come on, gallows humour eases the noose. Resting round the neck of your career."

Balls rolls his eyes, rests his head on his hand with another glance at their daughters, chattering amongst themselves.

"It still doesn't fucking feel _real, _Osborne." He glowers at him suddenly across the table. "I mean-"

He grimaces. "For God's sake, what are we meant to _do?"_

George shrugs. "For now....wait."

_"Wait?"_

George rolls his eyes as he cuts another piece of omelette carefully. "Yes, _wait._ We've got to tread carefully."

Balls mutters something about "too bloody carefully."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well-" Balls throws out a hand. "What do we do in the fucking _meantime?_ Do we just-sit there and watch them-"

Balls seems to struggle for words for a moment.

_"Consorting _with each other" he finishes, with another grimace.

George chooses his moment, chewing his ham and cheese slowly. "I doubt they'd do.._that_ in front of us."

"For fuck's sake, Osborne, I'm _eating."_

"Careful there, Balls. Don't want to sound like a homophobe."

Balls glares at him over a bulging mouthful of egg. "Come on then, Mr Tactician. Don't tell me you haven't thought of fucking _anything."_

George shrugs. "Actually, no" he says, as lightly as he possibly can. "Not yet. We have to be careful" he adds, spearing another piece of omelette as Balls throws his hands up in the air. "What was your suggestion, stampede the door into your leader's office and accuse him of Jeremy Thorpe-ing the Prime Minister?"

A second look at Balls' face makes George pause, forkful halfway to his mouth. "You _weren't, _were you?"

* * *

"How much have you made?" Liberty asks Maddy, taking a sip of her own juice. "Out of that Swear Jar thing, I mean."

Maddy shrugs, a chunk of sausage dangling from her fork. "Don't know" she admits, frankly. "Ellie started it. You can ask her, I guess."

Liberty's used to Maddy, so she doesn't mind the short silence that follows. Instead, she uses the time to study Maddy's hoodie and sneakers, almost defiantly sporty.

"How come you guys had to drive down?" Maddy asks suddenly, shoving her shoulder-length hair impatiently out of the way.

"We were at Dorneywood. Luke couldn't be bothered getting out of bed." Liberty doesn't even remember starting to accompany her dad to his TV appearances. She's just always done it, even from when she was tiny, toddling along a few steps at a time, Luke next to her, until she remembers sticking her arms up, demanding to be carried, and Dad lifting her up, letting her burrow into his shoulder.

"Oh." Maddy tackles another piece of sausage-Liberty can remember her from when she was tiny too, those same big green-grey eyes staring calmly back, as though it didn't make any difference to her whether Liberty was listening or not. Liberty's always liked it.

"And I had to practice for my Greek dance recital" she explains-she finds the lawns at Dorneywood useful for practicing, especially for keeping it out of view of Dad, who's coming to see her both nights. She wants him to be surprised.

"At school?"

Liberty nods. She can barely remember a week when there hasn't been some recital or competition or performance of some sort at St Paul's Girls'.

"Did-was Nancy there?" Maddy asks this question as casually as any other, except for the fact she pushes her forkful of eggs into her mouth a little more rapidly than usual.

"Nah. They were at Chequers, I think."

Maddy shrugs. Then, as though she's been debating with herself as to whether or not to ask, "It's just, can you ask her if she has my Frank Lampard card? I don't know if I picked it up or not."

Liberty looks at her a second longer than usual. Maddy, still chewing, stares almost defiantly back.

"Sure" says Liberty, with a grin, drizzling golden syrup over her own pancakes. "I'll ask her."

* * *

"Happy Sunday" David proclaims, tossing a pack of Wotsits over his shoulder, which Nancy and Elwen promptly begin a tussle over. "Keep you going until we get to the pub."

Sam takes the moment the children are distracted by the crisps to place a hand on David's knee and give it a quick squeeze.

David hadn't been sure who'd been more shocked the night before, him or Sam. But Sam's arms had been around him almost immediately, her hand pressing against David's chest.

She hadn't made him say anything, apart from making quiet sounds in the back of her throat, and "Shh" gently into his ear, as though he'd been one of the children, younger than Florence.

David, to his shock, had kept crying. He didn't even know where the tears had come from, but somehow, the sobs shaking his chest had been an almost aching relief.

Sam had known this, he could tell by the way she'd just stroked his hair softly, gently gathered him into her chest.

It had taken a while before David had been able to manage any coherent sounds, his body taking great shuddering breaths. "I-" he'd managed and Sam had shushed him gently. "I-I-"

Sam had pressed their foreheads together. "Tell me" she'd said gently, wiping his tears with one hand, even as David had pressed his knuckles into his eyes.

"I don't-" he'd blurted out, looking at her, his voice suddenly ragged-"I don't-I don't-I'm so fucking confused" he'd blurted out and his head had fallen onto Sam's shoulder. "I don't-I don't-"

Sam had hugged him very tightly, then, nestled her chin into his chest, her face into his shoulder, and then she'd said, very softly, "Did you kiss him?"

* * *

"But you wanted to kiss him" Sam had said softly, a few minutes after that.

They'd been back upstairs in bed. Sam had been sitting next to David, resting her head on his shoulder, arms around her knees, and feeling very, very calm.

David had felt himself tilt when she'd asked him the question down on the court, the world tilting in his chest, and his arms had tightened around her.

"No" he'd said, and he'd clutched her tighter, breathing her in, standing right there in the middle of the tennis court, like they could climb under each other's skin.

Sam had known she'd seen David's face, the way she'd seen him wind tighter and tighter all day. It had been like his face was folding in on itself.

"No" he'd breathed on the courts, in a tone that would have said "Yes".

In bed, she'd curled into his chest, felt his heart beat. David's breathing had calmed a little, his arms wrapping around her.

"I'm sorry" he'd breathed, and then "God-"

Sam had reflected, briefly, that she'd never felt luckier to be a child of divorce. Though she's often felt happy for her bizarre family, she'd never quite appreciated what it gave her until then, she thinks.

"Dave" she'd said gently, taking his hand. "I know."

It still twists, though, in her chest, now. It hurts, even though she'd known, she knows.

David had planted a trembling, nervously light kiss on her lips. Sam had put a hand to his cheek, touch like the brush of a dandelion.

"I don't know" he'd blurted out suddenly. "I don't know, I don't know what's going on, I don't know why I'm fucking thinking like this, I don't even know if I like him, I don't fucking know-"

Sam had held him, shushing him. "It's just him, though" she'd breathed quietly, taking his hand.

David had taken a long breath, as though he was about to say it, but not quite yet.

They'd fallen asleep like that, Sam's head on his chest, her thoughts darting and away from the knowledge nestled under her heart, a second beat inside her own.

"You don't have to talk about it" she says now, quietly, straight to him.

David looks straight back at her. He doesn't say anything, but his hand wraps around hers' and squeezes, holding on for dear life.

* * *

"I still don't see why we're not going over there and telling him to yank his head out of Cameron's fucking arse!"

"Nice image, Dad" Grace calls through the open French doors into the dining room, where she's cutting up a sausage, lounging at the table. "I'm only trying to eat, here."

"Yeah, well, everyone else ate three hours ago, you dragged yourself up twenty bloody minutes ago, Gracie-"

"I'm an owl, not a lark" Grace protests, eyeing her fried tomato contemplatively.

"The reason I am not inviting Eddie to-" Alastair rolls his eyes as Peter steeples his fingers delicately. "Remove his head from that-particular orifice-"

_"Orifice-"_

"-would be the practice of reverse psychology, for one thing."

Alastair blinks.

Peter sighs. "Would you require an explanation?"

"I see a fucking shrink, Peter. I think I fucking know what reverse fucking psychology is."

Peter arches an eyebrow. "Always the lady."

"Fuck off."

Peter smiles as he takes another sip of tea. "I meant that-making Eddie stay away from Cameron-might have the opposite of our intended effect."

Alastair glares at him. "What?"

"Well-" Peter muses. "Haven't you ever heard the saying, _"Absence makes the heart grow fonder"?"_

"It doesn't bloody work with you" Alastair mutters.

Peter gives him an exaggerated look of feigned deafness.

"No, Peter. In 57 bloody years, I have never once managed to hear that fucking saying."

Peter sighs. "It could make the prospect of engaging with Cameron a more attractive one."

"That was fucking _sarcasm_, for fuck's sake." Alastair smacks his hand down on the arm of the chair. "Miliband fucking _hates _the Tories."

"Ah." Peter holds up a finger. "But I didn't say the _Tories._ I said _Cameron."_

Alastair snorts. "Same difference."

Peter smiles, with a glimmer of fondness. "You always were more tribal than you claimed to be" he says, with the flicker of a grin.

Alastair rolls his eyes. "Is that meant to be an insult?"

Peter steeples his fingers, rests his chin on them to study him quietly. "No" he says, almost a little regretfully. "Not quite."

There's a short silence.

Then, "Of course, you could never quite get to grips with Carville and Matalin-"

"I liked them bloody fine-"

"No, no-" Peter shakes his head. "I mean-you could never quite grasp how they managed it."

Alastair shrugs. "I was friends with Alan. And-"

Peter examines him a second longer. Then, "No. I know."

Alastair frowns, but Peter turns away slightly, leaning back on the couch, as Grace wanders through, having cleared her plate. "Hey, Uncle Peter." She presses a kiss to his cheek, then waves at Alastair.

"Hello, Gracie." Peter twists in his seat to look at her. "All finished?"

"Breakfast or life?"

Peter considers. "Either."

Grace winks, then heads to the door, combing out her curls with her fingers. Alastair grins fondly at her back, and, meeting Peter's gaze, frowns. "What?"

Peter shakes his head. "Nothing. Just-" His eyes glaze with something sadder. "Poor little Daniel Peter."

"Yeah. They could have actually given him that name, the kid's life would be far fucking worse." But then, Alastair leans back in his armchair. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

Peter looks more closely at him now, voice softer. "You look better."

Alastair meets his eyes, knows they're both remembering the same thing, those roses in Peter's hands, that constant tightening at the edge of Alastair's thoughts, tipping them this way and that in that hospital room.

Now, he looks back at Peter through clearer eyes, the shadows underneath faded, the thoughts easier to grasp, hold still, examine.

"Yeah, I'm a lot better" he says, and Peter smiles.

* * *

"Oh, God-" and Nancy rests her head on the table. "Dad, please, _don't."_

"Everyone'll stare" Elwen agrees plaintively. "Literally, _everyone."_

"Oh, come on" David argues, slightly irked by the looks of horror on his two elder children's faces. "It's Monday, they'll all have forgotten about it by now-"

"How old _are _you?" Elwen mutters.

"Dad" Nancy mutters, without raising her head. "You don't get it. The _whole school knows."_

David gives Sam an appealing glance, only for her to give him a sympathetic squeeze of the shoulder.

Flo, perched on his knee, tugs his chin round to face her. "Want_ Daddy_ to take me to school."

"Yeah, well-" Elwen mutters, shovelling in another spoonful of porridge. "If you hadn't gone and told everyone, he could."

David isn't in the best of moods when he reaches his office-taking the kids to school isn't something he gets to do every day.

He and Sam haven't talked about _it_ yet. Not by design, but more because he and George had to go over the week's business and they'd got back a little later than usual anyway, and after they'd got the kids to sleep, David had felt like collapsing into bed too, particularly after Saturday night.

They will, he knows.

But, it feels like-

David's not sure.

Like it's hovering, right there at the edge.

"Oh, bloody _hell"_ George says, right as David walks into the office.

David freezes. "What?" he says, stomach dropping unpleasantly, even as he tells himself not to be so stupid, he hasn't _done _anything-

Slowly, George lifts his head from his desk. "You know that Labour donor we got in at PMQs last week?"

"Rosenfeld-"

"Rosenfeld-"

"Yeah, Rosenfeld-"

_"Andrew_ Rosenfeld-"

"Yes, yes, I know, Andrew Rosenfeld, what _about_ him?"

"You're not going to fucking _believe _how he's gone and one-upped us now."

David stares at him. "How?"

George throws his hands up in the air, then lets them fall onto the desk. "He's only gone and bloody _died."_

* * *

Ed sits still after they tell him.

He sits in his seat for a long moment, then pulls his legs up, wrapping his arms around them, resting his cheek on his knees.

He supposes he'd have called Andrew one of his friends-and now he's dwelling on what Cameron said on Thursday _again, _as if that afternoon doesn't keep popping into his head at the most inopportune moments already, and why in God's name is he thinking about the warm, sweet smell of Cameron's aftershave when he's supposed to be _grieving, _for fuck's sake-

He tries to grab tight to some of the numbers he's been going through with Simon and Ayesha for PMQs, running them back and forth through his fingers.

He thinks back to the last time he saw Andrew. It must have been a few months ago. At Andrew and Juliet's house, at some sort of dinner party, with Andrew clapping him hard on the shoulder, Juliet talking in her quiet, soft voice. Ed had always found her comforting when they were dating, the way she would squeeze his hand and let him talk.

He'll have to phone her.

Ed opens his mouth a couple of times, as though he can shape the cold, ragged hole carving itself out in his chest.

He just presses his face into his knees, hugging himself tighter, and waits for the feeling to fade.

* * *

_"My _job is to run the country" David's telling an excited little boy, bouncing up and down at his feet. "Just like your headteacher has a team of teachers to help her, I have a team of ministers to help me."

David loves visiting schools. If he could, he'd visit a primary every day. It's almost as good as being around his own kids for taking his mind off other things.

Things like dark hair and dark eyes and how he is absolutely, not on your life, bloody-

"It's quite similar to running a schoo-do you have a school council?" he asks, watching the little boy twist happily at his feet, pink with glee. "Who's on the school council-anyone here-what do you do on the school council-" he asks, pointing at one particularly excitable child, who has an explosion of wild blonde curls and seems as though she might conceivably burst if he doesn't pick her, and she launches into a stream of excited chatter, which helps to smother any unwelcome thoughts.

_"What the fuck were you thinking?" he asks Greg, pacing the living room for the umpteenth time, thanking God the kids are in bed, and wondering how the hell he hadn't known, for God's sake._

_He's been around Greg, talking with him, laughing with him, even sharing a bloody tent with him, and all the time, he's been-_

_Greg raises his head, staring at him. He looks wrung out, eyes red, hair sticking up all over the place. "I didn't plan it" he says, in a hoarse whisper. "I barely knew it was happening, David."_

_David stares at him, bewildered, spreading his hands. "Not kn-how on earth could you not know it was happening?"_

Several minutes later, having been shown into a classroom, where a group of kids about Nancy's age are gathered around him, most of them glancing, slightly awed, at the cameras, all David can think of is whenever he last spoke to Greg.

He shakes his head fiercely. God, what's he thinking of? Trying to get _advice-_

About _what?_

Oh _God._

David has to resist the temptation to bury his face in his hands, for fear of terrifying the little girl next to him, who seems about the same age as Nancy and who is watching him quietly out of big eyes.

Greg's standing down in a few months. And they're not as close as they used to be, and they've seen each other less since he left the Cabinet.

He can't just turn up on his bloody _doorstep_, bothering him with something like this _now._

And Miliband just got that news about Rosenfeld, his thoughts hitting Miliband's name for the umpteenth time. David's almost given up counting.

David's grateful when the little girl starts solemnly elaborating to him on her plans for what she calls a "chill-out room", which is more interesting than it sounds, but now he's remembering the way Miliband's nose twitches in his sleep, like a rabbit.

Oh, _hell._

* * *

David should not feel nervous doing this.

It is perfectly _usual _to-

But this-

It is not perfectly usual for a party leader to go to pass his condolences on to another party leader while simultaneously trying to ignore the idea of him and that party leader possibly, conceivably, on any planet-

Oh, for God's sake.

David knocks on the door.

He waits, but when he doesn't hear a "Come in", he pushes the door open cautiously. "Miliband?"

Miliband is sitting at his desk, staring into space. His big, dark eyes are gazing into the middle distance, looking lost.

Oh, God.

David tells himself as firmly as he can that this is just a bloody _courtesy call, _and that he will not, under any circumstances, go anywhere near Miliband.

"Ah-Miliband-"

It takes a moment before Miliband blinks and looks up.

"Oh-" His head jerks a little. "Oh-um-you-hi-"

David becomes aware he's leaning against the door frame again, and hastily yanks himself upright.

"Hi, you." His voice comes out soft and fond.

David curses himself.

For God's _sake. _Miliband can't just content himself with crawling under David's bloody _skin-_oh no, he has to turn him into some wide-eyed, mush-mouthed _teenager_, of all-

"Hi....you" says Miliband, as though testing the words, and David's stomach does a ridiculously happy wriggle.

"Ah." He becomes aware that he's still standing by the door and pushes it closed behind him, moving further into the room a little awkwardly, suddenly very conscious of his arms and his legs and how big they are, and how awkward they suddenly feel.

"I just wanted to-ah-let you know-Miliband-that I-ah-"

He sounds like one of the old beaks at Eton trying to express sympathy. Absolutely bloody brilli-

Miliband's staring at him and David just about manages to stop himself throwing his hands up.

"I heard" he says, more quietly, moving closer to the desk. "About. About Rosenfeld."

Miliband's wide-eyed look flinches. Something shutters in his eyes.

"Oh?"

David's chest crinkles in on itself at that _look_ on Miliband's face.

"I'm sorry" he says, not caring that his voice is even softer now, that he's taken another step _round _the desk, rather than to the chair on the opposite side, safely _away_ from Miliband. "I know he was your...friend."

For some reason, that makes Ed flinch.

When Miliband speaks, David can _hear _him trying to clip the words short. "Thanks."

David fumbles for something else. (This should not be him. _Miliband_ fumbles. Most definitely. _Miliband_ is the fumbler in this relationship.)

(Oh God, not _relationship.)_

"I-it-your statement was nice" he manages, and immediately wants to punch himself in the face.

"Yeah-well-thankth-" The only consolation, as David is rapidly finding it hard to ignore the fact that last time they saw each other, they were leaving a house where they'd just practically slept _curled up against each other_ for three hours, is that Miliband too seems to be casting his eyes around the room for something to say, his gaze creeping to David, then slipping away whenever David might catch it.

"I'm sorry."

Miliband manages a little half-shrug. "I doubt you had anything to do with it" he manages, with an attempt at a quirk of a smile.

The silence that follows is alive, buzzing.

"Look, are you all right?" David hears himself blurt the words out at the same moment that he realises he's stepped round the desk.

Miliband stares up at him, all big, dark eyes, and that bloody irritating little _pout._ "I-"

"I mean-" David has no idea how he has managed to completely forget all that he was promising himself so firmly earlier.

(He chooses to believe he's forgetting, not ignoring.)

"He was a friend."

That flinch again. David's chest aches with it.

"I-" Miliband's lip trembles slightly.

Oh God, don't let it do that, don't let it do, oh God, Miliband, just don't look like-

David tells himself that's what does it.

(And maybe it's everything about Miliband that does it, with those eyes and that tremble, and all this, underneath every trembling heartbeat, all this, all this-)

David doesn't know how, but he's next to Miliband's chair. An arm is out, fumbling itself around Miliband's shoulders.

He's hugging him.

He's half-hugging Ed Miliband-and that should be a _hell _of a lot more shocking than it seems-in his office, one hand awkwardly half in his hair.

Miliband's whole body tenses. David freezes, tells himself to pull away, pull away _now, _make some joke, blame the whole thing on tiredness or impulse or some bizarre, post-death aberration, there must be such things as this, he'll have Gavin look it up-

Miliband's spine melts under David's hand, which is now rubbing his back in slow circles, where it's decided it wants to be while David was still agonising about where he should want to be.

David would need to think about this, except for the fact it doesn't stop at his spine-Miliband just melts into his chest with a little sigh, as though that's all he's been waiting to do all along.

* * *

Ed blinks.

His face is pushed into Cameron's chest. Cameron's hand is rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. One hand's half-caught in his hair. Ed can hear his own heartbeat, can feel Cameron's beating wildly against his cheek.

What-

What's he-

He feels David's hand slow, his body tense. "I-um-"

One of his hands slides away from Ed's hair and Ed's hand moves without him even thinking about it.

It takes David's hand-just closing over it, dragging it back to his hair.

Don't say anything, he thinks, almost whispers. Please. Just don't say-

David's hand starts to move in slow, almost tentative circles again.

Ed can't catch his breath. He can't move. His head is pushed into Cameron's crisp shirt, he can breathe in his warm, sweet smell, he-

"It'll be all right-" Cameron's breath is a hot whisper in his ear and it makes Ed shiver, goosebumps raising themselves on his neck, a little sobbing breath escaping from his throat. David's hand pushes itself further into his hair, as if it wants to do something else.

This is-

Ed's breath catches in his throat.

They shouldn't be doing this.

This shouldn't be-

This-

He-

He can hear Cameron's words from last week, echoing in his ears.

"I-" He feels himself tense again and Cameron's hand slows, then stops.

"I-um-"

Cameron moves again, then stops.

"I-er-"

Ed leans back.

This is-this is _Cameron._

"I-um-ah-thankth-" He wants to adjust his shirt collar, but Cameron's hand is still in his hair. "Um-thankth, Cameron."

Cameron, he can feel, is tensing too.

Ed sits there, Cameron's arm still half-around him, cheeks burning, wanting to lean in, push away, to, to-

God, it's _Cameron, for God's sake._

"Don't do that." Cameron's voice is only barely above a whisper.

Ed blinks. "What?"

Cameron takes in an odd, shuddering breath. "Just-don't."

"Don't what?"

Ed can hear irritation prickling in his tone, but his heart's beating faster, because Cameron's almost saying something, but not quite, his voice just touching it, and-

Ed leans away, just slightly. He's staring up at Cameron without realising it, knows his eyes are almost painfully wide, his heart suddenly rapid, sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades, oh God, don't, don't, don't, please, don't, don't, do-

"It'th just-" He leans back, barely realising that Cameron hasn't even replied.

"It'th-you-"

Ed snaps his mouth shut, before he can say anything else, oh God, don't say anything else-

Cameron stares at him, then steps away. "Fine. I'll go."

His voice is that clipped, curt, posh tone that Ed's so used to. Ed stares at him, as Cameron turns away from the desk without another word, running a hand over his face in one quick movement before heading for the door. And it should be far easier to hate, to hold onto this Cameron-

"It'th jutht-you-you didn't even know him." His own voice comes out plaintive, thin.

Cameron stops, half-turns towards him. "I know you."

Ed's voice is smaller than he'd like it to be. "You were going on about him at PMQs-"

"And you were going on about half my donors, you bloody know you were-"

"I know, jutht-"

Just. It doesn't seem entirely-usual that Cameron's just-just-just bloody half-hugged him over someone who last week he was dragging him over the coals over when _Cameron _was the one in the bloody wrong-

"Jutht-you-" Ed can't get the words out, can't find the words, so he's saying "Why did you want to see me?"

Something shutters in Cameron's face. "I'm starting to wish I bloody hadn't now, if I'm honest with you."

Something flinches in Ed's chest.

"It's just-you didn't even like him" he says and even though he says it hopelessly, the words come out whining, curling up at the end like a toddler's.

David stares at him a moment, forehead creasing very slightly, and then something softening the tiniest bit in his eyes. "But I like-"

He stops, letting the sentence hover in the air, then turns and walks out of Ed's office without another word, leaving Ed, heart still pounding, staring after him, alone.

* * *

"I wanted to" David breathes, when he can't take it anymore, when he grabs Sam's hand so hard it must hurt.

The auction's in full swing around them. Andrew's up at the front, hands gesticulating, as he reads out the latest lot.

"Sam" David murmurs, and to his horror, he feels his throat swell.

Sam takes his hand immediately, gently, pulls him up. Everyone's absorbed in the auction now, eyes turned away from them, even George's next to him.

The Black & White Ball might be a fundraiser, but it's the bit at the start that matters, when people's heads crane round for a glimpse of the guests, to see who else has managed to let their names slip beneath the headlines via a private guest list and paparazzi being prohibited.

And fortunately, it's an auction, which means that right now, everyone is intensely focused on their minuscule chances of winning a two-week holiday to the Caribbean, which they could probably pay for three times over out of next week's wages anyway.

Sam leads him by the hand, fingers tight around his. They keep moving until they reach the white-walled lobby, Sam's heels clicking on the tiled floor through the pillars, until they reach one of the white couches, where she gently pulls him down, and takes his hand in both of hers', rests their foreheads together.

"Tell me" she breathes, letting his fingers squeeze hers'. David squeezes his own eyes shut and tries to breathe slowly.

He isn't even sure how it got to this point. Two hours earlier, he'd walked up the steps of the hotel with Samantha leaning into his shoulder, Frances tugging George's arm as they headed up to where Michael and Sarah were waiting for them-Andrew and Gaby would be in the hall already, helping set up.

"You look like something out of a high school movie" Sarah had informed him. "Like the prom king and queen."

David had snorted, spinning Sam a little, feeling other people's gazes stray towards them, some phones flashing. David had known they were looking at them, eyes roaming to them over and over again. He'd pulled Sam in to kiss her, relishing the softness of her hair through his fingers, and the three couples had walked into the foyer side by side, that bubble of difference around them, the same one that he'd felt at Oxford, CCHQ, walking into Downing Street, everyone's eyes roaming to them, until you can almost stop not believing that they will.

And now, less than two hours later, he's sitting on a couch in the middle of the lobby, clutching Sam's hand like a child and trying not to cry.

Sam presses her cheek against his, doesn't say anything for several moments. David thanks God that most of the guests are inside-God alone knows what the_ Mirror _would do with this headline.

"I can't stop thinking about him."

David's voice is a whimper. He feels Sam's arm tense around him.

"I love _you"_ he bursts out, lifting his head, grabbing for her hand. "I love _you, _I love-and then-it was, it was-in the-I just thought about him-and-and-"

He can't stop. It had been sitting in that auction, reaching for Sam's hand, that for a second David had seen his own hand landing over Miliband's, giving it a squeeze.

It had been the sheer ordinariness of the image that had made David's chest seize, his eyes suddenly prickle. He-he-

He can't stop thinking about him.

Miliband's there. Like a heartbeat.

"I wanted to kiss him" he whispers, and presses his face to Sam's shoulder, waiting for her to snap.

She doesn't. Instead, she wraps her arms around his head and just holds him tight, until his breathing steadies, and he can lift his head again.

Sam concentrates on breathing slowly. In and out.

She just holds David to her quietly, tells herself to focus on the next few words in front of her.

"All right" she says, slowly, reminding herself to breathe. "It's all right. It's all right."

"I'm scared." David's voice is a half-whisper into her shoulder.

Sam's heart twists. "What of?" she whispers back, smoothing his hair.

"This." David's voice is ragged. "All of it. You and the kids-and-what-and _this-"_ He looks up at her suddenly, blue eyes wet and anguished.

"I don't feel like that" he says suddenly, almost fiercely. "I mean....not before. I'm not...._that."_

Sam nods slowly at this. "OK."

David shakes his head. "No, you-I'm _not_-but-" He shakes his head. "This isn't me" he whispers fiercely. "This isn't who I-why is this happening to _me?"_

Sam hugs him tight into her chest, wipes at her own eyes with her wrist, their hearts beating hard against each other. "It's all right" she whispers, over and over. "It's all right. It's going to be all right."

They sit there for several more minutes, David's head pressing into her shoulder. Sam's voice, when she hears it, seems to come from a long way away. "You care about him."

David takes a ragged breath, which is as good an answer as any.

"And you love me."

He nods fiercely at that.

"Ok" Sam says, smiling hopelessly, even as she tries to hold the two statements to each other, two statements that should be impossible to touch, sliding and tilting in her hands together. "It's OK."

She holds him until the words become rhythmic, almost, a song in his ear as she holds him tight, the two of them curled around each other in the middle of the white, pillared lobby, the only real things in the room.

* * *

"Hi. Um-hi." Ed curses himself, fumbling with the words.

There's a short silence. Then he hears Juliet's voice, soft and faint, as though stretching across a huge distance. "Oh, hi, Ed."

Juliet had been easy to date. That was the main reason Ed had dated her. Listening to her now, with the same soft voice, he feels a pang in his chest, and struggles for something to say.

"I-I'm really th-sorry" he manages. "I jutht-I-God." Another pause, then "I don't know what to say."

There's a pause, then suddenly, almost unbelievably, a soft laugh. "I know, Ed" she says, with the same quiet voice she'd used during the course of their short relationship. There's always been something comforting about Juliet, something easy to sink into.

But Juliet-Juliet should have had more from him.

On paper, they went well together. But those paper....paper doll sketches just hadn't danced into real life, for some reason.

He can still remember sitting on the bed, the wooden headboard digging into the back of his head, that girl's hands on his cheeks, kissing his neck, mouth too warm and wet, even though she wasn't doing anything wrong, she was pretty and smart, and this was what he was supposed to be doing, what boys were supposed to be doing, but he couldn't feel it, he couldn't, and he could feel that panic gnarling tighter and tighter in his chest, and then his hands were fastening into her shoulders, pushing her back a little too hard, and the words were fumbling themselves out of his mouth-"Where did you go to university?"

For a second, he almost asks to speak to Andrew. The words are there in his throat, and then he has to swallow them down, as the remembering clenches tight in his chest.

God, why's he even _thinking _about all this? He should be thinking about Juliet, for God's sake.

"I'm so sorry" he breathes again, pathetically. "I-do you want us to come over-I'm sure Justine could-"

There's a long sigh at the other end of the phone, a sigh exhausted with all the tears. "No, it's-it's really sweet, Ed-but-you know, we just flew back-and my mum and dad are here and-" Her voice catches. "Andrew's parents."

Ed's chest clenches tighter.

"I see" he says, and then says, "Juliet, I-"

She manages to laugh.

(Even amongst all this, she manages to _laugh.)_

(But then, she was always a nice girl.)

"It's all right" she says, her voice catching again. "It's all right, Ed."

"I didn't know he was ill" he says, hopelessly, the need to justify himself rising up in his chest. "I didn't know he was-he-"

"He didn't want anyone to know" she says quietly. "We didn't expect it to be so-" Her voice catches. "He got onto the drug trial at the last minute."

Ed closes his eyes, wishing he could cry.

"Nicola's here."

Ed swallows hard, not sure if he wants to cry or not. "Nicola's there?"

"Well, yeah." There's a pause, then Juliet's voice, even quieter. "It's quite nice, actually. I mean, they were married for years, and they were together for-for-God knows-so it's kind of nice. You know, to have somebody who-when you say something about him, they-get it, you know? The way no one else can."

Ed swallows hard.

"You're happy, now?" he'd said, leaning against the buffet table a couple of Christmases ago, in the Rosenfelds' huge, wood-panelled drawing room, trying to ignore the whispers of _champagne socialism_ that he could already feel brushing his skin.

"I mean-"

He'd stopped, fumbling for a word that would grab _affair _and _headlines_ and _divorce_ in a parcel and tie them up with a neat little bow without actually touching any of them at all.

"Yeah, yeah" Andrew had managed to almost boom, clapping Ed on the shoulder-Ed had tried not to wince. "I mean-"

His face had clouded over for a moment, the light dimming in his eyes.

"I'm not saying it was the right way to go about it" he'd said, much more quietly, staring almost unseeingly across the room, packed with guests, _Wonderful Christmastime _playing, a soft undercurrent. "But I didn't plan it this way."

Ed had nodded awkwardly, taking a sip of his Diet Coke for something to do.

"I mean-I didn't think this is how it would work out" Andrew had elaborated, gesturing a little wider now. "For me to be happy-I didn't know this is how things would have to work out for me to be happy."

He'd glanced at Ed, then. "I hate what this has done to-" he'd breathed.

Ed had swallowed, eyes darting away awkwardly.

"But-it sounds like something I'd never have believed before. But it did...just happen. I wasn't looking for it. Neither was she."

Ed had nodded quickly, hoping to reassure Andrew that he's understood, even if Ed only really grasps the words.

"It's strange-" Andrew had mused, staring out at the room. "You can think one thing makes you perfectly happy, can go through your whole life, not even-_touching_ it once, job, marriage, kids, everything, and then-something else happens, and it's like it....God, I don't know, picks you up and drops you down somewhere else and when you sit up again, you're looking at everything from a completely different-angle or side or, I don't know. Somewhere-you've never-you know, you've never even thought about-feels like-like you know it, like it's-like it's your home."

Now, clutching the phone, Andrew's words echoing in his ears, Ed suddenly has the odd thought that Juliet's the last person he would have thought would have an affair with a married man.

She was always a nice girl.

Ed suddenly thinks of himself earlier, his eyes staring up at Cameron, his heart still beating hard enough that Ed can almost feel it now, hours later.

"Juliet" he says, and her name catches in his throat.

He says "Nothing" before she can even ask what, and he squeezes his eyes shut before he can even picture Cameron's face, that little shutter in his blue eyes, the brush of his hand on his neck, he tells himself.

* * *

"I'm sorry" David says hopelessly, when Sam brings them each a cup of hot, strong tea. "I-I'm sorry. Honest to God, I'm so sorry."

Sam just climbs onto the bed next to him and puts her arms around him. He breathes her in, her lotion, her sweet-smelling skin.

"But what does it _mean?"_ he says to her, his chest aching. "What does it-what does it-what does it mean, what does it make me-"

Sam's eyebrow arches just slightly. "Does it have to make you anything?" she says softly.

David just stares at her. "Well-yes."

Sam shrugs, leaning back on the pillow next to him, her dark hair spreading out artlessly beneath her. "Why? It doesn't mean anything different about _you."_

David props himself up on one elbow to stare at her incredulously. "It doesn't-how could it _not _change anything about me?"

Sam watches him for a moment, then leans towards him, propping herself up to stroke his cheek. "I don't know" she says, honestly. "Maybe it would change you to you. Maybe not to me."

David blinks at her. "Can you-are you really saying you're all right with this?"

Sam lets her arm fall back over her forehead. "Not-well-I don't know-" She stares up at him from under her arm. "I mean-maybe-I don't know-" She raises herself up on one elbow. "I just know you haven't _asked _for this."

David stares at her, then, slowly, threads his fingers through hers'. "I-I thought most people would-"

Sam just watches him quietly.

"I remember my dad, when I was little" she says quietly. "I remember the day he left."

David's heart clenches. "Do you-want that to happen-" His heart's pounding, each beat shrieking _the kids, the kids_, he needs them, they make him breathe-

Sam stares at him, then raises herself up on an elbow. _"No"_ she says, very firmly. "No, I don't _want _that-I just-remember-my dad fell in love with Victoria."

There's a silence.

"I mean, they didn't ask to" Sam says. "But they did. They just didn't-talk about it, first."

David looks at her. "Would-would that have been better?"

Sam looks at him, opens her mouth, then closes it. "No. No, I-I don't _think _so."

They're both silent for a few moments.

"I can stay away from him" David blurts out, and when Sam raises her head, he turns over. "I mean-I have to see him at work and things, but-outside of that-I could-we could stay away from each other, we could manage it-"

Sam's shaking her head even before he can stagger to the end of the sentence.

"You know it wouldn't work" she says softly, kindly, stroking his hair. "You know it wouldn't."

"But-" David falters. "If-if you want me to-"

"It's not me that wants you to, though, is it?" Sam curls in a ball against him, to let him play with her hair.

She sighs. "Dave, it's not going to go away if you just pretend he doesn't exist. Or _it _doesn't exist."

"I didn't mean-" David presses his face into his hands, hard enough that lights flare behind his eyelids. "I just-it's-he'd probably never even-"

The idea of Miliband _ever _having any bloody idea about this makes David's whole body cringe.

"He'd probably-God, he'd be-"

He curls his legs around her knees. "He doesn't-feel like this" he says, forcing the words out, because-"He _can't."_

Sam doesn't say anything to that, just nuzzles her chin over his shoulder.

"He can't" David says, weakly.

Sam takes his hand.

"What do I do?" David asks hopelessly, trying desperately to ignore the fact she hasn't conceded to him on that one, trying to firmly press down the very faint flutterings of something between his ribs that feels ridiculously like _hope._ "What do I-if I can't stay away from him-"

He falls silent.

Sam plays with his fingers between hers'. "It might seem easier at first, but it'll-if you ignore it-"

She turns over suddenly to look at him. "If you ignore it, it'll always be there. Even if you think you're living past it, it'll be _there, _won't it?"

David squeezes his eyes shut. "Then what-what _should _I do?"

Sam says nothing, but slowly curls over his chest, head resting over his heart. She doesn't make him hear the answer yet. Instead, they lie there quietly, one of his hands rubbing deeper and deeper circles into her back, the way he had each time they'd lain like this, her stomach rounded around each of their babies, one hand stroking her hair, her face half-pressed into his bare, warm chest, breathing together.

* * *

Sam doesn't know if she's really been asleep or not, or what time it is, when she slowly disentangles herself from David's warm arms and makes her way to the kitchen, padding on bare feet.

In the kitchen, she looks up at the photograph of Ivan. His big blue eyes stare out at her through the glass, his crooked, half-formed smile beaming out at her.

Sam touches the glass, then rests her cheek against it, breathing it in. It feels almost like she could reach in, she could feel the brush of his hair against her lips, his warm heaviness pressed into her hip. Sometimes, she thinks she feels the ghost of it nestling into her arms, for a breath, but it's always just that, a thought.

She touches the glass very softly, like it's his cheek, looks up at him. Heat prickles at her eyes, but she doesn't cry.

She can feel what she told Sarah and Emily and Dave tugging in her chest.

It's the kids. It's always about the kids, really. That's the way you are, once the kids are there. You're about them.

A few minutes later, she climbs back into bed, nudges her head back onto David's chest, burrows into the warm circle of his arms. He doesn't say anything, but she knows he's awake, can almost feel their thoughts beating together, a shared heartbeat.

"I'll do it" she whispers, so quietly they could pretend she hasn't said it, but they won't, she knows.

David doesn't say anything. But he draws in a slightly deeper breath, and his arms tighten around her very slightly.

It's all about what you can live with, really. If you can carve out the pieces of yourself and still keep going. If you can let the carving happen to someone else, watch the knife spoon out a living breathing, bloody part of them.

She closes her eyes and listens to David's heartbeat and, even as she breathes in a little shakily, snuggles into him a little more tightly, for the first time in a while, she feels completely calm.

* * *

"So-" Danny taps his pen on the book thoughtfully. "Any idea what this showpiece tax cut would be, yet?"

David carefully avoids letting his eyes flicker to George's.

George looks spectacularly unruffled. "Not sure, yet" he says, allowing his gaze to meet David's very briefly. "We're looking at a few options."

"Bear in mind, you'll have to square them with _our _David" Nick points out. "He's been asking a hell of a lot about the Budget, and he's really intent on getting the education money-"

"He and Nicky can fight for that" David mutters, yanking the piece of paper back towards him. He can still make out shadows under George's eyes, presumably from Black & White Ball shenanigans. David feels a brief pang of gratitude they didn't stay long-he's got the bloody BCC in a couple of hours, as has Nick.

And Miliband-

David's heart clenches tightly. He feels suddenly, vaguely sick.

"David'll be fine" George says confidently, leaning back in his seat. "I can bring him round, no problem."

David doesn't look at George, but allows his shoe to just nudge George's very slightly-a careful reminder that they can't necessarily rely on Laws being a closet Tory anymore.

"Right, well, if you're still keen on delivering your Budget-" George turns to Danny. "It might be better if you deliver it the day _after _ours', otherwise it might get lost-"

And the press will have moved on by then, George doesn't say, but David knows they're both thinking. And, he suspects, probably Danny and Nick, too.

_And you'll be their latest novelty headline._

David can't help but think about Laws, then. If things had worked out just a little differently, Laws would have been sitting in Danny's chair, now. If it hadn't been for those headlines-

_"Did you know-he was-"_

_"Well-" Nick shifts awkwardly. "Everyone sort of-suspected-but you know, he's very private, he never-he never talked about his-he only introduced me to James a couple of years ago, and they've been together nearly ten-"_

_David tosses down the paper, not caring which one, on the table, with that photo of Laws only a few days ago, beaming as he walked down Downing Street. "And now they've smashed it all over the fucking headlines."_

David winces.

But now, he can't help but wonder-when did Laws _know-_

Before James-

When James-he-

What did he-

James was his first, David knows that, but-

When-

But Laws-even if James was his first, Laws had always _been_-it's _different_-

He must have always _known-_

David curses himself.

* * *

"Well-" Nick gives David a grin as he swings his legs slightly in the armchair. "What was this "quiet word" about?"

David nudges Nick's foot with his own. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I just wanted to put a proposal to you."

Nick arches an eyebrow, remembering the conversation with George half an hour earlier.

"All right, what's going on?" he'd said, lowering himself into the armchair next to George.

George had glanced up. "What, with that guy they've got playing you-Carvel or whatever-"

Nick had flushed. "Ah, the pictures. Still making their way round then?"

"I think Thea's got one of them in her office, to be honest."

"See, that could be a good-good or bad thing-"

"We can use drawing pins in it after the election-"

"Charming. And I was _talking _about-er-this stuff-between-"

He'd jerked his head a little.

"Between-" George had jerked his head in exactly the same way. "Something to do with my neck, is it-"

"You know who I'm talking about."

Nick had arched an eyebrow. George had half-arched one in return, then wriggled round to face him. "They're fine."

"Fine?" Both of Nick's eyebrows had risen. "The word I keep hearing is _friendly."_

Now, Nick lets his eyes rove over David's face, even as David's roam away.

After a few years, he reckons he can read David pretty well, and he's about to test the theory when David says, "Look, I've got a deal to put to you."

"Oh-" Nick holds out his hands. "Well-the last one worked out pretty well for you."

David manages to laugh. Nick feels something squeeze in his chest, that he can still tell when Dave's having to try to laugh.

"Look-" David leans forward. "These debates are a pain for me and you. The only people they can possibly benefit are Sturgeon and Farage. Or possibly, Miliband."

Nick leans forward. "If the debates are about personal merit, then, yes, of course" he concurs, meeting David's eyes across the desk. "But the TV debates aren't really just about that, are they? They're about-you know, they're good for democracy as a whole-"

"Well, we agree." David leans back again, looking astonishingly similar to the way he had those first few weeks of the Coalition. "And none of us are saying the debates shouldn't go ahead. What _we _need to look at-" David leans forward slightly. "Is how we each work for what is best for our parties and how to co-ordinate those."

"But we're-" Nick meets his eyes. "We're not-I mean, no matter what the outcome might be-we're not going into the election as a coalition, are we? I mean-you know-we'll be fighting this as individual parties."

David scrutinises him for a long moment, blue eyes narrowing. Nick returns the gaze.

"Look-" David sits back a little, spreading his hands. "Let me be honest with you. What we're proposing is something that could-ensure the best outcome for both of us."

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Well, I mean, I'm prepared to listen" he offers, unconsciously leaning forward himself, hands folding in the right same way as David's.

David meets his eyes. "Both of our parties pull out of the debates. The Tories take the fall for you."

Nick blinks.

Right.

He carefully doesn't lean back. "Right, it's an interesting offer" he says, spreading his hands again. "And-no matter what-influence it could have on the outcome, I'm going to have to be straight with you. We're going to have to decline."

David doesn't even blink. "That's fine and that obviously is your prerogative." He leans back. "But we just wanted you to consider that, for the chances it could give you when it comes to forming the next coalition, if that should be the outcome."

"Well, we are-like we said, we're fighting as single parties-"

"Yes, yes, of course, but think about it." David leans forward a little. "You've-the only possible outcome that would lead to both of us being back here is a coalition government." David is watching his face very carefully. "And the only person who wouldn't benefit is Miliband."

And he's the only other person you could do a coalition with.

"I hear what you're saying" Nick says slowly. "But you know I'm going to stick to my original answer."

David stares at him for a moment, then allows himself to grin, sitting back. "Well, I guess that concludes things, then." He claps his hands together. "We thought you would say no."

Nick watches David for another moment. He always thinks he'll get used to the way David can slip from one mode to another.

"You know-" He shakes his head, lets a smile flicker, and for a few moments, it almost feels like those first few days of the coalition again.

"It's both ugly and impressive to see what you people will do to stay in power."

For a moment, David considers him, head tilted to one side, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

Then, all of a sudden, he smiles. "Yep. Yep. You're right, Nick." He gets up, reaches for his suit, which he's draped over the back of the armchair, and then he smiles almost sadly, meeting Nick's eyes straight on. "We'll do whatever it takes to stay in power." He adjusts his suit. "Now, come on, we've got the BCC."

With that, he claps Nick on the shoulder and heads for the door, leaving Nick alone, with no choice but to follow.

* * *

"He hasn't _turned up?"_ David had muttered, an hour or so earlier, shaking his head. "What the hell do you _mean_, he hasn't _turned up?"_

Nick shrugs. "Well, what does it usually mean?"

David had sworn.

"Don't say that in your speech" Nick had advised him.

"But-" David had cursed. "God, and he wonders _why _businesses hate him-I bet it's just some bloody anti-capitalist, moral high ground, bloody-"

He'd muttered for several minutes, while Nick had watched him, amused, head on one side.

"What?" David had asked, lifting his head.

Nick had shrugged, with that grin. "Nothing."

David had eyed him suspiciously, but when Nick had said nothing more, he'd rolled his eyes. "I mean-he's just st-God, you can just _picture_ it-_oh, actually, I simply find business completely immoral_-typical bloody _Miliband-"_

Ranting about Miliband was easier than thinking about him.

(He'd told himself.)

Now, an hour later, he's shuffling his papers on the podium and hearing the unmistakeable voice of-

"Thanks very much, Prime Minister, Nick Robinson BBC-"

David clamps down on all images of Miliband and his bloody, sanctimonious, pious, irritating-

"The head of the BCC warned today that uncertainty is "bad for business." You've just channelled your inner Neil Kinnock-"

"It turns the tables on them" Clare had explained, Ameet nodding vigorously next to her, crossing out a word. "_And _mocks them. Two birds with one stone."

"Can I chime the same-" at least, David thinks that's what he says.

"Shouldn't you be saying to business "I warn you I might not _get _a better deal in the EU-""

Ah, the Europe thing. David can handle that.

""-I warn you I might not get it on the timetable I _want-_and I warn you I might take you out of Europe by mistake?""

Nick does the tilt of the head he always does after his questions-David remembers hearing that it made Brown want to punch him, which makes him fonder of it.

"Well-" He lets himself grin a little. "I _wouldn't _put it like that, for obvious reasons."

The audience bursts out laughing. David leans on the podium, enjoying the swell of mirth, the rueful grin on Nick's face, clearing his throat as he plays the next few scripted lines over in his head.

It doesn't matter. They'll sort the referendum after the election. And they'll have places like this onside, which'll give the Remain side a ton more credibility, not to mention that a lot of voters won't remember what it was like before the EU anyway.

David just has to keep said places onside.

* * *

_I have absolutely no idea._ Ed already knows this is the line he's going to take when he's asked why the hell Miliband hasn't shown his face as he walks off stage, still smarting from Robinson's smug grin as he'd emphasised his last name-_"Cheap hack, sorry, but you did advise me-"_

_And this is really scraping the bottom of the barrel._ Something along the lines of that. Yeah. Definitely.

_I have absolutely no idea where he is, and I think this is really scraping the bottom of the barrel of trivia. The Tories don't want that debate so they make up these silly stories that don't matter._

_I have absolutely no idea where he is. And I think this is really scraping the bottom of the barrel of trivia. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter._

"Where the _fuck _is he?" he'd hissed down the phone to Rachel less than an hour earlier. "The entire of bloody Fleet Street are here to stick _knives_ in him, for God's sake!"

"Sounds appealing."

"Where. The. Fuck. _Is he?!"_

He'd known from Rachel's long sigh exactly what was coming. "Don't fucking tell me."

"Not what he wants to focus on, too much pressure on the economy, results based too much on finance, blah, blah, blah, New Labour focus, blah, blah, blah-"

Ed had nearly put the phone through the wall.

Several moments later, Alex, half-forcing the phone back into his hand and flashing a photo of Gordon scowling at the Cabinet table at him (as though Ed could ever look at a mobile after working for Gordon without flashbacks.)

Rachel had been in full flow. "Ed, you know what he's like, we tried to bring him round on this-"

Ed had wished for another wall.

"Oh, _brilliant"_ he'd snarled, stamping down the corridor and resisting the urge to kick a chair out of the way. "Absolutely fucking perfect-while he's sitting in there, getting nice and comfortable in his fucking hair shirt, and fanning himself with the fucking Little Red Book-"

"Ed-"

"Every bloody business leader in the fucking country is getting down on their knees and asking Cameron how he'd like them to unbuckle his fucking _belt-"_

"Ed-"

"But no, _our_ fucking leader-_Cameron's _coming on their fucking ties while they thank him for the privilege, fine time for Ed to decide he can't even fucking _swallow!"_

_"Ed!"_

Alex had cleared his throat meaningfully. Ed had turned to see Gabby standing several inches behind him, with a raised eyebrow. "Interesting."

* * *

Now, Ed knows, even as he's doing it, that this is probably a huge fucking mistake.

But it's when he walks out of the hall, fuming to himself, and that bloody question ringing over and over again in his head, and then he sees Cameron, leaning against the wall, idly checking his phone, and something snaps.

Ed tells himself Cameron looks far too fucking smug for anyone simply checking their phone and reminds himself firmly of that applause, slapping itself around the room for Cameron's fucking speech, and then he's saying "Bet you're fucking pleased with how you played that."

Cameron barely glances up from his phone, sparing Ed the merest flicker of a glance under his eyelashes. _"What_ are you talking about?"

Ed snorts. "Don't give me that" he spits, and later he'll tell himself that it's all the conversations over the past few days that have done it, that have been getting in his head, that, and Miliband's stupid, pious, little-

"Bet you were fucking thrilled when you heard he'd pulled out" and all his usual tricks for sledging seem to have gone out the window and instead, he's the one glowering up at Cameron, who's watching him back with that slightly pitying look.

"When I heard _who'd _pulled out-"

"He probably fucking told you" and Ed knows he shouldn't have blurted that out, but he's fed up. He's fed up because he still can't fucking believe he and Osborne have even been _talking _about this and he can't believe Miliband couldn't put a smile on his face for _five fucking minutes_ and, for God's sake, he can bet Miliband would be just _looking_ at Cameron with that bloody big-eyed, earnest look-

"I don't know what in _God's name_ you're talking about" Cameron says, stepping forward, and Ed laughs. "Don't give me that-"

"What the _hell-"_

Oh, where the fuck did _he _come from?

George is storming up to them and one of Cameron's security guards is squeezing Ed's arm. Ed rolls his eyes. "For God's sake, you know who I fucking _am-"_

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" George is glowering at him and Ed curses himself for forgetting that for all of their own meetings, George and Cameron are closer than fucking _brothers._

(Certainly closer than some brothers Ed knows, for that matter.)

"Nothing" he manages to grind out through gritted teeth, cursing himself. "Nothing."

"Hardly _nothing-"_ Cameron half-shakes him off, blue eyes blazing. "Have you lost your bloody _mind?"_

For a moment, looking between him and George, Ed, feeling himself breathing hard, anger snarled taut in his chest, is tempted to say yes.

* * *

George manages to wait until he gets Ed round a corner before he hisses, "What the _hell _was that?"

Ed pushes his face into his hands. "Look, I just fucking-shit, I just fucking lost it with him-"

"Why? He never bloody _speaks _to you-"

"Yeah, but he speaks to bloody Miliband, doesn't he?"

George, whose cheeks have been uncharacteristically flushed throughout this exchange, pales at this. Even now, Ed manages to reflect, ruefully, with a twinge of grudging fondness, that that kind of paleness would be unhealthy for most people, but for Osborne, it's only slightly paler than usual.

"What?" Osborne's fingers are biting into his arms suddenly. "Did you_ tell_ him?"

Oh, shit.

"I-" Ed blinks, trying frantically to remember whatever he might have just gone and bloody snarled in Cameron's face. "I-fuck, I didn't fucking tell him, but-"

"But what?" Osborne's eyes are dark, glittering, his fingers digging into Ed's wrist. "What did you say to him?"

Ed shakes his head. "I didn't fucking tell him, Jesus-"

George's grip loosens slightly, but he shakes his head. "He'll know it's _something"_ he says, voice low, warning. "For God's sake, Balls, it _is _something" and he rips his hand away from Ed's sleeve and spins round, heading back to Cameron without looking back once.

Ed, watching him go, lets his head fall back against the wall and wonders just how in hell this day could have gone any worse.

* * *

"I didn't even know you were there" David mutters a few minutes later, George next to him in the car.

"Good thing I was" George retorts, nudging him. "What the hell would have happened if I hadn't been?"

"He'd have been arrested" David mutters. "On second thoughts, maybe you shouldn't have shown up."

George glances at him sharply out of the corner of his eye. "What was he saying to you?"

David looks away, his cheeks warming a little. "God knows." His heart's beating rapidly.

What the hell has Miliband-

What the hell has Miliband _told _Balls?

But that's rubbish, David argues with himself, trying to clamp down on the panic suddenly flailing in his chest, the sudden whisper of _he doesn't know, he can't know, _the same anxiety that had fastened his hands into Ed Balls' shirt, pushing him away, minutes earlier.

Calm down. Calm down.

"He was sulking about Miliband not turning up" he says, turning back to George with what he hopes is a disaffected tone. "Having a go about us making personal attacks on him. Must have been taking another look at those poll results. Before he bloody assaulted me, that is."

George gives him another, longer look, but says nothing. 

* * *

"I think it looks like a marshmallow" Sam muses, watching Emily squint at the computer screen in her office.

"No." Emily shakes her head slowly, fingers drumming on the Apple keyboard. "Too dark for a marshmallow. Too sweet."

"How-" Sam pours the water onto the teabag, adjusting the iPad she's propped up against the wall so she can see her sister more clearly on the screen. "Can anything be too sweet to be a _marshmallow? _I can practically hear Flo's teeth rotting every time she chews on one."

"No, but this bus is _dark _pink." Emily waves a hand, popping something into her mouth. "_Dark _pink. Way too dark for a marshmallow. Got this whisper of manipulation, like a dark undertone."

"It's a bus, Em."

Emily leans back in her leather desk chair. "Nah, still not marshmallow-"

Suddenly, she stops, hand freezing halfway to her mouth, jaw dropping. "Oh. My. God."

Sam frowns, midway through taking a sip of tea. "What?"

Emily claps her hands together, half-dives over the arm of her desk chair, and springs up again a moment later, thrusting a pink box at the webcam. _"Look!"_

Sam leans forward and squints at it, having to shake her head to be certain of what her sister's proffering to her.

"Emily, am I seeing things or did you just push a box of your _tampons _into my face?"

_"No."_ Emily iiggles the box triumphantly. "I pushed a box of my tampons into the webcam _image_ of your face."

"Oh, for God's sake, Em, this is like when you bashed me over the head with a pillow to tell me you'd found your first armpit hair-"

"That was a big moment!"

"It was a big hair."

"Why shame women for body hair?" Emily demands. "Men don't get any of that bullshit."

Sam has to concede that point with a shrug. "Anyway-" She curls up on one of the yellow couches, propping the iPad up against the arm as she takes a sip of her tea. "Why exactly did your tampons suddenly become part of the conversation?"

"Well, I'm using them."

"Not that I'm objecting to being open about that, but why is that _relevant?"_

"Because _that's _what it looks like." Emily pops what looks like another ball of pink fluff into her mouth, chewing triumphantly. "A giant bloody tampon advert." She crinkles her forehead. "Didn't think through the adjective, sorry."

"Thanks a lot."

"Yeah, but seriously." Emily claps again. "It's the _perfect _metaphor. They're driving round, trying to show they're all progressive, like a leftie teenager with a Tumblr, screaming _"We love women, look-we'll even say the V-word!" _But actually_ talking_, calmly and sensibly, about tampons would be far less embarrassing. _And_ it'd get to the point."

Emily pops another sweet into her mouth with a grin. Sam squints at her. "Are you eating marshmallows?"

Emily rolls her eyes. "I got off the Tube and my uterus was trying to eat itself from the inside out, and then I saw that dark pink bus glaring at me, what was I _supposed_ to do?"

* * *

* * *

_"Donors!"_ bellows Simon in Ed's ear, nearly making him jump out of his skin.

"Jethus-"

_"Donors!"_ Simon bellows, as Tom slams a folder down onto Ed's table, waving a phone in front of his face. "Breaking fucking-the bloody Tories have got a bunch of bloody tax avoiders-"

"What?"

"HSBC, look, the HSBC thing-"

"What-" Ayesha had been grabbing for the phone too, wrestling it away from Stewart before he could even touch it. "What-we've got to get this in-

"I texted Robinson, this'll get-junk the stuff on the fucking Black And White Ball, this is-"

Ed snatches at the phone, eyes scanning the details furiously. Certain words leap out at him-_HSBC, Geneva-_

That reminds him of last week with a clench and he grinds his teeth together.

"We can't-God, we've got to go on this-" he mutters, fingers moving over the screen almost feverishly, barely noticing it's Tom's phone not his. "We've got to-"

He has a confused impression of Cameron's arms falling awkwardly around his shoulders on Monday, and then the sudden swell of something in his chest that made him push Cameron away, rather than sitting, staring like some, some-and then Cameron at that bloody _ball _on Monday night-

The different Camerons grind into each other, and Ed's cheeks are suddenly ridiculously overheated at that thought, which only makes him seethe more, want to wrench his fingers into those images, bloody _wrench _them apart.

"We've got to go on thith" he says, voice a little steadier now, fingers trembling. "We can fucking get him on this."

* * *

"Oh, for _fuck's sake."_ George slams his head onto the desk. "This is a fucking _nightmare."_

David sighs, examining the screen almost lazily. "Nah, we can turn it round. See-a couple of the little twats have been donating to Labour, too."

A moment ago, George was slowly moving his forehead to rest on his hands. The next second, his body is almost horizontal across David's desk, half-snatching the phone. Danny-their Danny-sitting next to him, nearly gets his glasses knocked off for the privilege. "Jesus wept, George-"

"Let me see-"

George rears up at the exact same moment Michael dives across, and their heads bounce off each other.

_"OW! _Jesus _fuck-"_

"Oh, for Christ's sake." Gabby, usually the calmest person in the room, grabs her own phone, peering at the screen. "Yeah, see, look-"

"I know that name" Danny muses contemplatively from his armchair, staring at his own phone, which David has just texted the list of names to. "Definitely a Labour donor."

David gives George a grin, only to be greeted by the sight of him and Michael now thoroughly engaged in a furious discussion over the exact dynamics of head-on collisions.

"There's definitely something we can trip Labour up on here" Daniel confirms, with a nod.

At the same moment, Gavin wanders in. He stops dead, takes a look at George and Michael, and wanders out again.

David reflects that, really, the one benefit of this bombshell is that it lets his thoughts wander away from the fact he's going to be facing Miliband in less than one hour, and gets them more onto what to face him _with._

_What the fuck did he say to Balls?_

If he's been-if Miliband's been-

Miliband's been spending_ just_ as much time with David as David has with him-that doesn't even make _sense_, but-

If anyone-if anyone should be-if anyone should be bloody laughing at anyone else-

But he hasn't, David hasn't bloody laughed at Miliband _once,_ and the thought of him, fucking_ laughing_ with Ed fucking _Balls-_

David becomes aware he's gripping his pen very, very hard.

Well. He'll be seeing him in a fucking hour.

* * *

Jon drops the piece of paper helpfully into Nick's lap, once he's sure his microphone is off. "Rescued that for you."

Nick Robinson peers at it ruefully, cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. "Golly. I didn't realise I'd come out with that." He turns the paper over and winces. "Or that."

Jon chuckles. "So. Reckon that's going to do for Cameron at PMQs?"

Nick groans. "It's definitely done for me, I'm bloody knackered."

"How reassuring with heading into an election campaign."

Nick crumples the piece of paper into a ball and chucks it at him.

"And no" he laughs, leaning back in his chair. "No, I don't, actually. Cameron always finds a way back."

* * *

_Look at me. Look at me._

Ed's sure that his whole body must be shaking. He crosses his legs tightly, tries to take some deep breaths.

He stares down at his knees for a moment, then fixes his gaze back on the top of Cameron's head.

Cameron doesn't look in the slightest bit ruffled. His cheeks are as flushed as ever, his leg nudging Osborne's as they mutter something to each other, Cameron's cheeks creased in a chortle. He looks in almost indecently good humour. Bastard.

Ed forces himself to think the word. _Fucking look at me._

Cameron's eyes flicker up.

Look at me, look at me, look-oh God, please, don't, don't, don't, please, please-

Ed jerks his gaze back to his notes furiously and fumes, because Cameron's _making_ him stare with that confused-that-

A confused jumble of feelings rises in his chest, and when he looks up, Cameron, looking rosy and well-nourished and healthy and _entirely too bloody happy_ in his own skin, driving Ed out of his fucking_ mind_, is bloody _looking back._

Oh God, oh God, oh _God-_

Ed glares helplessly back at him. He honestly doesn't know what else to do, especially since one of Cameron's fucking backbenchers is speaking and even that isn't making Cameron stop tormenting him for _one bloody second._

"Coupled with the trump card-which he and Baroness Thatcher shared-" and it's only the growing wall of noise that prompts Ed to look up, the familiar suspicion tightening the skin at the back of his neck, at the Tory backbencher, Yeo, who's flushed and beaming-God, why are they all so flushed, are they all fucking _pissed _or just so fucking _smug _that they, that they-

"In the form of a left-wing opposition leader who's lost control of his own party-"

Ed wouldn't even be able to hear the next words if it weren't for the microphones in the benches, the wall of noise is so high now.

"-will put Britain on course for another Conservative landslide?"

Bastard.

Ed keeps his eyes on his notes but he can _sense _Cameron getting up, can sense every movement of his, and he bloody hates that, even as Rosie leans over to mutter to him, "They'll be looking pretty sick in a couple of months."

Ed nods vigorously, wanting to hiss _I don't need you to feel sorry for me, _and then feeling awful for it.

"I'm very grateful to my-ah-Right Honourable friend-" Cameron's fucking _smirking._

See-this Cameron-this Cameron-Geneva, that smug smile, those rosy cheeks that Ed can't stop fucking _looking_ at-see-this is-this is the-

"I wasn't a _voter _in 1983-" Cameron smirks at him.

Actually _bloody smirks at him._

"Erm-but it is true-that this government is _cutting_ unemployment-" Cameron pauses for the cheer. "And it's also true that every Labour government always puts _up _unemployment-"

Smug, privileged, arrogant, bloody-bloody-

"What we can see in his _own _constituency-" Cameron leans and Ed _does not let _his eyes travel the arch of Cameron's body, because that-that is _entirely_ unnecessary, and-

"Is that the claimant count has fallen by 55% since the last election-but it does speak to a bigger picture, which is _this _government has created a _thousand _jobs for _every day that it's been in office_-and we _all _remember the prediction of the leader of the Labour Party-"

And Cameron's looking at him, blue eyes a flicker of movement across the dispatch box, and oh God, Ed can feel Cameron's arms around his back, Cameron's mouth almost brushing his ear, that utter fucking _confusion-_

_Get out of my head._

"That our plans would cost a million jobs-"

_Get out of my head, with your Black & White Ball that cost millions, with your bloody donors in Geneva and the way you don't even fucking think about them, just get out of my head with your bloody smug smile and pink cheeks and blue eyes and just leave me the hell-_

"With unemployment tumbling-" Cameron leans forward. "Perhaps _today _is the day he should _apologise."_

_You smug git._

Cameron's eyes flicker up to Ed as he sits down and Ed feels something like a spring in his chest, like his heart's decided to do a little bounce for the sake of it.

Cameron looks away with the slightest of smirks and Ed suddenly has the terrifying feeling that he might just scream right here in the House Of Commons.

Jesus, is this what Cameron's-

_Get out of my head._

Cameron can't have-Cameron can't know the effect he's having-

Ed's insides want to curl up and die at the thought.

But it's confusing because they also now want to punch Cameron in the face and Ed doesn't think they can do the two things simultaneously.

_"Ed Miliband!"_

Ed can't decide whether the words are choking him or throwing him a life belt.

He grabs on, anyway.

"Mr Speaker-"

Don't look at him. Don't look at him.

His eyes flicker up and catch Cameron's in a glimpse.

His heart skips a beat.

"Mr Spear-Mr Speaker-"

His words fumble over themselves.

_Fuck._

"An hour ago we learned that, linked to the HSBC tax avoidance scandal-" His voice is steadier than he'd hoped.

Even as the wall of noise rises, Cameron's chuckling with Osborne.

Fucking_ chuckling._

"Are seven Tory donors-including a former Treasury-Treasurer of the Tory Party-"

He's glancing up at Cameron every other word now, waiting for something, his chest tautening each time, ready, waiting...

Cameron doesn't look at him.

"Who between them have given nearly_ £5m_ to the Conservative Party-"

He can hear the cheers rising behind him, but next to him, Balls is uncharacteristically silent.

He can't let himself look at Cameron for more than a glance-

(he can't let himself start thinking about that crackling fire and that couch and the almost-tickle of Cameron's breath against his skin)

And he fucking shouldn't be, because just fucking look what he does-

What Cameron does, fucking clear as day in front of him, and yet he _still-_

"How can the Prime Minister explain the revolving door between Tory Party HQ and the Swiss branch of HSBC?"

His heart is beating so hard it hurts, as he sits down, and God, he can picture that soft, breathing warmth against him on that couch, that sweet smell of something like soap and something like aftershave, but more something so definitely Cameronish that-bloody, bloody _Cameron-_

* * *

All right. David can deal with this. He can handle this.

They're just questions. All that matters.

They've got some good rebuttals, and-

And anything else is just-

Irrelevant.

Completely.

"Look, I saw this list-just before _coming _to Prime Minister's Questions-"

He leans on the dispatch box, angles himself away from Miliband carefully. He knows that he can rely on his own side to get the cheers louder when he needs them-Michael's spent the last fifteen minutes or so sending mass group texts round to get them on full heckling form.

"And one of the people_ named_-"

That serious little _look _of Miliband's, every time he lets his gaze flicker to David, Jesus-

"Was the _Labour _donor, Lord Paul-"

The chorus of _"Ohhhhhs"_ from the benches behind him could drown him out, but David sinks his fingers into them. They're something to hold onto, to turn towards when every inch of his body suddenly seems to be straining towards Miliband.

"Who _funded _Gordon Brown's election campaign!"

The bellows would shatter in his ears if he wasn't used to them, if he wasn't focused so much on keeping himself turned away-

Miliband's his magnet. His bloody magnet.

(No, Miliband's _a_ magnet, Miliband's not _his _anything, except his chief irritating opponent, and opposition, and bloody debate partner, no, not _partner, _oh _God-)_

And he's glancing at him, _shit-_

"I-I am very clear-"

He looks away, because that indignant-that little shake of the head-

Trust Miliband to scramble back under his bloody skin _again._

"People _should _pay their taxes in our country-"

Draw him out, he knows, but at the same time, he's rushing to the end of the sentence, forcing his eyes to move past Miliband as quickly as possible, because if they bloody stop-

"And no government has been tougher than this one in chasing down tax evasion and tax avoidance."

He sits down and Miliband's eyes are already on him again.

David averts his gaze, avoids thinking about the fact that's another niggle under Miliband's skin.

Avoids the little pleasant drop in his stomach at that thought, the shiver of excitement up his spine,

"Mr Speaker-let's talk about the difference between him and me-"

Oh God, Miliband makes life so hard. And not just for David.

Miliband's face is coming to life again, as though he's fighting with the words. "None of these people-"

And the finger's waving again. David feels something like a leap and feels slightly sick, all at once-

"Have given a penny to the Labour Party on _my watch-"_

God, that plaintive little _whine_, like some sulky bloody kid trying to get the teacher's attention.

David fastens his fingers firmly into this, but they want to just-just bloody-

Just bloody grab that smug, righteous look off Miliband's face, wipe that bloody wide-eyed _look-_

_"_And _he's _up to his _neck _in this!"

* * *

And immediately, Ed can feel Cameron's bare arms around him, wrestling with him in the pool last week, the wet slick of their skin together-

Ed nearly shakes his own head because, for God's sake, Cameron, Cameron's _sitting there_ across the dispatch box, and not even _looking_ at him, you smug, smug, fucking-

And Ed can hear his voice, soft and wondering last week, as he talked about liminal spaces and-

Not this-

That's not _this _Cameron-

"Now let's take-"

_This _Cameron's bloody pulling his own party up higher and higher on a fucking ivory _tower _of money, and he doesn't even _care-_

"Let's take Stanley Fink-" He's stumbling over the words, they're clamouring to get out so badly, his heart beating harder and harder. "Let's take Stanley Fink-who gave _£3m _to the Conservative Party-"

Cameron's grinning.

"He actually _appointed _him-" and something's boiling in Ed's chest now, his whole body suddenly trembling, as he glances down at the notes.

"-as _Treasurer_ of the Tory Party-"

He's almost shouting now, the words stinging his throat, his heart pounding over the dispatch box.

"And gave him a _peerage_ for good measure! So now can he _explain-"_

Cameron's murmuring something to Osborne, nudging his leg, still laughing.

_Still bloody laughing-_

"What steps he's gonna take to find out about the _tax avoidance activities_ of Lord Fink?"

Cameron stands up, lazily, and Ed stares at him, clutching the papers hard enough that his fingers tremble, because fucking _look-_

Look-

_Something-_

Don't look like-

Like it's all fucking bouncing off-look _bothered, _for God's sake, you, you smug, cocky-

* * *

"He looks like he's been electrocuted, doesn't he?" George had mused a few minutes earlier, watching Miliband's finger jab the air, and David had laughed too loudly, too harshly, because it let him not watch, reared back from touching that, that-

_Up to his neck-_

That scorn in Miliband's voice, with that smug little nod-

_"Prime Minister-"_

"I _will _tell him, Mr Speaker, about the difference between him and me-"

He can hear the laughter from his own backbenchers echoing off the ceiling, and he forces himself to picture Balls' hands in his own shirt, yesterday, the sheer panic that had swooped in his chest, icy cold, of _what's he said to him, what the hell's he said-_

"When people donate to the Conservative Party-"

Those big eyes are widening, making David want to reach out, and-

"They don't pick the _candidates-"_

Someone shrieks. David can't tell who or from which side, but he doesn't let himself look across at the smug, self-righteous, sanctimonious little shake of the head he knows he'll get-

"-they don't change the _policies-"_

He pictures Balls' smirk, and maybe it's that, to get that and that itching feeling of Miliband's dark eyes in the firelight last week out from under his skin, like yanking out a splinter-

"-and they don't elect the _leader!"_

The wave of cheers almost drowns out the dull thud in David's chest at the words, which is ridiculous, because Danny came up with them before, he knew he'd have to-

He doesn't look at Miliband.

"When the trade unions fund the _Labour Party_, they _pay _for the candidates-"

He can feel those bloody eyes.

"They pay for the policies-"

And maybe that's the reason, that constant, bloody knowing, that look, that, that-_Milibandiness_-that-

That means he's turning round and staring straight at Miliband over the box, heart pounding, breath suddenly tearing his throat, and he's shouting now.

"-and the only reason _he _is _sitting_ there-" His finger jabs hard as though pushing Miliband back from him, or rearing up to strike.

Miliband shakes his head a little, purses his lips together, and David forces himself then, forces himself to look into his face and watch it, watch the words hit him-

"Is because a bunch of trade union _leaders_-"

Miliband's the one looking away now, and something in David's chest pushes him on anyway, that same way as back then, those words burning in his chest-

_Stop fucking looking at me._

"Decided _he _was more left-wing than his _brother!"_

* * *

Ed's known the words are coming, and he's looked away, pursing his lips, because-

But he can feel Cameron's eyes on him, that vicious grin, and-

This isn't fucking _him, _that's the thing, that isn't the Cameron _he, _that he-

But the words open Ed's mouth. Something crumples in his chest, reeling, as though Cameron's-Cameron's-

He feels as though Cameron's _bitten _him.

It's the same sense of sheer shock in his chest, the edge of something sicker, more personal about the ache reverberating through him, the queasy sense of disbelief-

Which is _stupid,_ and he should have _expected_-it's _Cameron-_

This is _Cameron_, what's Ed _doing_, letting himself-

His eyes prickle and maybe that's why he's scrambling upright, spitting the words out. "He can't get away from it-"

And he's forcing his eyes to Cameron's face, exactly the way Cameron did to him, wanting to see his own words hit Cameron exactly the same way, dredging for the cruellest things he can think of, wanting to see Cameron's face crumple with that same sick ache of shock, and he's throwing the words at him-

"He's a _dodgy _Prime Minister, surrounded by _dodgy donors!"_

* * *

David only blinks for a second as the words hit him.

That's the only thing he lets show and George is immediately leaning into him, murmuring "He's desperate" into David's ear, but David doesn't-

It doesn't _hurt._

Of course it doesn't _hurt._

This is what Miliband and him _do._

What they do-what they're _meant _to do-and-

"Now-now, he didn't just _take _the money-he didn't just-"

_"Order-"_

David can barely even pay attention to Bercow ordering Miliband back into his seat like the selfish, bratty little-

He seethes, and he knows it's Miliband who's made him do it, and he grips onto the knowledge tightly that at least he's winding Miliband up just as much, even as Bercow's words ring through the Chamber without David hearing one until the name _"Ed Miliband!"_

"And he didn't just-he didn't just _take _the money-" Miliband doesn't even wait until he's up before he's launching into the same sentence again.

But he's not looking at David this time, his eyes on his papers, and David knows, knows with a savage wrench of pleasure in his chest, that his own words have hit Miliband just as hard.

"He appointed the man who was head of HSBC as a minister-" Miliband's eyes can't even meet his for the second it takes to adjust his weight. "Mr Speaker-it was in the public domain in September _2010-"_

Even now, Miliband's emphasis of the _twen_ makes something leap in David's chest.

He hates him, he tells himself fiercely.

"That HSBC was enabling tax avoidance on an industrial scale-" Miliband's doing that wondering tone again. "Are we _seriously_ expected to believe that when he made Stephen Green a minister four months later, he had no idea about these allegations?"

Those wide eyes. David wants to-wants to sink his bloody fingers into that dark hair-

_I fucking hate you._ He nearly says it out loud, nearly tastes the words. Imagines the look on Miliband's face.

Should like it.

* * *

"W-well, I-I'm glad he's brought up the issue of Stephen Green, who was a trade minister in this government-"

He's got something.

He's got something, because Cameron's always bloody _got _something, hasn't he-

Ed's fingers dig into the paper, his jaw grinding.

"This is the _same _Stephen Green-" And he's looking away again and Ed's chest contracts with something like a snarl, something that makes him glower at Cameron, as though he could burn through that smooth fucking gloss of his words, _look at me, look at me-_

"Who Gordon Brown appointed as the head of his Business Advisory Council-"

Cameron turns and bloody grins at him.

Bloody _grins._

You _fucking-_

"This is the _same _Stephen Green who Labour _welcomed _as a trade minister into the government-"

Cameron looks at him again, and Ed just stares back at him, fucking_ stares_ at him, because maybe that's what this is all about, maybe the whole thing's just to throw Ed off his game, that's exactly the sort of thing Cameron would do-

"And it's the _same _Stephen Green, who the Shadow Business Secretary-" Cameron's voice curls teasingly as he leans forward. "Looking a bit coy today-"

Ed's stomach plummets beautifully and his cheeks erupt into fiery blushing at that tone.

Oh God. Shut up. Shut up.

"Invited-on a trade mission-as late as _2013!"_

Cameron's stabbing his finger with each word and something about it, God-Ed can't even swallow, suddenly.

_"Exactly!"_ he hears someone shout, but he's staring at Cameron, his cheeks burning, hands shaking slightly, stomach muscles tightening, you, you-

"We _know _what happens, Mr Speaker-"

Ed physically shudders at that smug, arrogant, smooth, rich, fucking-

"Every week, he gets more desperate, because he can't talk about the economy, he can't talk about unemployment-"

Cameron turns. Ed glares at him, glares so hard that it hurts, vaguely aware of the vibrations travelling through his whole body, like a tuning fork, firing off energy that's growing and growing, as though he'll, he'll-

"So he comes here-"

Ed nearly jumps at _that _word.

"He comes here with _fiction _after _fiction-"_

Ed wonders, madly, if his heart's about to break through his ribs.

_I hate you. I hate you._

* * *

"Let me _deal_-while I've got a moment-with the fiction we had _last _week-"

David doesn't look at Miliband. He doesn't need to. He can _feel _that stare, that wide-eyed stare, trembling with indignation, like a vice on his arm, and a part of him sinks his fingers into it, relishes it with his next words, barely noticing the ache between his legs, until he has to lean against the dispatch box.

"He came here, and, if you remember, he talked about something called-"

He glances down at the paper.

_"Intermediary tax relief_-and it turns out, Mr Speaker-"

They're shouting too loudly for him to be heard. David waits, relishing in the sheer outrage of their voices but it's Miliband's face his eyes find unerringly, and he feels himself twitch hard, _fuck-_

Miliband isn't shouting. Neither is Balls, but David can think about minor miracles another day.

Miliband's sitting there, face pinched-in contrast to David's own warming cheeks, Miliband's, which had been flushed last time he glanced over, are paling slowly, eyes seeming to darken with each second.

But it's the glare that feels like a physical blow, that almost makes him reel back, like a hard shove, those dark eyes blazing in something that goes beyond anger, that, that looks like-

_Dodgy Prime Minister._

David meets his gaze, his own heart pounding, makes his voice as smooth, as smug as possible.

"As long as it takes-"

Some of the Labour frontbench almost leap out of their seats. But Miliband doesn't move. Instead, his lip twists slightly, but his gaze, dark and burning, scalds in a way that makes David almost gasp, shuddering a little-

"As long as it takes-"

_I'm up here and you're fucking not._

"_Order!"_

David doesn't even glance at Bercow as he sits down. His eyes don't leave Miliband's face. Miliband's don't leave his, their eyes locked as though there isn't a dispatch box between them, as though any moment now, one of them might just-

He doesn't hear anything Bercow says, apart from _"The Prime Minister!"_

"Thank you, Mr Speaker. Last week, the Labour leader asked me _six times_-"

His voice is tearing itself out of his throat.

"About the tax treatment of hedge funds. Now, it turns out-"

He can feel the smirk creeping into his mouth.

"That the treatment he's complaining about was introduced in the autumn of 1997-"

His hand digging into the wood so hard it hurts, shouting the words at Miliband now. "By a _Labour government!"_

The cheers almost knock him down, George's laughter next to him one of the few things that feels real, echoing discordantly, and Miliband's lips getting tighter and tighter, as though David's winding him tighter with each word.

"It further-it further turns out-it _further _turns out-"

He looks up, glancing away, trying to ignore what feels like a flinch in his chest.

"That it was extended in _2007!"_

_"Ohhhh!"_

"Now-" He can almost feel the shouts readying themselves behind him, sharpening the words into crueller darts to find their targets.

"Who was in power in 2007?"

_"Labour_!" The word shouted by him and over 300 voices at once.

"Who was the City _Minister _in 2007?"

The wall of sound this time nearly knocks him flat on his face, never mind the other side of the Chamber.

"I think we'll find-" He stares straight at Miliband as he says it, feeling something start to vibrate inside him very slightly. "It was Ed _Somebody!"_

* * *

Ed almost stamps as he gets up. Because how the hell was he to know Cameron would fucking do _that, _would-

Cameron doesn't even care, and he's just done it to win the argument, and he doesn't even _care, _he-

And he's _fucking getting away with it._

"Mr S-Mr Speaker, I know-I know the Prime Minister doesn't _care-"_ He's shouting now, almost throwing the words at Cameron, wanting to see that flush crawl up his cheeks, _come on, come on-_"I know the Prime Minister doesn't _care _about tax avoidance-"

Cameron doesn't even look up.

_Fucking look at me!_

For a moment, Ed thinks he's screamed it at him.

"But _this day, of all days,_ he is gonna be _held accountable_ for _answering the questions-"_

He's yelling. His finger's stabbing the air, vibrations growing, pealing out through his body, and he wants to dive across that bloody dispatch box, grab Cameron by that fucking smug face, yank it up and make him get rid of that fucking smirk and for once in his fucking life, fucking _listen-_

_"_Right-now-he is pleading_ ignorance_ as to what was happening with Stephen Green-but today we discover-the minister in _charge _issued a _press release_ in November 2011, which _referred _to the investigation into HSBC Geneva account holders-"

He's shaking. Cameron isn't even looking at him, and Ed actually has to turn away so he doesn't just dive forward and-

God knows what.

Ed only becomes aware he's grinding his teeth when he notices the throb of pain in his jaw.

"Does the Prime Minister expect us to believe that-"

Cameron shakes his head pityingly.

Ed almost explodes.

You fucking _bastard._

"In Stephen Green's _three years _as a minister, he _never _had a conversation with him about what was happening at HSBC?"

_Take that, you smug, arrogant-_

_"The Prime Minister!"_

"Why did Labour _welcome _Stephen Green as a trade minister?" Cameron's looking round, laughing.

He's fucking _laughing._

"Why were they still booking meetings with him in 2013?"

_I hate you. I absolutely hate you._

"_My _responsibility is the tax laws of this country, and no-one has been tougher-"

Cameron's drawing himself up, and it sends an aching pang through Ed's chest that feels an awful lot like fondness.

Ed hates him even more.

"Let me remind him about what we found-" and Cameron's peering over his glasses, and something about that makes Ed's tongue move slowly over his lips, because those, those fucking _glasses,_ he, he-

_"Hedge_ funds, cutting their taxes by flipping currencies-_allowed_ under Labour,_ banned_ under the Tories!"

Cameron's waving the glasses to punctuate each point now, almost as though he knows, knows the effect it's having on Ed, the heat creeping up from under his collar-

"_Foreigners _not paying stamp duty-allowed under Labour, _banned_ under the Tories!"

Cameron's almost roaring now. He's flushed and furious and God, Ed would, Ed wants to fucking_ dive_ across the dispatch box and-

_"Banks-" _and when Cameron's gaze meets his, Ed feels that jolt inside his chest and he's glaring back at them, those vibrations going crazy now, firing off in all directions, the air electric, thrumming around him.

"Not paying tax on all their profits-allowed under Labour, _banned _under the Tories!"

Ed's shaking, almost on his own feet, his heart pounding.

_"Those two-"_ and he can't remember the last time Cameron was this angry, the last time he was this angry, both of them flushed and shaking and-

"In the _Treasury_, were the _friends of the tax dodger!"_

Ed can't even hear his own thoughts. He feels almost sick. A small rip is making its' way through his notes.

_"We're _the friend of the hardworking taxpayer!"

Cameron smirks as he sits down, but it's twisted with rage, and Ed's head swims, and he's actually shaking as he scrambles back up, and when he opens his mouth, he throws the words at Cameron without even thinking, bellows them out-"He's _bang to rights_, just like his _donors!"_

* * *

David will grab him.

He could-if that fucking dispatch box wasn't in the way-

You pathetic, fucking, backstabbing little-

"And doesn't this _all_ sound familiar?" Miliband's finger is stabbing. David can feel the air between them vibrating with each word.

"The Prime Minister appoints someone to a senior job in government-" Miliband's losing his breath. "There are _public allegations_, but he _doesn't ask the questions-_he _turns a blind eye-"_

Miliband leans over the dispatch box and David leans forward too, daring him, fucking _daring _him to-

"Isn't this _just _the behaviour we saw-" Miliband's eyes are wild. For a moment, David actually thinks he might throw himself across the Chamber. _"With Andy Coulson?"_

David moves as slowly as possible, because he's going to keep Miliband going, he's going to keep winding him tighter and tighter, until he fucking _snaps, you snide little bastard-_

"It is, Mr Speaker, _desperate stuff-_because they can't talk about the economy, because it's _growing-_they can't talk about unemployment, because it's _falling-"_

He can barely hear the shouts anymore, knows the Chamber's almost louder than he's ever heard it, but he can hardly hear it over his own heartbeat, his own voice, ripping itself out at Miliband.

"They can't talk about their _health policy_ because it's _collapsing-_what have we seen this week?"

_You want to make this personal?_

"He can't even go in _front _of a business _audience_-because he's offended every business in the country-"

Miliband's eyes meet his own again. They're wide and dark and despite himself-

Despite himself, despite _fucking everything Miliband's just said, _David _still _feels-

He rams the words out as hard as possible.

"He can't go to _Scotland _because he's _toxic-"_

Those big eyes, and David tries to dredge something from his chest, some cruel hiss of pleasure, but, but-

"They can't talk to _women_, because they've got a _pink bus _touring the country-"

There's an outbreak of cheers at that one, loudly enough to pull a grim smile back to his mouth. He silently thanks Emily.

"They've even-they've even offended Britain's _nuns!"_

He knows it's childish, but he doesn't care. It'll get under Miliband's skin and right now, that's all that fucking matters to him.

"No wonder people look at Labour and say-" He pauses just slightly. "They haven't got a _prayer!"_

* * *

_I will rip that smirk off your face, you arrogant, fucking, I will, I thought-I fucking thought you-_

"Mr Speaker-" He's not even sure how he's speaking. All he can see is the rosiness of Cameron's cheeks, that grin at his mouth, he, he-

_"He _took the money-he gave a job to the head of HSBC-and he _lets the tax avoiders get away with it-_"

He's not looking up and Ed dredges the words from his chest, roars them out, because, fucking look at me, you _bastard_, you don't get to-you don't get to fucking _do this to me-_

"There's something rotten at the heart of the Conservative Party-" and he's staring straight at Cameron now, snarling the words out, them almost ripping at his chest, he's shouting so hard. "And it's _him!"_

* * *

David doesn't react to it. A part of him feels almost icily calm, as though he's gone beyond rage, gone into some shocked place where he's so furious that he could storm across the Chamber, lift up the fucking dispatch box and smack Miliband over the head with it, and not even notice.

Another part of him's so taut he's going to explode.

He takes the small, shocked flinch that nearly gasps into life in his chest at Miliband's words, and does what he's known how to do since he was seven-chucks it away.

_You worthless, fucking little cunt._

But he gets up slowly.

"For 13 years, they sat in the Treasury-they did _nothing _about tax transparency-_"_

He's stabbing his own finger now, feeling Miliband's eyes following the movement.

_"Nothing _about tax dodging-"

He can almost feel Miliband hating, with each stab of his finger, and he's so hard he can barely breathe.

_"Nothing _about tax avoidance-this government has been tougher than _any previous government-_"

It doesn't even feel pleasant, it's just tighter and tighter with the rage in his body, coiling him tighter and tighter-

_"That's_ why they're desperate-"

He's turning towards him now, wanting to see him, see the look on his face-

Miliband's eyes meet his. For a fraction of a second, they stare at each other.

David could throw the box out of the way, he thinks madly for that fraction of a second. He could have Miliband's collar between his fingers.

He could drag him-just _drag _him-

"That's why they're _losing!"_

He spits the words out and sits down, ears ringing, heart pounding hard enough to hurt, only just managing to arrange the papers in his lap, and each second that he locks eyes with Miliband winding him, winding them both tighter and tighter, anger so taut in his body he feels _faint,_ until they'll, until...

* * *

George's hand fastens into David's arm tightly. "David."

But David's already upright. Not just upright. He's shaking slightly, the twenty minutes or so that have passed since Miliband last opened his mouth, leaving the anger raging into each solid heartbeat.

Miliband's stared back at him for what felt like every breath of those 20 minutes.

David doesn't even remember answering questions though he knows he must have. It's as though the entire half-hour has been reduced to his and Miliband's eyes burning into each other.

"David-" George is following him, William at his side. "Dave-"

"Now, Dave, come on, now-"

David almost storms out of the Chamber, Miliband moving on the other side, almost exactly in time with him.

"David-" George's fingers bite into his arm, but David shakes him off.

"It was _PMQs, _David-"

"No." David almost spits the words out, his eyes on Miliband's dark head. "No, Ed was personally _horrid _to me-"

His steps quicken as he catches up with Miliband, as they move out of the Chamber, into the corridor of offices behind.

"Because he was_ losing."_

And with that, his own hand fastens into Miliband's shoulder, yanks him round. "What the _hell _was that about?"

Miliband stumbles, folders nearly slipping out of his hands. "What the _hell-"_

"That's what I'd like to fucking ask _you-"_ David becomes aware he's gripping Miliband tightly with both hands now, fingers digging into him hard enough to hurt, and he doesn't care, he doesn't _fucking care,_ because Miliband's been in his bloody head _all week_ and then he fucking _shakes him away _after practically _falling asleep on him _last bloody week, and Miliband can't even do him the courtesy of _staying out of his bloody head._

"Who the _hell_ do you think you are?"

"Who the hell do _I _think _I am?"_ Miliband's hissing back at him, those dark eyes bloody glittering, his hands fastened into David's sleeves now.

"You know _fucking well what I'm talking about."_

For a moment-less than that-something flickers in Miliband's eyes. It's gone as quickly as you could catch it, but David saw it.

"Don't bloody-" David has no idea what he's going to do next, but that's when Ayesha's hand grabs at his arm, shoving at him. "Let _go _of him-"

"Ed-" Tom's trying to pull Miliband back. "Come on, let's just-let's just go-"

"Jesus, David-" George's hands are yanking at his own shoulders. "David, what the _hell _are you doing-"

"I want to know _what the hell he'th talking about!" _Miliband's half-shouting, his cheeks flushed, voice ragged, and something snaps in David's chest then, at the sight of those dark eyes blazing, both of them gasping for breath, and something breaks free and soars in David's chest, that _Oh God, I've got you, right there-_

"You _lying_-you know _bloody well-"_

"Who the _hell _do you think you are-"

"What the _hell was that in there-"_

"What in _GOD'S NAME-" _The voice reverberates though the corridor, reducing David, Ed, and their small, rapidly-gathering circle of onlookers to silence. _"Is GOING ON?"_

All of them turn to see Bercow in his Speaker's robes, standing in the middle of a rather wider circle than either David or Ed had realised, half a head shorter than everyone else, and glowering.

Only David and Ed barely look at him, too absorbed in each other.

"What in the name of _God_ is this?" Bercow's stormed right up to them now. "You could almost hear the shouting in the _Chamber_, for Christ's sake!"

David catches Balls' gaze for a moment, the latter having just emerged from the Chamber behind Bercow. Yvette, following him, has let her mouth drop open, but Balls' jaw is tight, eyes darting between David and Miliband.

"Now, I am required back _in _there-" Bercow jerks his head towards the Chamber. "But know that _this _will be discussed _at length_ at a later date. And_ remove _this from the corridor._ Now._"

David doesn't even glance at him. He doesn't even look at George, who's tugging at his arm now. "David, come on-"

"Fine." David barks it out, shaking with rage. "Fine. We'll take it in my fucking office, then."

He grabs Miliband's sleeve, half-dragging him towards his office positioned directly behind the Speaker's Chair. Miliband pulls against him furiously. "What the _hell _are you doing?"

"Come on, then." David lets go of his sleeve so quickly that Miliband stumbles, and to his own fury, David has to fight a mad impulse to catch him. They're so close that when Miliband rights himself, David can feel his breath, hot and rapid.

"You fucking coward" he breathes, almost too low for anyone to hear but him and Miliband, because he-he thought Miliband could-could-

Miliband's eyes blaze. David's heart pounds.

Miliband half-wrenches his sleeve free and almost slams open the door to David's office, half-throwing his folders onto an armchair. David's half a step behind him, barely aware of the circle of stunned faces watching, before he slams the door shut behind them, the resulting crash reverberating through what must be half the building and everyone's ears.

* * *

Cameron turns the key in the door behind them, throwing it onto the table, and then marches across to Ed so quickly that Ed barely has to blink before Cameron's standing right in front of him.

"What the _hell _was that?" Cameron almost bellows it, the words hitting Ed in the face. Cameron's blue eyes are blazing, his cheeks burning, that flush of his having made its way up all over his head now, Ed notices with a fierce stab of satisfaction.

But he's stepping even closer to Cameron, his voice tearing out of his throat. "Who the _hell do you think you are?"_ He barely even realises he's shouting as loudly as Cameron is.

"Who the hell do _I _think _I _am?" Cameron's hand actually seizes Miliband's sleeve again. "Who the hell do _I _think-_you're _taking the moral fucking high ground after-"

Ed tries to laugh, but he's too angry. His heart's pounding so hard he feels almost dizzy with it, and he can smell Cameron's _soap_, he's that close to him, and that just makes his hands curl into fists.

"It'th _PMQth_, in case you hadn't notithed, _Cameron-"_

_"That-"_ Cameron snarls it at him. Actually snarls. "Was not _fucking PMQs."_

"What-after what _you _said-after _your fucking donors-"_

"Oh, don't give me that" Cameron sneers. It somehow works in his voice, that posh, plummy curl of the words. "Don't tell me that's what keeps you up at night, Miliband."

Ed actually feels faint. "How _dare you-"_ and his nose is practically touching Cameron's now, and he's almost screaming into his face_. "How dare you fucking th-say that-"_

"And we all know that if you thought it'd get your grubby little hands on that big black door, you'd clean their shoes with your bloody tongue."

Ed mouths for words. Cameron looks him up and down, lip curling. "Some socialist you are" he sneers.

Ed shoves him. Not hard and certainly not hard enough to make Cameron stumble or even move, but an actual shove, into his chest.

"Like you wouldn't" and he's hissing it in Cameron's face now, wanting to make the words hit Cameron the way Cameron's just have him, wanting to make Cameron shake the way he's doing, just _wanting-_"But you already _do, _don't you? Your party practically beg at their fucking _feet-"_

Cameron just gives him that pitying look. "Is that _really_ the best you've got?"

Ed's head swims. _"You-"_ and the next second he can feel Cameron's hands tightening in his sleeves, almost yanking him closer, and Ed doesn't care, he's past caring-"You arrogant, lying, fucking-"

"Go on-" Cameron's taunting him now, their foreheads almost pressing together. "Go on. Don't say it."

"Th-say _what?"_

"You know this isn't about _donors."_ Cameron's breathing hard now, and he lets go of Ed suddenly, pushing him away as though he might burn him.

* * *

Miliband takes a step back towards him, his chest rising and falling. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

David shakes his head because he's fed up of this. He's fed up of worrying and dwelling and agonising and thinking about bloody_ Miliband_ all bloody week, and now-

"You know _fucking well what I'm talking about."_

He turns back towards him as Miliband says "I-"

He stops, but his voice was slightly quieter.

"You haven't fucking spoken to me _all week, Miliband-"_

"What-_what-"_ Miliband's eyes flicker again with that look-that jump of recognition-and then he's saying, "I'm your fucking _Leader Of The Opposition, Cameron-"_

"Really?" David laughs, the sound harsh and ragged between them. "Because you've really been bloody acting like that, haven't you?"

A flush of colour is creeping slowly up Miliband's cheeks, but all he says, voice trembling, is "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

_I hate you_, David thinks bitterly in that second. _I hate you for doing this to me. For making me be the-be the-_

He just shakes his head. "Don't give me that" he says, quieter, and then Miliband, who's turned away momentarily, face working furiously, suddenly swings back to face him, face scarlet by now, dark eyes blazing. "You-you _arrogant, bloody-"_

"You've said that already" David reminds him, reckless now, almost not caring what he says, because, for God's sake, it wasn't just _him _on that couch, and it wasn't just _him_ in that pool, and it wasn't just _him _in that bloody _bed, _for Christ's sake, and it's not just _him_ in this over his head, and _he _hasn't been chucking Miliband out of his bloody office when he's trying to help or practically jumping away from him when he checks on him and _he's the one who's been trying to deal with this on his fucking own, dammnit._

Miliband lets out something that's almost a snarl and then he's right in front of David, and his hands are clutched in David's shirt.

"You thelf-centred, _contheited-_you fucking _tother, _I've been-you arrogant _bathdard-"_

"And you're a fucking coward" David hisses back. "You're bloody _weak_, Miliband."

_"Am I?"_ Miliband actually shouts back. "You don't even let yourthelf _care-"_

"_And neither do you."_ They're shouting into each other's faces now and David can feel their chests rising and falling against each other, the room far, far too hot. "You can kid yourself all you fucking want-" And he's hissing the words at Miliband now, because he wants him to feel exactly the same sick sea of confusion in his chest that David's been battling _all bloody week. _"The only reason you even talk about inequality is so you can give yourself a nice little pat on the back for your little morality pets and tell yourself you're _making a difference."_

He forces the words out as cruelly as possible.

Miliband blazes. His eyes _blaze,_ and it's a physical jolt in David's chest, as Miliband hisses back, in exactly the same tone, "And you don't give a damn about the country. You just care about keeping your arse right where it is, and if a few people have to starve in the threets, what do you _fucking care?"_

_I fucking hate you._

David thinks he screams it for a moment, but even as he realises he hasn't, that he's just breathed the words under his breath, something snaps.

Something snaps, something after this whole week, something about Miliband, his hair and his big dark eyes and that lisp, thickening with every word, and that nasal, self-righteous tone and that utter, utter-_Milibandiness-_

-something crackles through him and Miliband's hands are fastening into his shirt and he's dragging David closer, as he half-whispers _"You-"_ and then his fingers tighten, one hand around his collar, and that's it, David has to _grab _him then, just to shut him up-

-just _grab him-_

And his fingers are in Miliband's shirt, and his other hand's in Miliband's hair, and one foot's half on Miliband's and their foreheads are flat against each other, and their noses crush each other for one half-stolen-breath-second, and then his mouth is pressing into Miliband's or Miliband's is pressing into his.

He-

-he-

Their mouths press into each other, once, hard, almost like a push, and Miliband's mouth is soft and warm and David can smell him, his hot skin against his nose, and then his head's back and he's staring at Miliband, gasping for breath, and Miliband's staring at him, all the colour draining from his face then suddenly, sharply, returning.

"I-"

David doesn't realise for a moment that the breath of a word comes from his own throat.

* * *

Ed's just dragging him closer because he's going to shut him up, because it's bloody _Cameron_ and nothing he says ever makes any difference, and he's going to _make_ Cameron, just _make _him-

He's going to make Cameron bloody _care,_ Cameron with his blue eyes and his scarlet cheeks and his hair, which is utterly bloody dishevelled, it's a complete mess, and _stop,_ bloody _stop _looking, looking so fucking-

_-untouchable,_ like nothing Ed fucking _does _can-

_I hate you, Cameron_ he thinks, childishly, and his fingers dig in tighter, because for once in Cameron's whole smug, privileged fucking _life-_

And it's Cameron's blue eyes and sweet-smelling skin and their noses are pressing together suddenly, and the sharp edge of Cameron's collar's digging into his hand and then their mouths are together.

Their-

-their mouths are together-

Their-

They're-

His and Cameron's-

_His and Cameron's-_

Cameron's mouth is soft and hot and Ed's own is open, and they're sort of pushed together in an awkward shove of mouths, and Ed's eyes don't close, at least he doesn't think they do, until they fly open as Cameron jerks back, his own mouth hanging open, Ed's heart pounding against his ribs until Ed's sure it's going to break through.

* * *

David stares at him. Miliband's staring back.

"I-" he says again, but Miliband's dark eyes are getting wider and wider, his chest visibly heaving, and he does an odd little jerk, as though he's about to move, and David catches his arm then.

"N-" is all he says, and he barely knows what he's doing, but _don't go, don't go, oh God, don't go-_

His hand catches Miliband's cheek, holds it there as light as a butterfly's touch. He feels a shudder go through Miliband's body, a little gasp.

"I-" is all he says, and then he moves on instinct, just wanting to get those big, long-lashed, Bambi-dark eyes closer, draw them in, stop them looking so-

He leans in and his head tilts slowly and this time, his presses his mouth very slowly, very deliberately into Miliband's, his eyes open, watching Miliband's face the whole time, until the last second, waiting for Miliband to pull away.

* * *

Ed can't move. He doesn't want to and his eyes hold Cameron's blue ones even as Cameron's mouth very slowly presses all the way into his own and this is mad and the world is tilting, and this is _Cameron, _it's bloody _Cameron, _for God's sake, and for a wild moment, Ed thinks he's going to laugh madly, and then he just makes a little gasping sound in his throat and then his eyes close as Cameron's mouth, warm and soft and smooth, moves slowly, deeply, over his own, and Ed hears himself make a sound in the back of his throat, and then Cameron's mouth moves and one hand presses into Ed's back-

Ed actually feels himself melt, inwardly, into his chest. It feels like a caught breath, like he's falling wonderfully, like tiny wings fluttering between his ribs.

His hand presses into Cameron's cheek without noticing and he feels Cameron draw a little gasp and his shoulders rise, and _that_-_that _sends a jolt through Ed he's never felt before, drawing that little gasp from Cameron's throat, and then another, as he feels Cameron's fingers whisper across his neck, raising tingling goosebumps there, the skin prickling to life under Cameron's touch, and all Ed can do is _gasp._

Cameron's tongue strokes Ed's bottom lip and Ed shudders, the sensation rippling through him, making his whole body quiver, in a way that feels achingly good, his stomach dropping in excitement, thoughts dissolving at that tingling, tickling, electric sensation-

Miliband's mouth is soft. So soft, David feels almost _protective _towards it, almost wants to curl around it. Like it's never touched the world or hasn't touched enough of it.

He doesn't know he's going to until he's doing it, his tongue touching Ed's lip and then Ed just makes this _sound _in the back of his throat, and David's chest is liquid at that, his own hand pressing into Miliband's shoulder blade, and he feels Miliband quiver in a way that makes him ache hard between his legs, and then Miliband's mouth is opening slowly against his own, and something blooms in David's chest, oh God, oh _God-_

Their tongues touch. Miliband's tongue is warm and wet and an electric jolt seems to make David's spine stiffen, then relax, his own gasp deepening the kiss, the tips of their tongues that must suddenly have a direct line to his cock, and he aches harder, hands pressing deeper into Miliband's shirt and his fingers curling into his hair, which is so fucking _silky, Jesus, _and then their heads tilt to the same side at the same time, their noses knocking together, and David almost laughs, but then he feels Miliband's tongue move so, so hesitantly back, touching his own, and then something's swelling in David's chest like a balloon, leaving him so hard between his legs he's almost dizzy, stealing his breath, making him want to punch the air and scream and just not _let go of Miliband_, and he's pressing harder, kissing deeper, their heads tilting again, and then Miliband's making a little sound in his throat and pulling back, even as David loosens his grip, their mouths parting a little too fast so that David gasps, Miliband's lips swollen and red, which sends another jolt of desire through David's whole body, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

"I-" Miliband's staring at him, eyes wide, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and all David can think for one, wild, mad moment, is _God, you really are beautiful._

"I-" Miliband stares at him, lip quivering, eyes impossibly wide. "I-"

He stares at David for another impossible second, and then he turns and heads for the door, with an almost sobbing little sound.

"Ed-"

David can only stand there helplessly, as Miliband makes another frantic sound in his throat, and then wrenches at the door handle.

"Ed, _wait-"_ but David already knows it's hopeless, and Miliband's managed to fit the key in and turn the lock and he's fumbling the door.

The door opens. George half-falls into the room.

David doesn't even react. Neither does Ed. Instead, he just stumbles past George and disappears into the corridor, through the various faces still assembled there, as David stands still, searching for any words, heart pounding.

"David?" George is staring at him, scrambling upright, which gives David's hand a chance to tidy his hair, which it's jumped automatically to do, even as George pushes the door shut behind him. "David-I-what the hell _happened?"_

All David, thoughts reeling, can do is shake his head, sinking slowly into his armchair, staring at the door through which Miliband has just disappeared, and all he can feel is the tip of Ed Miliband's tongue touching his own and the trembling of his fingers on his cheek and the soft warm opening of his mouth and his own heart thundering with each beat.

* * *

_Playlist_

_Boyfriend-Best Coast-"__I wish he was my boyfriend/I wish he was my boyfriend/I'd love him 'til the very end/But instead he is "just a friend"/I wish he was my boyfriend/There's nothing worse than sitting all alone when I'm at home/And waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting by the phone/I hope that he's at home/Waiting by his phone/I wonder if he knows that I want him...We'll sit and watch the sun rise/And gaze into each other's eyes/And know that he knows/I know that he knows/Know that he wants to be my boyfriend, boyfriend/I'd love him to the very end/But instead he is just a friend/I wish he was my boyfriend"_

_Wonderwall-Oasis _ _-this is the song David sings in the car with his kids._

_Bionic-Placebo _ _-"Harder faster, harder faster/Forever after, forever after/None of you can make the grade/None of you can make the grade"_

_Commercial For Levi-Placebo _ _-" I understand the fascination/The dream that comes alive at night/But if you don't change your situation/Then you'll die, you'll die, you'll die, don't die...You're the one who's always choking Trojan/You're the one who's always bruised and broken/Drunk on immorality...I understand the fascination/I've even been there once or twice or more/But if you don't change your situation/Then you'll die, you'll die, you'll die, don't die/Please don't die"_

_Wonder-Lauren Aquilina-" _ _I can't control my feelings/I can't control my thoughts/I'm staring at the ceiling/Wondering how I got so caught/You're completely off limits/For more reasons than just one/But I can't stop/You're aware of my existence, but you don't know I'm here/You're the centre of attention, you control the atmosphere/You're so busy being busy, I don't want to interfere/But I can't stop...So I'll remain within your reign/Until my thoughts can travel somewhere new/My mind is blind to everything but you/And I wonder if you wonder about me too/And I wonder if you wonder about me too"_

_Divide-Tigers' Jaw _ _-"There are a lot of things we try to hide/But I know you're drowning, it's in your eyes/I don't want to be known for a lack of control/I don't want to be the last to know/I've come to find we are consumed by what we try to hide/But it's too cold to walk home/And I know I shouldn't call you/It's too cold to walk home/And I know I'm gonna call you"_

_Diane Young-Vampire Weekend _ _-"Out of control but you're playing a role/Do you think you can go 'til the 18th hole?/Or will you flip-flop the day of the championship?"_

_Flaws-Bastille _ _-"When all of your flaws/And all of my flaws/Are laid out one by one/The wonderful part of the mess that we made/We pick ourselves undone..You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve/And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground/Dig them up, let's finish what we started/Dig them up, so nothing's left untouched...All of your flaws and all of my flaws/When they have been exhumed/We'll see that we need them to be who we are/Without them, we'd be doomed"_

_What Is This Feeling?-Wicked! Soundtrack _ _-"What is this feeling so sudden and new?/I felt the moment I laid eyes on you/My pulse is rushing, my head is reeling, my face is flushing, what is this feeling?/Fervid as a flame/Does it have a name? Yes, loathing! Unadulterated loathing/For your face, your voice, your clothing/Let's just say, I loathe it all/Every little trait, however small..There's a strange exhilaration/In such total detestation"_

_All Of This-The Naked And Famous _ _-"As the plans turn into compromise/The promises all turn to lies/The spite builds up and I can't get through/Passive me, aggressive you...All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start/All of this is tearing us apart/I don't know where us or this start"_

_I Caught Myself-Paramore _ _-"You're pushing and pulling me down to you/But I don't know what I want...You got it, you got it, some kind of magic/Hypnotic, hypnotic, you're leaving me breathless/I hate this, I hate this, you're not the one I believe in/As God is my witness....Now when I caught myself, I had to stop myself/From saying something that I should have never thought/Now when I caught myself, I had to stop myself"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "personally horrid" quote is genuine:http://dailym.ai/2UgwWrq  
That PMQs:https://bit.ly/2y17ltO  
The Camerons and the Goves going to school quizzes together:https://bit.ly/3ahb4l7  
Florence did tell everyone at school her father was Prime Minister:http://dailym.ai/39h2jX8  
https://bit.ly/2QEJ1V6  
Nancy Astor was the UK's first official female MP and Sam's ancestor-Nancy is named after her:https://bit.ly/33H2b1Q  
https://bit.ly/39cNncF  
A photograph of David and baby Nancy:https://bit.ly/2QI21Sx  
George on Marr:https://bit.ly/2QCXQaP  
Ed's paternity leave visit:https://bit.ly/2UhgTK3  
http://dailym.ai/2UjlR9b  
Ed's flashback to the beach visit with the kids:https://bit.ly/2J9YgB9  
https://bit.ly/2xliQfu  
Ed's reference to getting married as "just a process": https://bit.ly/33H1EwW  
The incident of Ed walking out on the girl when he learnt she hadn't been to uni:https://bit.ly/39fsH3H  
The Black & White Ball is an annual Tory fundraiser:https://on.ft.com/2WHuHPE  
https://bit.ly/33KoqnJ  
That year, it took place at Grosvenor House Hotel-you can see the couches Dave and Sam sit on:https://bit.ly/2xrrBEz  
https://bit.ly/2QIhwKp  
In the UK, homosexuality was legalised in 1967, same-sex civil partnerships in 2004, and gay marriage in 2013:https://bit.ly/33HbSNK  
Section 28 made it illegal for homosexuality to be discussed in schools-George voted for it to be repealed. David originally voted against, but reversed his opinion and later apologised for it:https://bit.ly/2UfkeZP  
https://bit.ly/2UhnJzd  
Jeremy Thorpe was the Liberals leader in the '70s who was charged with attempting to have his gay lover (who was blackmailing him) murdered:https://bit.ly/39dGSpJ  
It was later turned into a TV series based on a book about the case:https://bit.ly/3bpDytm  
James Carvile and Mary Matalin are a US political couple who work for opposing sides:https://politi.co/2wATiuz  
The time in 2011 the Camerons had lunch with the Queen (and Florence grabbed her brooch):https://bit.ly/2QFKcnq  
https://bit.ly/2UirFQi  
David and Ed B's British Chambers Of Commerce visit:https://bbc.in/2Uh10Dg  
David's school visit:https://bit.ly/2UBlS70  
https://bit.ly/2WRqGs3  
https://bit.ly/2WI88u2  
Ed saying Justine would've killed him if he hadn't taken paternity leave:http://dailym.ai/2xmbXKK  
http://dailym.ai/2J9Zc8D  
David being competitive at quizzes:https://bit.ly/2WIl2YW  
The Goves sending Will to Holland Park:http://dailym.ai/2QKEMrf  
The Camerons sending Elwen to St Paul's:https://bit.ly/2Jdn2AI  
https://bit.ly/2J93tJA  
Alastair was friends with some Tories, including Alan Clarke:https://bit.ly/2Udv2aW  
David & Gary Lineker:https://bit.ly/3bzLAA3  
David reading the kids The Lorax:https://bit.ly/3bsA2hT  
Dorneywood was George's grace-and-favour home as Chancellor:https://bit.ly/2QKNlCp  
https://bit.ly/3dlSjiF  
https://bit.ly/39kaMsy  
Tony was in plays at Oxford:https://bit.ly/2UevKEQ  
The Cameron kids' views on swearing:https://bit.ly/2y19yFC  
The Wotsits anecdote:https://bit.ly/2UrYhpi  
Andrew's death, and him previously leaving his wife for Juliet:https://bit.ly/3asAUmF  
http://dailym.ai/33Kz2mI  
The Prescott Dorneywood reference:https://bit.ly/2UiwRng  
David previously being Eurosceptic:https://politi.co/2Uh7Vwe  
Peter was accidentally outed by Matthew Parris on TV:https://bit.ly/2wATnOT  
Emily's response to the "pink bus":https://bit.ly/33GgGDg  
Sarah's brother living in Spain and her parents in Italy:http://dailym.ai/2Uix5L8  
David Laws was forced to resign in May 2010 after it being revealed he'd concealed expenses to hide the fact he was in a gay relationship:https://on.ft.com/2UxLTnY  
Greg left his wife after having an affair with a man:https://bit.ly/2wD8Qy7  
https://bbc.in/3dxeIK3  
https://bit.ly/2UeAUkc  
https://bit.ly/2QFQ8wI  
George and Gordon's mutual loathing was exacerbated by Damian McBride, one of Brown's most infamous aides, plotting to smear Frances with fabricated claims about her mental health, among other claims about Tories, in what became known as "Smeargate":https://bit.ly/2QKj2vo  
https://bit.ly/2y9g0L3  
https://bbc.in/2xmkLjM  
https://bit.ly/2wy2HTG  
David nicknaming his tennis machine "The Clegger":https://bit.ly/2QIbTMg  
Ed B's response to Ed missing the business summit:https://bit.ly/2QGqbNk  
Dave and George being as close as brothers:https://bit.ly/2xll2DK


End file.
